LAVEN HEPHAESTUS ARVENALDI, II
W E DODGE THROUGH THE trees, eyes fixated all around us.
The past week we have trained in speed, agility, and strength—all of us unsure of how to properly defend ourselves against the rogues, so, we practiced in all areas necessary.
Mora, at the lead of the chase jumps from the ground and upward to the trees where the beginning of the city starts. I can hear the quiet commotion coming from inside the small homes in the town, I can even hear it through the many feet pounding into the dirt around me.
Just as we thought they would, the rogues, both Wolf and human form begin to panic the moment they reach the entrance to the city.
The Archers are readied as they sit atop the rooves. Their elbows are sharply pointed, with an unwavering focus as the chaos begins to grow and the rouges retaliate against us outlying on the grounds.
A loud scream staggers my sprint, as I look, there is a young man fighting off a rogue, but poorly fighting. He is not wearing our black leathered armor, but night clothing. There is a water pail spilled over next to him and a crying child banging on the window of their home.
My sword rings as I draw it from the sheath around my waist. I quietly near closer, although all of the havoc wreaking around us should not make a difference, it does. If I have noticed one thing about those of the diseased, their hearing is heightened to a degree even I do not hear.
The moment I am angled close enough with my sword, I cut smoothly through the rogues neck, and a profuse smell immediately erupts.
The rogues body twitches as it falls to the ground and the young boy scurries backward while quickly wiping the blood of the rogue from his face.
“It is all right,” I hold my hand out as I step nearer, attempting to calm him after such a traumatic experience.
The child in the window is still crying as they watch us interact.
Where are their parents?
“No, do not come closer!” He shouts.
I look to where his eyes are fixated, and he tugs at his pants leg looking at the deep bite around his ankle.
I slowly exhale, unsure of what to do next.
Mora appears from her ascension and wraps her sheath around the base of his knee. She tightens it so tightly the boy shouts in agony and grips her shoulder.
She fixates her gaze on him. “You can be saved, but half of your leg will be gone.”
He does not think twice, he stiffly nods, and I hand him the leather sheath from my dagger to bite down on. I will not be surprised if he completely bites through it.
“Close your eyes.” I say, but, instead, he looks to the child in the window still weeping, shouting ‘Jededyah’ repeatedly.
“Your name is Jededyah?” Mora asks as a distraction as he holds on to her hands.
“Yes,” he winces.
I stand from the ground and take Mora’s sword; it would be useless to use my own. The infection from the previous rogue would only spread right to him.
Kneeling at a level to make this smoothly pass I hear the quiet conversation between Mora and Jededyah.
“I have to live, if I do not live no one will take care of my sister.”
Mora and I slowly make eye contact.
He is clearly very young, too young to be doing this on his own.
“Your sister will never have to worry,” Mora tells him. “You are living, Jededyah.”
And just as he opens his mouth to speak, I cleanly cut the sword through his leg.
* * *
We continued to move through the impaired city after caring for Jededyah and his little sister Janessa. It seemed whoever the messenger was, they did not perform their job well enough, there were more people like Jededyah to be found outside of their homes. Some could not be amputated, some had to have their lives taken.
All of the infected fell one by one, screaming in agony; some were too stricken with pain to bellow out a single cry. Every vein in their body was protruding, turning from blue to black. Those stuck within their Wolf shriveled, crippling at the flow of Lernaean Hydra Blood Oil moving through them. Their howls called deeply through the woods before their final breath.
We allowed the families to decide if they wished to see their loved ones in such a form, black veins trailing throughout the face, eyes filled with blackness, arms, legs—the entire body coated in black jutting lines. The blood oil was setting within them, putting each individual full of disease into a final rest of sleep. Death was not the only solution I was hoping for. I wished for a cure before coming here, but that seems nearly impossible.
Whether the families wished to see them or not, we held a funeral for each fallen. Finally, we called upon their lovers and family to say an ending prayer before the body is burned into ash.
The vision of the child in my arms appears, a little girl thrashing about, rabid in disease. I held her arms at her side as I watched one single drop of blood oil upon her lip pull her into peace. She was one of the few children who survived and the only child I did not allow to be struck with an arrow to cause more pain than needed. Her mother and father were young, only a year or two older than me. Carolena was her name, their first child. The cries of them both have yet to leave my ears.
I could not look at the little girl for a prolonged time. I watched her face begin to mold into the shape of my sisters when she was that small, and the sight of her was too painful to bear. I did not stay long after Carolena’s passing.
“Since you will not allow us to thank you with a celebration, let me give you some of our finest clothing.” Adir pulls me from the screaming in my head. “We have jewels and healing herbs you may take along with you.” Adir motions his hand, and two men walk into the study bearing gifts.
As I try to respond, I look upon a scarf, which is blue with beautiful stitching of white and tan.
I point. “That one . . . it is all I will take.”
Adir nods. “Wrap this for High Prince Laven and bring it back here—wrap it well, he has four days of a journey ahead.”
* * *
I sit down on the large rock as the men make final touches to the ship before leaving. There is a familiar wretched scent that forces into my nose. I do not need to acknowledge or turn to know that it is Mora sitting next to me.
“I lied to you,” she begins. “I do have a mate . . . but she is no man.”
My hands rub over my face. “Why do you speak of her so despondently?”
“She frightens me.” Her voice cracks between her words.
“Why?” I look at her as she plays with the white fabric in her dress.
“Because she is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, more astonishing than flower fields that bloom in the spring . . . I cannot get close to her because the day will come that I lose her to whatever it may be, and I will lose myself as well.” The tears she was fighting fall down her ivory cheeks.
Confusion strikes. “Then why did you do that to me the day I arrived? Why say such things to someone when you already have another?”
She forces a laugh. “Foolishness . . . trying to find something—someone to push away the pain.
“We are not exactly the luckiest nor the most loved beings the Gods have created. We are given mates, someone specifically crafted and created only for us. Either we fall in love with everything about them or not—there is always that deep-rooted connection that holds our soul to the earth. When they perish, we do as well; we may still be here, but it feels as if we are dead—a walking, living corpse.
“We have the chance to hold on to immortality and youth if we continue to phase into our Wolves, yet all that means is merely living, being here as just an object. When they die, a part of us dies as well. We can either live with the emptiness or end it all to be with the person destined for us. Those are our options. We carry on cut in half or die to be whole again. There is no living in-between the two after someone so dear to you is ripped away.”
