80. Consequences

A sharp pain pierced through Isaac’s head, twisting and rooting itself deep into his skull. His ears were filled with a shrill ringing, and his vision blurred, blinded by that golden light. Images flashed in his mind, lingering sensations rising like old ghosts.

The cool night breeze that sent shivers up his spine, the roar of passing cars along the road.

A wide, dark street at the edge of silhouetted buildings, spindly and tall, crawling towards a black void.

The lingering adrenaline pumping through his veins, a hoarse throat from hours of screaming, perpetual bitterness.

A blaring horn, screeching tires, the burnt stench of rubber.

A crunch that had sounded so loud in that quiet night, a body folding over, crushed as easily as a metal can ground into the earth.

Dark red liquid pooling on the ground.

Flashing lights.

.

.

.

It was the scream that pulled him back to reality.

Isaac gasped for breath, lurching forward and gritting his teeth. For a second he had a crazed thought that maybe everything that had happened was some sort of twisted dream, that nothing was real and he was still standing on that stained street.

He closed his eyes and forced himself to breathe. No, that was wrong. He was sitting on soft grass, the sky above tinted red from the barrier. He was in the Underside, and four years had already passed since that night.

And most tellingly, Lloyd hadn’t made a sound when the truck had collided with him. It had happened too fast for him to react, to make any noise at all.

Isaac winced as the ringing in his ears dissolved into an unmistakable voice. He forced his eyes to turn to the platform, where the light had faded, and almost immediately regretted it.

At the center of the stage, a sharpened wave of ice had frozen mid motion, stopping about a foot away from a dumbstruck Aster.

On the other end of the ice, which was so clear it was almost perfectly transparent, the fey’s opponent was hunched over himself, desperately gripping his hand, where a familiar tattoo glowed a bright gold.

That wasn’t what caught Isaac’s attention, however.

No, that was the mangled arm above it, if it could be called that anymore. Stemming from the tattoo, a smoky substance steadily coiled higher and higher up the limb. Wherever it touched, it left rotted, withered flesh. An invisible force twisted bones as if they were a screw. Skin crumbled and cracked apart like splintering wood. And still the golden light did not fade, the smoke continuing to climb without any sign of stopping.

Isaac felt bile stinging the back of his throat. On the tablet screen, words flashed violently across the bright red screen.

[SYSTEM VIOLATION]

Seaton was going to die, Isaac suddenly thought. The words drifted as though in a thick fog, barely registering to his own mind. His body felt light, immaterial. He couldn’t get his limbs to move, could only watch, frozen, and wait for the smoke to envelop the man entirely.

It vaguely occurred to him how silent the rest of the arena was. The stands had fallen into a still hush, all eyes directed towards the platform. No one seemed to be able to look away. They all sat there, watching the merfolk slowly rot to death.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Even Aster looked uncertain. She hadn’t moved from her position, gaze fixed forward as various emotions flashed across her face that Isaac didn’t have the mental capacity to comprehend at the moment.

His grip on the tablet tightened. Isaac felt a stinging in his fingers but ignored it. He needed to move, he thought. His limbs were wound with tension, his pulse racing and pounding against his chest like a caged beast.

And yet, even with his body screaming at him, just like that night four years ago, he found himself unable to move.

All he could do was sit there, the cold earth beneath him, staring into that golden light. If he looked at it for long enough, maybe he’d go blind, he thought hysterically.

By then, the scream had stopped as pain overrode Seaton’s ability to react beyond uncontrolled jerks and jolts.

Part of Isaac almost wished it would start again, anything to drown out the sound of crunching bones echoing in his head. Anything to indicate the man might still be alive.

A second flash of gold draped itself across the platform.

It wasn’t like the first one that had burned and stung and made its spectators recoil on reflex. This was rolling, yet heavy and nearly tangible in its presence. It slithered around the merfolk like a snake, wrapping around and around until the man was obscured entirely.

And then, as suddenly as it had appeared, it vanished.

Seaton was gone.

It was the sight of the empty platform, the frozen tides of ice spiraling out from a vacant origin, that finally yanked him back to reality.

Gasping for breath, Isaac scrambled to his feet as all the thoughts, all the drifting, distant sensations and memories came crashing down all at once. He whipped around and bolted towards the healing area without thinking.

He recognized that second glow, he remembered, from when Olzu had fallen. He clutched the tablet closer to his chest, but didn’t dare voice the hope aloud.

“Rosalinde!”

Isaac barely recognized his own voice as he finally skidded to a halt, chest heaving. His eyes darted wildly about before they landed on an unconscious figure sprawled crooked across the makeshift bed. The tattoo still glowed, the only thing crisp and unwarped amidst its surroundings, but its light seemed more faint than before. The coiling smoke had risen nearly up to the shoulder at this point, and directly above it, a familiar silver circle glowed, its light seemingly pushing against the smoke and willing it to freeze. It didn’t stop it entirely, but it did seem slower.

Rosalinde looked up, her eyes wide. Her hair, usually a neat array of brown waves, was a mess. “Isaac,” she said, voice slightly strained with exhaustion. “What are you—“

“Is he okay?” Isaac interrupted. Will he survive? was left unspoken.

Rosalinde focused down at her patient, brows furrowed in concentration. The silver light flared brighter, but still the smoke pressed on. Her hands, carefully held around her magic, shook slightly even as her voice remained as steady as was possible given the circumstances.

“I don’t know,” she said truthfully. The magic flared even brighter, and she winced slightly. “I can’t stop the rot, but I’ve never seen it move so slowly before. Usually he would already be dead.” Her eyes flickered over to Isaac. “Maybe…” her voice trailed, only for her expression to harden.

“Isaac, my medical supplies and bandage rolls are on the bench in the back. Bring them here. The water basin too.”

He hurried to do as told, refusing to look in Seaton’s direction as he passed by and grabbed the requested items, depositing them on the bench beside Rosalinde. The water in the basin sloshed slightly, but didn’t spill.

Rosalinde nodded. At this point she was gritting her teeth slightly, a far cry from her usual ease and grace. Isaac thought back to that night in Solonell City, when she hadn’t seemed remotely fazed maintaining a magic circle much larger than this one throughout Olzu’s training. How much stronger was this?

“One more thing,” the woman said. “There’s a dagger attached to the back of my belt. Remove it and put it beside the bandages.”

Isaac looked up in alarm even as he instinctively moved to grab the weapon in question. It was deceptively heavy, the metal handle a pearly white and cool to the touch. The metal seemed to ring as he dropped it on the bench.

“What are you—?”

“I’m going to sever his arm. If that doesn’t stop the rot, then nothing will.” She looked up to face him, eyes unflinching and devoid of any legible emotion. He took a step back. “You need to leave.”

Isaac hesitated. “I—“

“Go.”

When he later looked back at that moment, he would feel ashamed at how quickly he turned around and left. How easy it was to run away and flee.

He let his legs carry him aimlessly away from the healing area, away from the stands, where Fable’s voice rang from the microphone. Away from responsibility and any and all attachments.

He was wandering the streets again, four years younger, passing in and out of hollow subway trains, the color red burned into his vision. Only this time, it was gold that seemed to creep in every corner, and this time, he was conscious enough to burn with shame.