Staring up glassy-eyed at the world was Reggie. His face was unfamiliar, both in shape and in the serene smile it wore. Here lay her ally, her friend, and now her saviour. All the other explanations melted away—it had to be him. Who else would willingly sacrifice themselves like this?
The earth shifted beneath her, snapping her out of the moment. But it was just Bors. He arrived beside her, looking down at Reggie as she did. His face was a stoic mask.
"Cut him out from under the tree, and let's get out of here. The other one retreated when you killed Astor. I'll get us all out of the fire."
She nodded and slashed the branch in two using her blood. No, his blood.
She felt equal parts disgusted and blessed to control it. She’d pulled on the blood, thinking he’d died behind her, assuming she had a scant moment to gain control over it before Astor could. At the time, it was the only thing that had made sense; it had hurt but was just part of the brutal exchange of battle. Now it ached.
Despite the flames, she just felt cold.
They rode a plate of earth out from the flames, Bors' control no longer obstructed by the other earth mage. A few seconds later, they were out of the inferno.
He rested the stone down in a small grove of bushes and shrubs. It was a pretty place, and the plants shielded them from the angry light of the fires. There was still no sign of Gawain, but given the fact that the entire sky seemed to be filled with smoke, it didn’t necessarily mean the worst.
Percy tried to think, to plan, to focus on what she was best at. There were still threats, still enemies at large. Yet it all crumbled away before the sucking void of loss.
It felt wrong. Percy had fought often, she’d killed people before, lost people before. Never before had it felt like someone had carved out a hole in her chest, one that got deeper with every heartbeat.
"He gave me control over his blood, while it was still in his body," she said numbly, looking at Bors, who was checking the sky for threats, doing what she should. "Why do that?"
"To kill a Harkley, to protect you. He was very clear on his motivations," Bors replied. He glanced down at the corpse, and a small smile flared across his lips. "He pushed off his ring."
"What?" She turned to look but found it upsetting to linger. Beyond grief, there was something profoundly wrong about how Reggie lay there, with a stranger’s face and an unfamiliar smile. Like it wasn’t even his body. The soul, the part that made him who he was, had left and didn’t even have the decency to leave behind a familiar memento.
There was a lot she wanted to say to Reggie, and now she didn’t even have his body to say them to.
"Better do this quickly, I've no idea how long this takes." Bors leant down and picked up his blade and ring from the floor. He paused and then moved the body, pulling the cloak off its back. Percy looked on in horror.
"He’s not even cold!" She almost hit him. This wasn’t right. This wasn’t how Bors should act! She knew Bors—he made attachments quickly, found friends wherever he went. The times when he’d lost them had hit him hard.
"So I might know how he dodged the blood curse, and I’m really hoping that what I think should happen, happens. Or I’m going to look like a right idiot."
"What are you talking about?"
"Any second now."
"Bors!" Percy snapped at him.
"C’mon Taliesin, or I’m going to look like such a dick."
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It said a lot about my outlandish personal experiences that I could tell this death wasn’t going quite right. Not that it was unjust, undeserved, or anything like that, but it felt unbalanced. There was something fundamentally wrong about the realm between worlds that I slid into as my heart ceased its ineffectual pumping, coming to a stop as my hearth ran dry.
I existed in an in-between state. Some might call this the void and imply I hung or lay there, but that would paint the wrong picture. I wasn’t surrounded by darkness—I had no body to surround, no eyes to perceive. I merely was, with only my memories to tell me that there was anything beyond the boundaries of my soul.
With nothing else to examine, I found my attention turning inwards. It was a strange thing to experience the soul directly. I could feel the twin anchors of my gifts, bound to the empty core that was my hearth. My senses were dull and confused. I would love to say my mind tried to make sense of it by conjuring images of cold stones around an empty fire, but instead, I just knew these things. It was no different from knowing where my left hand was or feeling my tongue in my mouth.
Something was strange, different to my last experience here. The edges of my soul felt like they were humming, and when my perception turned to them, I could hear the whispers of singing and laughter. They had a shape, a definition—it was like a net of strings, and as my perception brushed past, each string danced, letting out a little memory.
“...then the earth begins to quake, a giant wakes for justice's sake.
Bors the Titan, eyes ablaze, protector worthy of ancient days!
The earth itself, a sheltering hand, a monument to…”
The Ballad of Bors the Titan resonated through me.
I kept poking.
“...will always count you as a friend for what you shared with me about my cultivation and the support you offered my family. So, you don’t need to hide…”
Lance calling me out for hiding my problems away.
I had to stop. These walls were my name, the Lady's gift to me, anchoring my soul, protecting it. I followed the walls, listening to the beautiful sounds of music and joy. Until I heard a note of discord. I followed a snarl in the walls—my soul felt warped and uneven. A sensation I remembered from the last few minutes of life. Following the strings, I already knew what I would find.
In death, I shall sow discord.
Beneath my hearth, on the opposite side of my soul to my gifts, I found the problem. The intent hung over a hole, a void at the very core of my being, held back by the strings of my name. They fought it.
I could feel this was what was wrong with my death, what was stopping my rebirth. To return, I had to resolve this.
Still, I hesitated. In my soul, I could feel the chill of my intent; it resonated with my death gift in an unsettling way. It actively seemed to be eroding my name.
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I didn’t know how long I had, and there were still other threats out there. I needed to fix this.
My attention was my only tool. I pressed it to the strands that held the intent back. With each one, a memory sounded throughout my mind.
“...girls here have all been told of what you’ve done for young Alexis. I invited you for tea as I believe you could be…”
Miss Peaches roping me into stripping off for her class.
I pulled harder.
“...confess I remain concerned about your gift, but I appreciate that you at least have noble goals and I am sorry for calling you a…”
Gaz apologising for doubting me.
I felt that string break, the intent moved closer.
“...to a Lady of Artoss fair,
And to a cunning father with flaming red hair,
Behind her husband's back he…”
The song I wrote explaining my life.
If I could weep, I would. I wasn’t doing anything as brutal as destroying my memories, but I could sense the distance I was putting between the Taliesin I was now and the one I would be when I completed this task. I pushed, trying to move faster, to get this over with.
“...got a spare tent and bits, you could join me here to work out what you want to do next. I’ll keep you safe till you want to move…”
One of my first meetings with Bors, his kindness in helping me marking the beginning of our friendship.
I threw myself at destroying that string.
“...you have no idea of Reggi—Regus’s talents. He was quite talented at avoiding the ire of those whose power…”
Hearing Sephy’s voice, I almost lost my nerve. More strings broke. Mentally exhausted, I turned to one of the last strings that held it back.
“Arise, with the spirit’s hymn.
From the graves, new life will grow,
As beauty claims its throne.”
I halted. The intent strained and thrashed. I let my mind brush against the thread again, careful not to dislodge it. I heard again the final lines of one of my favourite songs. There were countless variations of the chorus and verse, but the song always ended the same way.
“Arise, where blossoms unfurl,
Arise, from the earth’s embrace,
Arise, with the whispered breeze.
Arise, with the spirit’s hymn.
From the graves, new life will grow,
As beauty claims its throne.
Let our memories bloom and know,
These flowers our blood has sown.”
It was a song that didn’t end until the last verse was sung, it kept going and going, waiting for those restful tones. It needed that verse to bring it to a close.
It was a melancholic end to a song meant to rouse the soul, ready men to fight. But it served an important purpose. A message from veterans of the past to soldiers of the present: death could happen, it would happen, but from it, beauty would rise.
That resonated with me, and I pulled back, the severed strings floating through my soul, playing little bits of my identity back at me. Now, I could feel it—just what was wrong with the intent. It was missing the most important part. It was an endless marching song, screaming at you to take up arms and break down the foe. It was missing that promise, that end. How had I missed it?
I had sacrificed my past life to make my new one more beautiful. Why should I listen to an intent that promised me nothing but death and toil?
The broken strands of my name that I’d untangled from my intent were gathered up, those memories of everything I was now. And I knew who I could be in the future.
This intent was a trap, a leviathan from deep in my subconscious. I might not have had the words, but the sentiment it was built on had been fed by my time as Regus. It had years to grow, its tentacles spreading through my brain. Built in darkness to survive a nightmare, it was no wonder it had lost sight of the whole bloody point.
I fought, I sacrificed, I died—not just for revenge, but so I could make beautiful memories, share wonderful music, and so I could go back and look upon the flowers that grew from the graves of my enemies.
In death, I shall sow discord.
No. I pushed the severed strings that hummed with memories—the cherished bits that made me Taliesin—and felt the incomplete intent begin to warp and shift. It would not go down easily.
Gales of anger rolled off it, murderous rage fed by weeping despair. I could smell my spot in the library where I used to spy on the Harkleys. I could taste the bitter flavour of the foul brews they forced down me to try and cure me, hear their haughty laughter, feel the prickling of the evil eye on my skin as my mere existence earned their displeasure. Every part of it screamed for vengeance, waving the death gift in my face, shouting that we had the power. Demanding we devote everything we had to bringing them down.
In death, I shall sow discord.
I ignored it. I didn’t reject it—that would be giving it attention it didn’t deserve. My life was my own, and I would not waste it on a fight I’d already won.
Looking at this intent, I couldn’t deny it was intrinsically linked with death. The pulsing connection that tied it to my death gift remained. That was unsettling, but equally, cutting out death wouldn’t work. I also had to admit, I did rather enjoy sowing discord and spreading a bit of chaos. These parts needed to stay, but now I could see the missing piece.
What I lived for was moments of beauty. I longed to craft wondrous things, write enthralling songs, see magnificent sights, and make beautiful memories. I knew what it needed—the last verse, the promise that even from death, beauty could rise.
Death sows the seed of chaos and beauty.
The intent rang hollow. The connection to death pulsed and cleared away my changes. It was like I was trying to write a line for a song, and I could hear it was a total clanger.
It still wasn’t quite right. I was close. I tried a few more, but none worked—every attempt falling flat, the pulsing connection to death burning them away.
I stepped back. If I was writing a song, that pulsing connection to death was overruling everything. I wanted to hurry, but art couldn’t be hurried. Still, if I approached this like one of my songs, what would I do? I knew the answer.
I brutally scraped the words from the intent like I might erase a lyric that wouldn’t work. I still had the structure I needed to fit, but with the words gone, I could finally consider all the options. It was suddenly obvious.
That wounded, hurt part of me—it was what was binding me to the word ‘death’. It hung on to that explosive moment of power, where it had brought my freedom and empowered my cultivation. It was forcing the word into my head. The word, as it was, hung in my mind like a dark cloud—blunt, violent, and with no room for beauty in it.
I couldn’t ignore the aspect of death in my intent, but words had power, and naming it like this created something that refused to mesh with the tone I wanted. Worse, it gave that dark side of my gift a route into my very soul. I needed another way to say it, to conjure up the image of death without naming it directly.
A metaphor for death? Hardly a challenge—even if I wasn’t a bard, I had the blood of a phoenix and was a sodding Ash-gifted.
An intent was meant to represent you, meant to be a promise of what you could be, and what you should be.
‘In death, I shall sow discord’ was Regus’s eulogy. It didn’t reflect what had risen from the ashes. The person I’d awakened as was not so one-note. He spread music, he danced for the greatest of fae, he made friends, he charmed ancient witches, he pursued beautiful knights, and wherever he went, injected chaos into the well-laid plans of his foes.
Guided by those words, I changed the intent, making it my own. Making it Taliesin’s.
From the ashes shall rise beautiful chaos.
That was who Taliesin was, and what he’d inflict on his enemies—and gift to his allies.
Beautiful fucking chaos.
My soul shifted. In my silent hearth, fire kindled, and from there it spread. The flames were soothing, almost welcome. They spread through my soul, making me anew.