Rākṣasaviṣ, Realm of Strange Demons

296th year of the 9th era; 9e-296

Late Autumn

ClearSky Monastery

~ ~ ~ 

A young man knelt before a massive painting of a clear blue sky. His hair, the color of freshly ground cinnamon, fell haphazardly over his closed eyes. A red glass pendant dangled from his bandaged hands. He muttered prayers in a language few knew. Only those who devoted their entire life to Buhayörökké, the deity of life, knew the language by heart. 

The young man's clasped hands tensed as he reached the next verse of the hymn. 

Irritation.

Revulsion. 

Frustration.

Mere words of the hymn drove such volatile emotions into his heart. They caused so much pain. But, deep down, that pain brought him relief. It was the only thing that could extinguish the burning rage rising with each word.  

Still…

His clasped hands fell apart with the hymn. 

He could not finish it. 

Biting back a string of curses, he cradled his bandaged hands. He breathed through his teeth, willing the searing pain away, but at the same time, not wanting it to disappear. The pain kept his mind occupied, even if it reminded him of things he wished not to think of — some things were better than others. He would prefer cursing thoughts about his horrendous skin rather than the overwhelming memories of the past that forever haunted him. 

His skin caused so much pain. It was so fragile, like a butterfly’s wings. Yet, it kept the rest of those gut-twisting thoughts away. 

Carefully, the young man peeled back the wrappings. The mere clenching of his hands had torn layers of skin. The flesh below was tender-pink, and spots of blood welled from superficial wounds. The rest of his hands were covered in scars that had formed over the years. 

“Again, Mel?” 

The young monk did not look up, even as the voice owner sat beside him. He slipped the necklace he had been holding over his head, the red glass pendant hanging low and loose against his chest. 

“Melchizedek.” 

He looked up, eyes locking onto the three-clawed scar marring the other young monk’s face. The scar that always reminded Melchizedek of what happened twelve years ago. When the two of them were taken from their village after they lost everything. 

The newcomer sighed, running a hand through his sleek black hair as he eyed Melchizedek’s hands. “Let’s get you bandaged up. Again.” 

When fingers wrapped around Melchizedek’s elbow, he jerked away. “I can walk myself, Davian.” 

Davian raised his hands in surrender. The venom in Melchizedek’s words stung. It worried him. Melchizedek had been moodier than usual for the past few days, and his words had become more acidic. It wasn’t like him to push help away. His fragile skin was hard to bear. Both knew that. Yet, Melchizedek was driving everyone away. Even the healers. Even Davian, the closest person Melchizedek had to a friend. 

“You should stop praying that hymn, Mel.” Davian trailed a step behind Melchizedek as they walked to the healer’s room. “How many times has this happened since you started it? Six? Seven?” 

Melchizedek said nothing. 

The pair continued to walk through the twisting hallways of the monastery in silence. It wasn’t long before they reached the small healer’s room.  

As they stood outside the healer’s room, Davian sighed. “What’s bothering you, Mel?” 

“Nothing.” The word was drenched in hostility, the monk bristling underneath his robes. 

“Right.” Sarcasm dripped from Davian’s voice. “Mel, you’re never this quiet, and you’re never this moody. I know something’s up. You know you can talk about it. I’m open to anything.” 

“I do not want to talk about it,” Melchizedek hissed, brown eyes flashing as he whirled around to face Davian. “I want new bandages. And I want to be left alone.” 

“Fine. I’ll leave you to mope about your insecurities and internal troubles. But if you want to talk, know I’m here for you.” Davian clasped a dark-bronze-skinned hand onto Melchizedek’s shoulder, only for the redhead to brush it off. He frowned, but followed Melchizedek into the healer’s room. 

Cots lined the wall, but no wounded or sick lay in them. The smell of alcohol and medicinal herbs hung heavy in the air. The frown disappeared from Davian’s scarred face when he peered out the massive windows lining the outermost wall of the healer’s room. It was one of the few windows within the monastery, allowing the sick and injured to view the outside world. A forest grew below, covering hundreds of miles of rolling hills. 

Davian’s smile grew wider when he spotted the high priestess sorting through glass jars of dried herbs. Her ebony hair fell in waves of tight curls down her back. Wrapped around her forehead was an intricate lacing of gold, while a small peridot gemstone hung in the middle of her forehead, matching her striking green eyes. The jewelry was one of several things that marked her as a high priestess, along with the gold and turquoise skeletal wings protruding from her back. 

“Mother Aoi.” Davian bowed, still grinning from ear to ear. 

The woman hummed in surprise. She turned to the monks, a smile blooming across her smooth, tawny face. “Hello, you two.” Her smile faded when she spied the state of Melchizedek’s hands. “Oh, Melchizedek. Not again.” 

She returned to her glass jars. Humming in thought, her peridot eyes scanned each jar, calculating which herb would be best for the young man’s wounds. She grabbed one of the smallest jars and opened the cabinet above her to take another. With both in hand, she glided over to the monks, white robes swishing around her. Davian smiled at her as she seated herself beside Melchizedek. 

“Sit.” 

The younger monk lowered himself onto the nearest cot. He held his bloodied hands to the high priestess. 

Her lips pressed into a thin line. Too many times, she had seen his hands in this state. She had tried several herbal remedies over several years to help the healing process and hopefully strengthen the fragile skin. Nothing worked. 

Mother Aoi uncorked the larger of the two glass jars. She motioned for Davian to grab her pestle, mortar, and a small jug of water. As he grabbed the needed items, she turned to Melchizedek. “I will try something new today. It is a combination of herbs I bought from a village in the south. They have powerful healing properties. I hope they will keep your skin healthy and free of infection.” 

She inspected his hands as Davian placed the asked supplies on the counter beside her, along with a roll of bandages. He gave his companion a reassuring grin. “She’ll patch you up, Mel. Like she always does.” 

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Melchizedek stared down at the bloody bandages, in no mood for Davian’s optimism. He stayed quiet as Davian attempted to start a conversation with Mother Aoi. The high priestess hummed and nodded as she ground the selection of herbs into a thick paste. 

A searing pain in his hands drew Melchizedek from his lulled state. He watched as Mother Aoi applied the smooth, green paste onto his damaged skin. She shushed him when he pulled away. A few minutes later, the stinging subsided, and his hands were skillfully wrapped. 

“Wow. You’re amazing at treating wounds, Mother Aoi.” Davian crouched to inspect Melchizedek’s fresh bandages. 

“Thank you, Davian.” She smiled, standing up from her seat. “Now, Melchizedek, I want to see how well the treatment works, which means keeping your hands injury free. Please be careful. It will take almost half a month to heal.” 

“We will,” Davian bowed to her before he grabbed Melchizedek’s elbow and, with a wave, led them out of the healer’s room.

“Sometimes I think I should just get myself into a mess so she could treat my wounds,” Davian mumbled, gazing dreamily at the ceiling. 

Melchizedek snorted. “Get your head out of the clouds and thoughts away from her, Davian. She is a high priestess. A Pyhäkotahi of Buhayörökké. You are a mere Meek monk. Even if she wanted to be with a lowlife buffoon like you, she could not. It is against the laws set by the elders.” 

“Ouch. That hurts, Mel. She could retire from her position and run off with me. I just need to woo her first. And it’s not like she’s a Savis.”

Melchizedek bristled. He whirled around, glaring up at Davian, lips curled back in a snarl. “You will not mention Savis in this place.” 

“Woah, Mel.” Davian raised his hands, stepping back from the seething monk. “We live in a monastery that worships Buhayörökké, the deity of life. It’s not like they are going to exclude anyone. Sure, those bastards can be terrible people, but they’re still humans like you and me. We don’t live in a Meek-only monastery, Mel. We welcome everyone, no matter what they are. And there are a lot more Savis out there than Meek or Pyhäkotahi. There’s what? Fifteen-some races plus all the subraces. Some Savis are a heck of a lot worse than others. Even the Pyhäkotahi are Savis, aren’t they Mel? What are they called… Ra….” 

“Rākṣa,” Melchizedek grunted. Dusky-caramel eyes, just some shades lighter than Davian’s burnt-bronze eyes, burned into the taller monk. 

“Rākṣa,” Davian echoed. “Either way, all races are welcomed into the ClearSky Monastery. I know what happened to our village affects your opinion, but you must let it go, Mel. I have.” 

Melchizedek did not respond, still bristling with anger. It was the same raging fiery anger when he whispered the verse that had been bothering him for a month — belonging to the same hymn he had been speaking that morning before he tore the fragile skin of his hands for the umpteenth time. A prayer for forgiving those who had wronged him. A prayer to forgive and let go of the fears, worries, and terrors that tormented him. A prayer to let everything go. To take a deep breath. To finally breathe when the weight lifted. A prayer Davian prayed every night, even though he would never admit it. The only prayer the scarred monk prayed. And a prayer Melchizedek could never finish. 

He turned to Davian, pushing down the seething anger. His fair, freckled face was now blank, but the hate still burned in his brown eyes. “You are too carefree to be a monk, Davian.” Melchizedek turned away, walking down the passageway. 

“Yeah.” Davian scoffed, glancing at a golden mask hanging from the stone wall. “Most monks here want to be in this place. They took us in, Mel. We don’t have to follow anything they say if we don’t want to. Heck, we can leave whenever we want. We’re both far old enough to leave this place. We’re no longer orphans who need to be cared for.” 

Davian looked over his shoulder at the cluster of nuns and monks prostrating to a rune-covered wall. “I’ve been considering leaving for months. This stuff isn’t for me. You know that. The problem is… I don’t know where I would go if I left. This is all I’ve known. Sure, I could go to the nearest village, but what would I do there? Besides, I don’t know if I could leave you here and….” His eyes drifted down the hall they came from — where the healer’s room was. 

“I do not need you, Davian,” Melchizedek said from where he paused halfway down the hallway. “If you want to leave, then leave. You dislike it here. It is obvious to me. And stop pining over Mother Aoi. You will never have her. You would be better off going to the village. You could find yourself a village girl and start a family like you have always wanted.” 

Davian opened his mouth to retort Melchizedek’s harsh words, but nothing came. 

“Melchizedek. Davian.” 

The monks turned to see a high priest behind them. He bowed his head to them, his turquoise and gold skeletal wings spread out behind him. “I request your help with the newest orphans.”

“Of course, Father Bello.” Melchizedek bowed in return, the conversation with Davian pushed aside. 

The elderly man turned on his heels, white and gold-accented robes flowing behind him. The two young monks followed him down the hallway. After weaving through the twisting passageways, the chilly late autumn air greeted the trio. A group of children, ranging from toddlers to teens, milled around the wagon that had brought them to the monastery. They were all dirty and bloodied.

Mother Aoi was crouched next to a teen. The high priestess had left to care for the injured just moments after Melchizedek and Davian left her room. She wrapped bandages around a dark-haired teen’s arm while he spoke to a sniveling child seated next to him. Father Bello approached her, Melchizedek and Davian in tow. Feeling their presence behind her, the high priestess looked up. She flashed them a warm smile before wrapping the teen’s arm quickly. He nodded his thanks to her, then placed a hand on the younger boy’s shoulder and guided him to a waiting nun. 

“Mother Aoi,” Davian greeted with a bow. 

“We meet so soon. I am glad it is not about Melchizedek’s skin, or it would have worried me.” She stood up, brushing the dirt from her white robes. A sigh escaped her as she looked over at the orphans gathered around them. “They came from a similar situation to yours. I was hoping you two could connect with them. Tell them everything will be alright, that you have been through the same situation, and even though it was hard, you made it through the ordeal.” 

“We can try, right, Mel?” Davian grinned at the younger monk, their conversation from before long forgotten. 

Melchizedek did not reply. He merely watched the children, his brows furrowed. There were so many of them. They were all so dirty. Dark bruises and scratches decorated their skin, and their clothes were tattered. It was obvious their village had been attacked, and the adults killed, much like what had happened to his village. The surrounding children reminded him too much of that day. 

“Hey, Mel,” Davian said, drawing the younger monk from his thoughts. “Why don’t you show this little girl around?” The burnt-bronze-skinned man knelt beside a young girl. “Her name’s Maria.” 

Melchizedek tore his gaze from the other orphans to the little girl wrapped in Davian’s arms. Her dirty blonde hair was a tangled mess splayed across her smudged, scratched face. She stared up at the young monk, watery blue eyes filled with fear. Melchizedek felt the pain he saw in her eyes, having experienced the same thing when he was her age. 

Gingerly, he crouched before the little girl. Davian smiled at his friend. His strong arms fell away from Maria, leaving for another hurt child the long-haired priestess was caring for. 

A sigh escaped Melchizedek when he spied Davian, attempting to strike up another conversation with Mother Aoi. Even when Davian knew he couldn’t have her, the young man could not help but be infatuated with her exotic, ageless beauty. She may appear close to his age, but she acted much older, her wisdom far beyond their years.  

When Melchizedek turned back to the orphans, his blood turned to ice.

As if sensing his friend’s change in emotion, Davian was at Melchizedek’s side again, a hand clasped on his shoulder. The pair stared at a tween girl still seated in the wagon, carelessly swinging her legs. Her dark-ruby eyes, like the color of drying blood, graced each orphan. Black, spiderweb-like markings adorned her fair skin, most prominent around her eyes. The same markings were visible on her shoulders, back, and legs through the tears in her clothing.

“Mel,” Davian hissed in the frozen redhead’s ear. “Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t.”

As if sensing the two monks were talking about her, the girl turned to them. The whites of her eyes were as black as a moonless night sky. A smirk played on her lips as she raised her hand, a flicker of dark fire licking her pale fingers. She was taunting them. 

“Why is that thing with them?” 

“A Savis can’t live in a Meek village?” Davian whispered, gripping Melchizedek’s shoulder harder, surely to leave bruises, if not tear the fragile skin. “She’s probably not even a pureblood. Look at the fire she’s wielding.” 

“A Savis of any kind? Yes. It should not be living in a Meek village. It is fire-blessed and surely pureblooded. For some unforsaken reason, Vatraateş has given a creature like that the ability to wield fire.”

A ragged sigh escaped Davian. He squeezed his friend’s shoulder in warning. “Just leave her alone. Don’t think about it. Help some other kid. If you can’t do that, just go back to the monastery. I don’t need you getting into trouble because of some little Savis girl.” 

The scarred monk drew away, wrapping his arms around little Maria. “How about we get you cleaned up and some fresh clothes?” he asked, smiling down at the little blonde girl. 

She gave him a teary-eyed smile. “Yes, please. But…” she glanced behind her, watching the other children being patched up by clergy members. “Will my sisters be okay?” 

“I’m sure they will.” Davian led Maria along, eyeing Melchizedek over his shoulder. 

The redhead ignored the glare from Davian, his eyes locked on the young Savis. She smiled back at him, wiggling her fingers, the dark red flames dancing with them. She slipped off the wagon and sauntered over to the glowering monk. 

Standing in front of Melchizedek, she offered her hand, dark red flames extinguishing. “Hi. The name’s Avalon.”