“Uh. Did you have to cry in it, or was that just for looks?” Sam asked, cautiously leaning over the edge of the table to peer into the bowl of blood of oath. Her reflection peered back up at her with the same amount of curiosity and apprehension, and at noticing this, Sam couldn’t help but make a silly face, twisting her eyes to show only their whites and sticking out her tongue.
“Any other bodily liquid apart from my blood would have had similar results,” Kreig said, omitting the obvious reason why he chose not to.
George shuddered. “Understood.” Much like his sister, his eyes were glued to the liquid. “What now?”
As far as Kreig explained it, the next part was really the most simple one, namely to bottle it. Since it had a 100% distillation, age would never degrade it. As a matter of fact, since it had a shelf life of several thousand years at the least, this gave them plenty of time to enhance it through community, as Kreig explained it.
Blood of oath never degraded or grew finer with age. The only way to enhance its flavour and properties was to add a drop of blood from another oracle than the one whose blood was used in the initial creation.
It seemed that in most villages with a proper brewery suitable for making blood of oath, they usually kept a special bottle containing a portion of blood from some oracle or another. This blood was often harvested from an oracle heralding from the village itself or some nearby province, meaning that having multiple kinds of blood was forbidden according to tradition. However, if an oracle was to save the village or otherwise help them, oftentimes a small quantity of blood was drawn in order to enhance the year’s harvest, alongside making the oldest and most pure blood of oath the village kept even better.
Kreig himself could list a dozen villages or more where his blood had been drawn and added to their finer products. His classmates never saw it as very interesting, more of a chore than anything, but Kreig always felt honoured to partake in ancient history.
Of course, after the fall of the church, all those villages were burnt to the ground, the blood of oath smashed and spilt and drained anywhere where nobody might try it.
A cloud of melancholy washed over Kreig as he remembered the prized treasures of those villages, bottles of blood of oath several hundred years old, opened only to add a single drop of holy blood. A tradition now lost to time, a people now dead, their blood staining the soggy mud of the north.
Sam brought him out of it. “So, theoretically… I could just add my own blood to this? And make it - what? Better?”
“More potent,” Kreig quietly corrected.
A feral light shone up her eyes. “Well, I don’t see why not!” And before either Kreig or George had time to reply, she’d already grabbed a knife, holding it threateningly over her hand.
But as fast as she moved to grab the knife, Kreig moved even faster to stop her.
One hand was an iron vice around her slender wrist, the other clutched around the knife. His face mere inches from Sam’s, his breathing slow, eyes white and distant. The metal knife groaned in his hand, whining as if mere moments from being crushed completely. Sam fared no better, the skin around Kreig’s vice-like grip quickly turning white and then transitioning into a screeching red.
When she spoke, it came out more like a pained groan than the soft whisper she had tried to make. “Hey, hey, relax, I won’t-, you can release me, okay? I won’t do anything. Okay?” A trembling, forced smile played on her lips.
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Kreig breathed slowly, eyes slowly regaining focus. He looked at her, then at the knife, and then finally at where he held his sister’s wrist.
He let her go.
Then, he lumbered around the table and returned to his place. “Sorry,” he mumbled.
Sam shook her head, still trying to hold her smile, waving her hands disarmingly, though making sure not to move her red wrist too much. “No, it’s fine, I… I should have warned you. Sorry.”
But when Kreig looked up at her and met her eyes, he saw a twinge of fear where there used to be carefree curiosity. Her wrist, no longer white, now regained colour, though a harsh red mark in the shape of his large hand was starting to form, taunting him. It made him furious. In the red blood of oath below, he saw himself. A red, crude imitation of his face, looking up at him. Every sin plastered on his face like a scar.
The silence was only broken when George, moving slowly and carefully, spoke up. “Do we bottle it? There seems to be enough to fill around four wine bottles.” He turned to Sam. “We’ve got a bunch of empty wine bottles stashed in the storage closet, right?”
“Huh? Uh… Yeah? Do you want me to-,” George nodded before she could finish. “Oh. Okay, I guess I’ll just-,”
“Take your time, Sam,” George said, giving her a hard look.
She lingered only for a moment, nodded sharply, and hurried over to her room.
For a moment, neither George nor Kreig said anything. Kreig still felt too ashamed and angry to say anything, but George seemed intent on letting the moment drag on. Kreig, for his own part, felt perfectly content gripping the sides of the table and staring down at his own reflection in the vague hopes that he could psychically banish one to rid the world of the other as well.
“I won’t chastise you, Kreig.” Kreig couldn’t bear to meet his eyes. “You know what you did wrong. That you shouldn’t have gripped her like that.” Kreig almost mumbled something back, a few self-deprecating words about how there was no excuse for his actions, but George spoke first. “But that isn’t why you’re feeling like this, is it?” Kreig looked up and finally met his brother’s eyes. They were filled with kindness and care. “Has anyone ever told you that you did no wrong, Kreig?”
“...Of course. Many times.”
He shook his head. “Not like that. I mean… You’ve been a commander, right? What happened when you made a strategic failure? Or lost a battle? Or had to forfeit a victory?”
Kreig again looked away. “...Depends. The order would… Isolation. A few days in a monastery. Away from it all.”
George nodded. “And the Empire?”
Kreig’s eyes went dark, a tremble gripping his left hand. “It isn’t important. What they did.”
And for once, the one averting their gaze was not Kreig but George. “You were punished. Harshly. And-, and you’re still being punished.” Kreig couldn’t tear his eyes from his brother. “Aren’t you? Maybe not by someone else, maybe not in some cell… But you’re punishing yourself. You’re even doing it right now.”
Kreig let go of his right hand, ignoring how the white mark slowly faded.
George’s gaze softened. “We’re not faulting you, Kreig. For any of this. You’re forgiven. Whatever you’ve done, whatever you’ll do… I forgive you. Sam, too. We love you, Kreig. And I trust that you’ll learn from your mistakes, punishment or no.”
Kreig stood there for a moment. Letting it sink it.
It wasn’t like with the order, where you could be forgiven if you asked for it, or if you paid for it, or if you did some punishment. Or with the Empire, where any failure was punished with either death, torture or incarceration. Until they needed you again, that is. No, this was less than that. More. Human.
During the rest of the evening, Kreig only operated with half a mind to what he was doing. Sam finally returned with the bottles, having found three empty and one full. With lack of anything better to do, they drank the wine in the full bottle, just to empty it. Kreig did not get drunk since he could not, and the taste itself was - to him - pretty foul. But his siblings seemed happy to indulge, quickly getting tipsy and then drunk.
With his brother and sister too intoxicated to do anything beyond drink, Kreig was left to do the hard work of filling the bottles. It went well, but then Sam insisted on having a taste. George was against it, but once Sam had a taste (“whoa, it’s sweet!”), he just had to try it.
Kreig didn’t feel like mentioning that it briefly strengthened the powers of an awakened and did so only once Sam had had her fill.
But by that point, his sister had remembered the part about her blood being able to make the blood of oath more potent. Kreig had almost hoped she’d forget it, but she certainly hadn’t. It was only with extreme trepidation that Kreig let her slash a finger and add a single droplet of blood to each of the four bottles. And the second it was done, Kreig cast his third strongest healing spell on her, instantly mending her finger, removing any poison and alcohol from her blood and healing the tissue shrunk by years of psychedelic use.
She was mostly just upset about losing her tipsiness though.