The absence of light was a lingering emotion; the rising volume of the external stimuli was akin to a pounding on the malnourished drums of his ears—likened to stones cast off asunder into a long narrow tube; something like a well, or some distended grotesque chimney, belonging to some barren god. Plop. That was the sound of a pebble meeting its doom. Now, numerous such pebbles of various frequencies, harmonies and melodies climbed up to rouse him. The violent heat which had once compelled rest, nowdanced only on the outer surface in a warm glow. He was still ravaged by the remaining embers, but because the ash had insuliated him from the inside out, it had grown bearable. Almost humanely pleasant like a double pronged fur that kept wavering in the wind. This has been a very long cremation… and on that thought, a drowsy, somewhat unsure and certainly unready mind awoke.
Not all at once as one’d expect, but step by step; first the breathing once yearned for was yoked under control, then each muscle twitched, then spasmed as it returned to their owner’s agency. The weakness was astute and as a testament to the damage, the figure in question was unsure of their status amongst the living. He awoke from a deep slumber where he could only dream of a deep empty abyss. He was a solitary flame burning with agony. Perhaps to burn was a fitting fate. He could hear many voices there. Most he could not recognize and those that he did he ignored. He slowly began to take comfort in the supple flame. Even whence one’s own flesh is kindling… amidst that, one can find a purpose in the flame, and one can treasure it as a miracle—because… the dark calleth, and its voice is smooth and sweet. It’s cold like the darkest pit of the sea and twice as smothering as the freshly dense packed snow of an avalanche.
He never really awoke, the other side, the dream—it felt as real as anything he had ever experienced. More real than the dream: the fairy tale fiction that skirted his vision somewhere amidst the murky bedrock.
He was here now. He’d never leave again. The emotion punctured him with an astounding display of power. It radiated in him not with a volumetric flame but with the sullen power of a cold dart of ice; likely made of the same glacier that threatened to bury him on that battlefield.
Sion carefully shifted over—sitting up carefully in one smooth motion and without agraviting the agony inflicted on him earlier the previous day. The previous day? He found the idea laughable. It wouldn’t surprise him if years had passed… But just maybe the youth the elderly invoke like scripture would play to his advantage… They’d already taken advantage of my disadvantage… can I muster a bit of luck—just for myself, just this once. Sion reflected solemnly as he inched forward on the bed. It hardly creaked, after all it was a rather sturdy and non sophisticated frame. His feet rocked his body forth, until only a small part of his buttocks held him to the bed.
“Perhaps we are moving too quickly,” a part of his mind quietly tried to budge in. Another more serious part also chimed in, “Your entire body feels frail. Take it easy.” His eyes did not yield. He looked ahead of himself. He refused to look down. He would acknowledge nothing, and give no ground. He thrust himself forward. He fell to the floor, feet first. His teeth grit and ground. The bandages, heaps of gauze covered in blood fell to the floor. He continued to stand. The muscles in his legs vibrated with weakness. He stepped over the associated: sheets, blankets and all red stained gauze, some of which was blackened with charr. He stepped; it felt like his entire body was pressing against the seams. He felt his body stiffen to an oak like sensation. He rested until a gradual loosening would give way to one more step. The agony of ripping himself apart with each residual motion did not cease. He slowly lumbered over to the wooden basin in the corner of the room.
The basin was filled halfway with water. It was clear and had a fresh earthy scent. His arms slowly wrapped around it. His fingers calmy slid into their own familiar roles. He held it just like that. Its weight was supported still by the small wooden podium. He savoured it for a moment, but he could not restrain himself. He began to lift it. His arms obliged; they toiled as best they could. But even they began to strain, then to vibrate as he levitated the bowl above a certain threshold. The shaking irritated the water but as it neared his mouth it levitated. His harshly parched, raw throat and dry mouth preyed upon the water. It was so close—his tongue stuck out and plunged into the cool basic with its tip. The ripples erupted in a flow of rolling semi-circles. His tongue curled up and spread the insatiable flavour.
He felt as a demigod for the brief moment when he held the basin overhead and let the water roll into his mouth at a gentle trickle. The prey had been vanquished and killed. Now he would prostrate its trophy as one simple deed against those who bear animosity for man. After half the water had been drained he set it down again. It proved a little easier than lifting it for the first time. He felt a little happier. The serenity and the sorrow were beginning to fade. He dipped one finger in, then slowly cupped the water and brought it across his face. He felt dried sweat gently melt away. The water added a soothing touch to each digit which tingled at a low hum as he massaged the hard withered contours. He found himself smiling as the water rushed across his hairline and worked its way in cooling his irritated scalp.
A sudden flurry of shuffling brought him to attention. He turned and tried to speak but all that escaped was a pathetic croak. A robed figure lifted itself from a pile of blankets. He tried to back away. Soft thuds heralded the figures approach. The mummy did not falter or restrain itself upon the sigh of his alarmed complexion. It toppled over the bed then rose as a fresh corpse with each limb appearing disgruntled in the mess of blankets. He could not look away; the fear had become a devil which possessed him.
“I…” his voice scraped by, but not another sound could escape him. He shuffled backwards almost falling over. The figure inched closer. In a moment the world would be once more torn asunder. He shuddered as his eyes broiled in visions of fire. A singular dove rose out of cinder. He paused, frozen.
“Easy,” a gentle feminine alto blossomed. The hood of the robe fell away and her sharp feminine complexion released herself. Her… for a moment Sion felt bitterly lost. Darcia his mind jolted and then all was well. The scared, hopeless look in his eyes disappeared replaced by a soft endearment. She adjusted her robes and a familiar bounce took place. He gazed away as she bore a slight chortle. “Recognize me?” she asked warmly. He nodded as another gruff burst of air passed his larynx. She smiled. Her auburn hair was like a flowing river down to at least her waist. A beautiful silver pin of a coiled flame was stuck amidst her mane, keeping a necessary bang out of her enchanted, green eyes. Heavy violet bags were present there and when she didn’t smile… Her face took on an exhausted reverence, bordering on falling into a delirious sleep.
She walked back to the bed. There she took a seat and braced her temple, leaning against one of the wooden supports.
“You are safe now…” she paused, her eyes looked up for a moment, a scowl belonging to a memory echoed her complexion but quickly faded. “You are not alone. It takes time for it to become a memory. It takes longer for you to forget it. Then a lifetime for it to become a wisp nagging at the corner of your mind. But you are safe now. You are here, in your tent, safe.” She stressed the word, then paused and warmly smiled. “To be honest i didn’t expect you to mend nearly as well. You were in poorer shape than I realized. I am sorry for letting you go… letting you leave broken.” Sion regained his composure and turned back. His eyes met hers only to quickly look down at his feet. His toes were red and swollen. Just as he expected, war isn’t easy on the feet, much less the rest of your body. He turned back once his thoughts were gathered enough.
“Thank—you…” he croaked and then began to cough. He covered his mouth with his hand and pulled away stained with blood.
“Don’t—Sion, your throat is raw but that's the least of it. I brought you back from the end.” She crossed her arms in her lap. “It almost feels like you don’t understand my words… or you are too stubborn too.” He turned away from the scolding.
“You.” each word was permeated by the sound of air passing his larynx like grit. “Suffered.” She peered into his eyes, and he had no strength to look away. “Exchange… Memory…” At each word, at each pause her mood soured. “Fire.” She fell backward and took her eyes to the crumpled ceiling of the unkempt tent. He saw the bottom of her lip tremble. Her sleeve brushed across the upper line of her face and then she pulled back.
“You caught me. You innocent dove.” she extended her hand from beneath the long ornate sleeves of the specialist nurse gown (one given only to distinguished healers). “There is a mirror over there. I cleaned it after rummaging through your tent for food.” Sion coughed and had he been even in slightly better condition it might have passed for uncontrollable laughter. He looked back with a snickering smile and then tumbled onward to raise the mirror from the floor. It was difficult but no harder than levitating the water bowl to drink. That was his expectation—but, this time he had to use his back. He moaned past clenched teeth as he propped it up leaning it on a nearby drawer. His back was on fire, and so was his behind but the job was done.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
Sion’s face turned into an ear to ear grin.
“I don’t like to talk about myself. Do y-see why?” she interjected. Her words were fluttering somewhere in the ear canal, somewhere in the realm, the vicinity of his head. He could not understand them, or perhaps he merely pretended to be a fool as at times that is the only recourse remaining. His eyes began from his toes and slowly rose up until they met in the reflection.
“I did what I could. I sealed all the wounds. No guarantee you won’t spring a leak on the inside—but there are no stitches for you to break.” He understood. His eyes passed his open hand. The original seams where the skin would fold with a closing hand were desecrated by five sinister marks. Jagged, uneven cuts, two where short and stubby. They nearly criss crossed on the pads of his fingers. But because they were treading across callouses they were shallower. Three others were slashes: deep and narrow. One if executed with better edge alignment would have severed his thumb; the other two would have sundered his hand in two. He put his left hand down. His right was of little interest. Only one curved scar in a long diagonal line that even peaked out a little when looking from above.
His hand moved to a raw part of his oblique. He pressed the remnants of fat, sinew and muscle feeling them move beneath the scar tissue. It was a deep cut through the mail. He was glad it was short and relatively invisible. On his chest right below his pectoral line towards the center rib was a violet calamity. The largest bruise he had ever seen. It stretched outward like an aurora till it faded at the very edges below the pectoral muscle. It looked as if lightning had bludgeoned him and burst half the vessels across his skin. Surprisingly the pain was manageable. The first wound, the shoulder. It all had felt like a blur but the muscle beneath was still stiff. A dull throbbing ache radiated at each rotation.
He couldn’t help but wince. Then inevitably he looked to his face. A white scar, one delicate streak across his jaw ending a little ways before the chin. Thick enough that it could never be disguised. It started all the way by his ear. He traced the line. It just felt tough. The skin did not give easily. He leaned in, examining himself in first person. He smiled. He could finally see then thin slivers where he was nicked by bolts, swords and other near lethal misses.
Above his unmangled nose, his high cheekbones and well received brows, right past his forehead was the remains of his brunette hair. His hair was speckled in grey tones although on closer inspection it neared the colour of snow, or better yet ash. Some streaks were whiter, others greyer and some remained chestnut brown. He ran his hand across and watched the stalks rise up. How mysterious, how odd, how strange? His lips curved into a familiar smile again. This time he felt it. Their dry surface forcefully stretched, and tore, splitting in hair like slivers. After a second or two a drop or two of blood had watered the dry crevasse. He traced the blood with his pointer finger wiping it away.
He noticed something peculiar. He averted his eyes at first but before long he was enthralled and at the same time annoyed; the world had managed to surprise him yet again. It was hard to take in new information at the edge of life. Nevertheless, his eyes moved ahead of mind. As his finger rose to his lips, he could see the bottom of his wrist clearly. He could see what remained of his skin there. It was the worst scarring he had probably seen in his entire life. It looked like the flesh had melted time and time again—then was layered continuously as the process repeated itself. It looked like across the wretched scar there were thin strands of filament. He raised his left hand and gently traced the scar with his pointer finger. It started thin enough having absorbed the lower portion of his wrist but it weaved in a serpentine up to his shoulder where it grew wide enough to cover all but the armpit insertion. He looked at the palm of his right hand again.
Not just one scar. The entire surface was covered in melted tissue. Like melted cheese set outside to grow hard and brittle. None of the original texturing remained. Only the tips seemed relatively unharmed. He grasped his face with the arm. The skin still stretched just enough for him to hold his face. He took one breath and then the arm slowly fell away. It glided through the air back to his side where it slumped. He pressed his lips together squeezing the fresh blood down his bottom lip in abrupt streaks. He took a step back. His abdominal muscles jutted out amidst folds of empty skin. It wasn’t just empty; it was deathly white, not a milky sheen but one grey and lifeless—beneath it there was no trace of his hard earned muscles, only the lingering vestiges of another person. Not an ounce of excess remained, almost all the fat had been burnt away, all muscle, all life.
At least my face is untouched! Sion briefly consoled himself. He could not confront the hollow features which remained as his adornments. At least, it was not scorched. His mind flashed an image of the serpent feeding into his palm. He shivered. That was everything. That was it.
He turned his body and looked back to Darcy. Her gaze barely shifted. She sat with her back slouched to an extreme. It took her a moment after Sion turned his right arm to show her the full breadth of the scar. He knew she must have seen it already. She watched with a somber expression.
“Over exertion scars. The transistors in the flesh heat up radically changing to accommodate the magical expenditure. I know them…” She looked up and away. “My family, long ago they used to practice them.” she turned her eyes back, “my father and grandfather still bear the ritual marks. They often take a random shape. Each person’s flesh and mind, results in different paths, meaning the resulting distortion is unique. energia is known to carve the path of least resistance across the flesh.” Her lips tightened, “That's why when learning magic, it often begins with bearing the pain or discomfort of a particular energy expenditure. Depends on the spell right?” she rhetorical mused. “The resulting scar allows a caster to generate some spells at a lower physical cost. It appears that it's not just a scar; it's a magical reconfiguration of the pathway in symbiosis with the skin.”
She stood up and walked up to Sion taking his right hand. “But being identified as a caster is often dangerous and soon the practice died out.” She examined it and then let it fall away. “It’s a dangerous ritual. I lost a half-brother to the gravity of its allure.” Sion flexed his right arm. He closed his eyes and when he opened them a trail of blue flower-like sparks had sprouted on the surface of his right palm. Darcia thinly smiled at the display. She looked back to his eyes. They were wide—completely open; his face was tensed on the verge of tearing.
“Sion?” she softly whispered as he collapsed in front of her. She leapt forward and caught him as he braced on one knee and against her small form.
“I just wanted to see if it was true.” He gently smiled back at her. She couldn’t help but realize how aloof and stupid he seemed in that one moment, but all the same she admired how enchanting his boyish heart was. “Thank you.” he continued, his voice parched. “I wish I could offer you anything other than my life. After you worked so hard for me to keep mine.” she softly laughed, astonished at his candor. “I’d give it if you asked, but unfortunately the General has need of it, once more.” She patted him on the back and both stood up encircled.
“Just this once, loyal commander I won’t ask for anything in return. This world takes enough advantage of you as it is.” Sion snortled at that. I know it seemed to say. I know. Darcy sighed. “And besides, my fairy tail will soon come to an end.”
“Fairy tail?” Sion looked at her eyes which broke away from his persistent stare.
“Yes, my prince, in three days, my apprenticeship ends and I will depart for Ignia. There my family awaits my return. There are no king princes there, only frivolous siblings. Do you know…? I have met my share of princes, but none were as kind as you. All had this air of pertinent superiority… Enough to drown a lady, I wish it could have been you.” She leaned in. “Say, if by the time you leave the military you are unwed, and I am still a maiden won’t you steal me away?” She paused, her lips fluttering. “I know nobody will approve, but if it's with you—I’d run away, without doubt, with hope.” She pulled away and spun her robes in a circle then fell on to the bed.
“That's the secret dream of mine. The one thing I haven't told anyone. Perhaps I have been parted from sleep for far too long or…” She laughed. “Ahh, don’t tell anyone will you. I know dreams are like stars. I am the daughter of flame, and you are a common soldier. Even if you were the greatest hero of the century, or the greatest villain—I still think our paths will take us to different places in this world.”
Sion smiled but internally he wondered of himself will i ever swing a sword again?
“Goodbye Darcy,” Sion softly whispered. He could hear her snoring suddenly cut off.
“I never asked, is it okay to sleep in your bed?” Her voice was muffled partially by the pillow.
“No problem,” sion croaked back, “as long as you don’t mind the sweat!”
“I don’t mind your scent.” Sion blushed and he felt stirred by a heat he didn’t remember. His face for the second time burst with new beads of sweat as he rushed to escape the predicament. Darcia heard him leave the room. She rolled on to her back and gazed for a long time at the ceiling.
“Is this what love feels like?”