Murderer.
The word echoes through my mind, but unlike a real echo that fades away, this one grows stronger with each beat. I stop, vomit,wipe my mouth, and continue, and it repeats in an eternal looping nightmare. With nothing but acid in my stomach, the final round is brutal.
I press a hand to my injured side, staggering onward as warm blood flows over my chilled, soaked fingers. I dare not stop, but I’m terrified my body will collapse if I don’t take a break to tend to my wound soon. Panic tightens its grip around my throat, but I fight against it. I need to increase the distance between me and the umbra as much as humanly possible. I will not be a prisoner again.
Never again.
Never again.
Never again.
Exhausted from running and blood loss, my leaden feet drag, and when I trip over a root, I tumble headfirst into the soft, yielding moss, the scent of damp earth filling my nostrils.
I roll over onto my back and stare up at the swaying tops of the trees, chest heaving, rain splashing against my face.I could fall asleep here.
Overwhelmed by exhaustion, I let my eyes flutter closed, the world fading into muffled silence.Perhaps dying isn’t so bad.
No.My eyes snap open.Not yet.Hide. I need to hide.
My gaze falls on a giant moss-covered boulder with a small overhang. That should offer a brief respite from the rain. I crawl over and lean against the cool rock. Holding my breath in anticipation, I listen for any sign of the umbra following. While I’m aware of their silent movement, their inability to penetrate solid objects—at least, to my knowledge—means I should hear them if they approach in this dense forest.
The silence is thick and suffocating as I search the shadows, my heartbeat the only sound aside from the patter of rain and faraway birds. I drift in and out of sleep until the pain from my wound becomes unbearable, and I know that if I don’t tend to it soon, it’s not the umbra that will be the end of me.
Scrambling through my pack, I’m relieved to see that Reü touched nothing, while simultaneously cursing myself for not packing any medical supplies. What was I thinking?
Lifting my shirt, I let out a hiss. The wound’s edges are a deep black color, with thin, dark veins spreading outward, crawling toward my heart. I don’t have to be a healer to understand that this will be fatal. Unless I can find a C’elen to heal it. A C’elen who will surely bring me back to the Arc. I close my eyes in exasperation. It seems I’m dead whatever I do. Aster probably won’t be pleased, as I’ll cheat him of my soul shards. Cheat him of the power he needs to save everyone else.Well, that’s too bad for him, I decide as I tear another strip off of the Kabarian robe. Someone else can be the sacrifice for once.
Casimir’s cruel smile flashes through my memory.“You are more resilient than an ashcrawl,”he said before stabbing me. Time will tell if I can crawl from the ashes the way they do. I pause. Did he know? Did he plan this—that his dream blade would slowly kill me, robbing Aster of everything?
Grabbing a handful of thick moss, I squeeze the water it holds over my wound to clean it. Tearing off another piece, I repeat the process, then place another, free of water, on top of the strip of cloth. That should absorb the blood well enough for now. I know many types of moss also hold healing properties. They could, to a certain degree, extract poison from wounds, but I doubt this is strong enough to heal a god-inflicted one.
I wrap the wound as carefully as I can, wincing in pain every time my fingers brush the tender, infected area. Tilting my head back, I grab another chunk of moss and squeeze it, letting the rainwater fill my mouth. Fighting, then running for my life, I almost forgot how parched I was when I woke. I lean back. It feels so good to just sit here. My eyelids droop as sleep once again battles for control, its tendrils tightening around my mind, shrouding my thoughts in a hazy mist.Why am I running again?
A twig snapping jerks me out of my stupor. A hand to my side, I scramble to my feet, crouching low, melding my body with the underbrush. Relief floods my body when I notice a small deerlike animal. It’s the same size as the white-tailed deer I often saw in Bronich but appears more otherworldly, with its coat shifting between a deep forest green and a rich brown, and with intricate silver markings spiraling along its flanks like frost patterns. Its amber eyes meet mine for a heartbeat, and then it pivots and is gone behind the trees.
More alert, I press on.
Bells of pushing through dense underbrush give way to a gradual incline. As I trudge uphill, the pines thin and are replaced by small, crooked birch trees. Then there are no more trees at all, only rain thickened into a sluggish, wet snow, obscuring my vision.
When I finally crestthe mountain ridge, the snow has stopped, leaving behind a pristine silent landscape under a mostly clear sky. Wet and frozen to the bone, I rub my arms to regain a bit of warmth. I’ll have to risk a fire tonight, umbra or not. To not would be suicide.
With the sun setting, the landscape is bathed in hues of pastel pink and orange, but there’s no time to enjoy the beauty. I only have so long to find a camp before I’ll be enveloped in darkness. There’s another peak to my right, and I decide to make my way to the top, so I can have a vantage point and see the road ahead more clearly. If I can find an outcrop to protect me from more wind and rain—although the sky is clear for now—and where I can stay for the night out of sight, that would be ideal.
By the time I reach the top, my legs have given out. They’re too exhausted to carry me any longer, and I find myself crawling the last stretch, biting down on my cheek to avoid screaming from the intense pain of my broken pinkie. Collapsing onto my belly, my breath comes in shallow rasps, and my head swims from the loss of blood. I can no longer recall how many times I’ve had to stop and change my makeshift bandages. Despite using the moss to absorb the blood, I’ve bled through at a rapidpace.
I rest my head on my forearm, the brace hard against my cheek, and stare at the awe-inspiring sight before me. Although my body aches and my eyelids are heavy with fatigue, it’s impossible to look away from the majestic peaks stretching as far as I can see. The way they rise high into the sky, reaching toward the heavens, their snowcapped summits a pastel pink in the dying sunlight, one would have to be dead to not be struck by their grandeur and beauty.
They look like sleeping gods.
How there can be so much hate and pain in such a beautiful world is beyond me.
The sight, a bittersweet blend of joy and sorrow, shatters my composure, and warm tears flow down my cheeks. Rolling over onto my side, I snuggle into a tight ball, and soon I’m sobbing uncontrollably. The sheer exhaustion of everything I’ve been through pushes its way out in one big tidal wave.
I can’t do this anymore. Run for the rest of my life, only to barely survive. Never be able to trust anyone. Always fear for my life. I just can’t do it.
I hug my knees close to my body, rocking back and forth in a familiar soothing manner. It may keep me alive, but I’m certainly not living.
Unable to hold back the pain, I let my tears flow freely, releasing all my pent-up emotions. I cry for the hurt, anger, and pain I’ve suffered over the years. For the innocent girl that I once was, the one who had hopes and dreams for the future. And I cry for the hope I’ve lost. The minister was right about that. Hope is a fickle thing indeed.
