A story by Nona Myuso
Sin
1.1
There was a special kind of stillness in that moment. The ornate wooden clock hung over the bed ticked dutifully onward, almost as if the steady sound were some chronicle of what was happening. What had happened. The curtains shuffled almost surreptitiously next to invisible currents of air. Slava’s blood rushed mercilessly against their eardrums, forcing breath after ragged breath from their lungs and squeezing the dim moonlight from the corners of their eyes. The motions of that night were all present and yet, despite all evidence to the contrary, Stepan’s bedroom was entirely still. The old man lay still in his bed. Slava’s fists were planted on either side of his head with white knuckles and a pillow clenched firmly in their palms. Slava felt as though they had just shattered the world in their hands. Now they had been left with what remained. A blank expanse of terrifying possibility. That expanse seemed to surge into Slava’s mind, purging them of all coherent thought. All they had in that impossibly still moment were impulses; vague impressions of the intent behind what may have under any other circumstances evolved into some semblance of an idea. To even ask themself what they had just done would have been beyond their comprehension. The moment stretched on; washed itself, and every moment since in agonizing uncertainty.
Breathe.
Slava took a shuddering breath as the thought finally occurred to them. At some point within the last few seconds they had begun holding their breath. It was almost as if the very air around Slava were about to punish them for what they had done.
What have I done?
This thought was like ice; like fire. It froze down through the pit of their stomach and set their mind ablaze. It was a sobering shock to their scattered senses. Like a broken vase snapping back together. Slava gingerly lifted the pillow from Stepan’s face. In their mind he sat up. He moved. He started yelling; screaming, attacking, coughing. In Slava’s returning imagination General Stepan Dimitri Pavlov was anything but-
Dead.
His eyes stared blankly at the canopy of the bed. His mouth was open; frozen in an expression of the purest desperation that can befall any living creature. One of the seven most powerful people in North Rhetzvit, possibly in all of Ymenor, had died struggling for air at the hands of a teenager.
1.2
The toilets in the Grand Palace of Excryvin were oddly elegant in their design. Almost flower like, with armrests that curved around the front in a fashion similar to the petals of Lestran Irises. Slava found this specific feature especially helpful in supporting themself as they dry heaved into the toilet bowl. In a stray thought they even considered that this was some approximation of the designer’s original intent.
That was uncharacteristic of them.
From an early age Slava had been taught that distractions were punishable transgressions. If they were going to have stray thoughts they should be thoughts oriented towards mitigating any such deviations from the task at hand. Stepan had emphasized that ideology to Slava to the point of psychological brutality; their childhood a minefield of abstract etiquette and harsh personal expectations. Slava was to be a servant to the Pavlov family and nothing more. That is what Stepan had raised them to be. Their value started and ended with their utility and appeal to Stepan and the rest of the Pavlov family. This meant that Slava was, by extension, a ward of the North Rhetzvit Military; a cog in the grand machine. One that had, in an instant, snapped out of place and done untold amounts of damage to some greater machination.
Another retch yanked itself up through Slava’s throat. They were now at the point where the gagging did less to relieve their stomach of its contents and more to injure them with each lurch. Nothing was coming out.
Eventually Slava felt their stomach settle. Their thoughts drifted far enough away from what had just transpired that they could think somewhat clearly. The sudden clarity almost startled them. Slava had just killed someone. Someone very powerful. The last thing they should have been able to feel was calm.
Slava took a deep breath and a plan began to form in their mind. They were going to go back into the main bedroom, close Stepan’s mouth and eyes, and place the pillow where they had found it. They would then leave the room and say whatever they needed to in order to get past the guards without leaving them any reason to check on the general. Ideally they’d avoid any such encounters altogether but it was best to prepare for the worst. Their next objective would then be to equip themself to withstand the cold of a North Rhetz winter and leave the city. The key to that would be doing so quietly and quickly enough that Slava was long gone by the time anyone realized Stepan was dead. It was late enough that they had at least nine hours before the sun would rise; twelve hours until anyone would take notice of the general’s absence.
Slava hoped this plan would work. They wondered how they would manage to pull it off with guards patrolling each block of the guest floor of the main spyre. Not to mention any number of palace personnel between Slava’s current location and the servants’ quarters where they had been assigned to stay in a spare room. Fortunately that was on the ground floor along with the dining hall and kitchen. Slava could stock up on some food to take with them and leave through the loading bay in the back.
With another deep breath Slava set about bringing their plans to fruition. The first step proved easier said than done. Slava had somewhat of a hard time stomaching the idea of touching a dead body. The fact that said body was dead because of them didn’t make it any easier.
Another tide of nausea hit Slava. They had mustered up a strong enough constitution to make Stepan look as though he were merely sleeping and then rushed quietly back to the toilet; more vomiting. Once finished they took a moment to regain some semblance of their composure. As Slava turned to the mirror above the sink they felt a very different kind of anxiety. It was the kind of seeping fear that could only come from the inexorable march towards a body that was fundamentally incorrect. The way their face was becoming more angular, their shoulders growing slowly broader, the stubble that had begun to form above their lip and at the corners of their jaw- it all made them sick to look at. On anybody else Slava would have had no problem admitting that these traits were acceptable; attractive even. Seeing them manifest on their own visage however felt like swallowing chilled bile.
We don’t have time for this.
The thought cut through Slava’s rising despair like a current through stagnant water. It was time to act. Time to put on a brave face and pretend like everything was okay.
Slava set about tidying themself up. Their hair, which had been neatly coiffed before, was now revealing its natural predilection towards being a strawberry blonde mess. Stepan had hated Slava’s natural hair. He hated anything that didn’t conform to his idea of what was orderly and efficient. Before they could think too much about it Slava combed the ringlets way from their face and used some of the hair gel on the counter to keep everything in place. They then moved on to fixing the wrinkles in their uniform. It was standard dress for servants of the Pavlov family. The hems were straight and simple; nothing wasted on pageantry or flair. It was a testament to the Pavlov family’s austere utilitarian values, using dark grey and black to compliment the Pavlovs’ regalia.
Slava’s attention moved to their ascot; the one spot of color allowed to them. It was white with intricate floral fractals embroidered on it in cobalt blue. The only reason they hadn’t been punished for wearing it was because Stepan had a particular fondness for blue. He had even gone so far as to ask Slava to wear it during dinner earlier that night. They might have been surprised at the apparent compliment if it hadn’t been followed immediately by a comment about how it would draw attention away from their weight. Stepan thought the remark was funny. It made Slava’s blood boil.
Had that been the tipping point?
Slava considered the prospect. They then considered leaving the ascot behind, but something about it prevented them from doing so. Rather than indignation they almost felt a camaraderie towards it, as if the ascot had somehow acquired a touch of personality all its own. Slava wasn’t sure about what Stepan had said, but they felt it made their features seem less severe. They gingerly ran their fingers over it. It was soft, even comforting. Slava decided to keep it.
Once the decision was made Slava adjusted their posture and went about extinguishing the pieces of fire agate in the sconces along the wall. The room went dark. Moonlight gently flickered between curtains. The hematite circles in the bathroom mirror glowed in such a fashion that shimmered like mercury. The effect of the enchanted stone cast the bathroom in an odd light wherein despite the apparent darkness all was clearly visible.
Slava looked to the bathroom, checking to make sure they left it as they found it, and then did the same for General Pavlov. They adjusted their ascot nervously, swallowed the growing lump in their throat and turned towards the door.
Time to go.
Slava grasped the doorknob and braced themself.
1.3
There were few ways Slava’s plan could have gone more wrong in less time.
“L-Lady Carlilia I w-,” Slava stopped when the woman quickly looked to both sides and then back at them. Her eyes were storm grey like theirs. Slava felt a sudden rush of emotion and tears began forming. Something felt off. They felt relieved, like some abysmal chasm of panic had been simply wiped away.
“Close the door,” Lady Carlilia’s tone was quiet. Slava obeyed, biting their lip.
“Are you alright, Slava?”
Slava blinked the tears from their eyes and ventured a tentative response. Everything was so confusing.
Why is she acting like this? Why am I feeling like this? Can I trust her?
“I’m a-,” their voice cracked and they swallowed hard, “…alright -I’m fine.”
“Good. Come with me,” Lady Carlilia’s voice was genuine. She grabbed Slava’s wrist and hurried off down the hall with them in tow. Slava was on the shorter end of average which meant Lady Carlilia was almost tall. She had a broad frame and long, curly, brown hair tied into a high ponytail, or at least Slava could have sworn it used to be brown.
Has her hair changed color?
It seemed lighter, but they couldn’t tell for sure in the moonlight. Stranger still, her ladyship’s hair didn’t bounce so much as flow through the air as she walked. Slava chanced a second look at her dress to find that it seemed to be doing the same. They felt their confusion double. It was almost as though their skin itself were boiling; each bubble an unanswered question eating away at the corners of their mind.
Slava stopped. Lady Carlilia almost pulled them both entirely off balance before coming to an abrupt stop herself. A sharp irritation emerged in Slava and they pulled their arm free from her ladyship’s grasp.
“Lady Carlilia, I-,” Slava was interrupted by the uncharacteristic glare on her face as she wheeled around to face them.
“Slava, we don’t have time for this,” the words were a rushed hiss as she tried to stay quiet. “You’re an intelligent young man, I’m-,” she stopped as her voice wavered. Slava felt that same feeling of chilled sick pouring into their stomach that they had when looking in the mirror, and their indignation left them.
“…that’s not right is it?” Lady Carlilia’s voice was pensive, “…young woman?”
Slava felt a different kind of sick now; a burning itch all over their body that gave way to a cold sweat.
“N-No, it’s nothing- my lady, please-,” their thoughts were too scattered. Panic bled into etiquette and the result was a slurry of both babbling incoherently out of Slava’s mouth. They were pretty sure they were not a woman. They were also pretty sure they were not a man. In fact, Slava had never felt a particularly strong connection to either term. Being called by masculine terms had always felt almost akin to being outright insulted, but being called by feminine terms felt wrong for different reasons. This train of thought only served to introduce deeper confusion to an already hopelessly opaque situation.
Lady Carlilia stepped forward and gently grasped Slava’s arms. Slava’s heart jumped. The focus on their own inner turmoil dissipated.
“This is too important to discuss at present. Right now you and I need to go,” her eyes were gentler then, though her jaw was still tense. Slava swallowed hard and nodded. Lady Carlilia paused. For a moment it seemed as if she were staring right through Slava. A shock of alarm rattled them.“Gods fucking damn it,” Lady Carlilia hissed, snapping out of her apparent fugue, “We need to run.”
Interlude I
Darkness rested gentle against languid meditations without consequence of thought. Ever shifting magnitudes hummed dreams of petrified lives past over and around the small form as the ages drifted by. It had been such a long time. Countless moments had passed in the way that left one wondering whether their mind had simply gone still for a minute or the rest of the world had just elected to leave them behind altogether. The latter felt more likely. They remembered something. They also could barely remember anything. Before the questions had a chance to properly form, to gestate and unravel into… something, they faded away; like the countless veins of igneous rock that shifted and flowed invisible into the darkness. The soil and earth churned, and there was only the roiling deep once more.
1.4
The Grand Central Palace of Exryvin was arranged in such a fashion that every floor in the center spire had two concentric hexagonal hallways. The outer hallways upheld whatever clandestine workings the upper echelons of North Rhetz society required to stay aloft whilst the inner hallways on the lower levels could be accessed via the front entrance of the palace by anyone with a visitor’s pass. The floors at the middle were reserved for soldiers’ barracks with the ones above those reserved for visiting nobles and higher ranking military officials. The center of the main tower was open, making the inner hallway of each floor a catwalk washed pale in moonlight. In the center of the illuminated courtyard was a large angular structure resembling a red and black tree with the branches connecting to seemingly random ceilings for added structural integrity. The chaotic metal appendages contrasted with the controlled red and white stone decor of the surrounding architecture, creating an uncanny juxtaposition of organic and artificial function. White marble with luminous red gemstones set into the angular patterns seemed to command respect through the polite tap of shoes on tile, almost reprimanding any who would dare move faster than a brisk stride in those stately halls. Slava had already committed the calamitous sin of running full sprint through three or four hallways behind Lady Carlilia before realizing their footsteps were the only ones making noise. Their venture to investigate the matter further was interrupted by something harrowingly familiar.
“You fucking idiots!”
The savagery of the vituperation echoed from the direction of Stepan’s room like flatware falling on tile. Slava then heard what sounded like hot grease and burning firewood mixed with screaming from the same direction. They could feel their blood leaving their face as they frantically approximated a half remembered prayer to a goddess that could have been Si’Ona but also very well may have been Nephine. As the screams warped from that of boiling men to something deep and vengeful, Slava felt it wise to beg both deities for their protection. Vera had found Stepan’s body, and she was beyond fury.
Vera Margaret Pavlov was Stepan Dimitri Pavlov’s oldest granddaughter and heir to the Pavlov Military dynasty. Vera’s father, Gregor Dimitri, had been next in line for the position of Governor General to the north-western provinces until seventeen years prior when he and his wife, Palmera Noelle, were killed in action during a coup d’etat. In a just world no sane human being would have ever put Vera in any sort of position where she had any ability at all to exert her wrath upon another soul. On Y’menor, however, Slava had just murdered the only person preventing her from becoming one of the seven most powerful individuals in the public eye of North Rhetzvit.
“Shit shit shit fuck shit…,” even after the already abundant surprises of the night, the last response to the implied horror Slava expected from her ladyship’s mouth was that. They were equally, if not more shocked when Carlilia lifted them into her arms as if they were nothing more than a young brushound, and bolted down the hallway; veering towards the railing of the catwalk. Exactly half a second before Slava had the wherewithal to pull themself back to their senses Lady Carlilia had taken a running leap over the short stone wall and into the frey of black and red chrome branches. From their left came Vera’s continued screaming that definitely wasn’t Rhetz and bordered on savage nonsense. Slava’s heart rushed into a frenzied tantrum until whatever little mechanism inside them that kept time running at a steady pace broke entirely and the next action felt like an epic play in slow motion.
With almost choreographed precision and grace Lady Carlilia turned in the air so that she was facing the direction of Vera’s bellowing. As she did this, she moved her right arm out from under Slava’s knees and pointed at where Slava could now see Vera standing with her hands gripping the top of the railing.
The things making their way down through the tangle of steel towards Slava and Lady Carlilia were beasts Slava had only ever heard stories about. The creatures’ skin crackled and glowed like smoldering leather. They bared vicious horns, teeth, and claws that glowed like hot iron. Powerful appendages that appeared to be gnarled hands and feet with branching fingers and toes gripped the bars and launched their warped and bloated forms forward with petrifying speed. Before the monsters could reach them Vera’s ululations reached a crescendo and her mouth and eyes began to glow a bright hot orange. As flames erupted from Vera’s mouth in a tight stream Lady Carlilia intoned something indecipherable followed by a tremendous, echoing, “Stop!”
Slava closed their eyes tight and awaited any of the innumerable deaths yearning for them. A flash of sudden intense heat to their left threatened their fear come true until they felt Lady Carlilia shift to replace her arm under their knees as she used her now back leg to land on a branch whilst facing where they had leapt from. Slava opened their eyes and saw black scorch marks and traces of fire dancing along a huge swath of the stone and metal architecture. Vera’s shot had gone astray. To Slava’s further amazement, the monsters faltered amongst the canopy. A calamitous din proceeded as their forms crashed through the beams. Any doubt in Slava’s mind that the creatures were once human dissolved as one shook its- his head and almost put a hand to his face before more than two eyes on his mutilated head widened in some blooming emotion. The former guard’s jaw, which was now more porcine than anything, split down the middle as a mind rending caterwaul haunted the palace.
Slava could only suck in a short breath as Lady Carlilia gingerly stepped off of her perch, plummeting no less than a few stories onto a lower branch. Vera’s frustrations rippled down the open space of the tower followed by demands for the fleeing duo’s heads. The guard beasts were slowly regaining their composure through keening whines and barking despite the enraged pyromancer’s demands for them to mobilize. Lady Carlilia sprinted along the beam she and Slava were poised upon with uncanny deftness and hopped over the connected railway onto one of the lower floors. Still holding Slava, she dashed towards the nearest stairwell and, rather than more conventional methods, opted to leap over the stairs, landing gently as a Kallavian moth dancer. A guard and a few terrified nobles gawked at Carlilia as she darted into the adjoined hallway. Her Ladyship’s steps yielded not a sound as she continued her dizzying feats of athleticism down the tower and through the scant crowds of nobles fleeing the open catwalks for cover. She stopped to frenetically survey her surroundings, “Živko’s, Živko’s, where the supine fuck is Živko’s?”
Recollection sparked in Slava’s mind. They and Stephan had gone there earlier in the week for breakfast with Vera and her fiancé. A quick glance around revealed that Lady Carlilia had miscalculated her descent. The sudden uproar of footsteps flooded the surrounding hallways.
“It’s two floors above us! In the hallway to our right!,” across the tower Slava could see a crush of armored guards on the same walkway as them and Carlilia, splitting up to rush their location. About a quarter of them stopped at semi-regular intervals; aiming their rifles at the two. Slava’s answer was as reflexive as the instinct to run. Carlilia looked up in the direction Slava indicated before swearing again, and backing away from the railing to embark on another running start. Just as the crowd of enforcing officers reconvened on her ladyship, she leapt from their reach with spectacular ease.
Slava grit their teeth and squeezed their eyes shut as they heard the volley of gunshots around them and felt a blanketing pop. They were abruptly shunted into further darkness.
1.5
A sharp ringing spun through the darkness. Amorphous lights bloomed across Slava’s eyes until the motion snapped to execution. The pitch in Slava’s ears remained until it was surreptitiously replaced with a lurching hiccup, Lady Carlilia’s grasp on them forgotten until it too lurched terminally forward. Slava tumbled out of her arms onto the tile floor. Hints of something simultaneously dull and sharp jeered the flesh right below their shoulder. Slava cleared pain from their lungs with a whimpering cry only to have it rush in again. The floor shook beneath them from a nearby impact. Pain chewed at them once again and a visceral suspicion crystallized into thought.
Is my arm broken?
More tremors. A cloud of hot air that smelled like copper pots and bloody noses poured over Slava’s back and the side of their face. They moved their left arm, the one that wasn’t broken, in a feebly ironic attempt to get out of the way of whatever was coming. Torrid jaws racked Slava’s midsection. Another, more ragged scream erupted from them as the guard beast’s abominable jaws drifted slowly closed. It was an animal sound that ended in a pitiful choke. The harsh rapport of bullets punctuated a sickening crack just below Slava’s diaphragm and they felt the floor meet their face again. The beast howled.
It stopped… I’m alive… oh gods I’m alive…
The thought was more in disbelief of the pain than gratitude. Slava knew nothing of necromancy or the teachings of the Eight Goddesses, but they knew how it felt to be cut. They knew how it felt to be burned. What was new was the sensation of being crushed, and then being numb. Slava began musing about how numbness had never felt like pain until now as it forced their thoughts away from them like snakes scattering through a garden. Darkness again; more complete this time. There were noises; booming percussions of gunfire, Slava’s name, a brilliant flash, combat somewhere distant.
Fading.
Unimportant.
Slava didn’t care. They figured it wouldn’t concern them rather shortly. The hold they had maintained on their body had always felt quite tenuous; antagonistic almost. They had forgotten where the resentment had really begun in all honesty. Had it been a bad angle on a bad day? Too much criticism layered over too much doubt maybe? They had been told to hate themself so long because of their body that the loss of it was oddly understated; a twisted relief even. Vanity. Pride. Self deprecation. It felt so petty now with the profoundness of agony washing over them; the anchors of cauterized flesh pulsing to remind them of what was happening.
Slava was drifting.
The anchors were fading.
Faltering.
Dwindling.
…
What do you think? Can I keep them?
The question wasn’t formed of words so much as something that drifted across vast distances from somewhere close. It brushed gentle over silent darkness like feathers in the night. Slava did not so much hear as feel what was communicated. It felt good. It was a lullaby from lips drenched silver in singing moonlight.
Not yet, this one is still needed.
This impulse was an admonishment so playfully complex; just as little a sentence but still so much boundless information transmuted between things Slava couldn’t see. It was legs rasping on bark and the crush of leaves. It was eyes peering from the treeline at sunset. The desire to view whatever was bombarding them with these ineffably vast notices sharpened something parallel. Slava reached, pushed some ethereal part of themself outwards into wherever they were now until-
It hurt again. It hurt so badly. When had it stopped hurting? Not important. It was so hard for Slava to form thoughts; to hold onto notions between writhing tendrils of mental interference.
Bones twitched like the legs of a contused insect. Muscles squirmed like boiling cephalopods. Pain spread, renewed in itching fractals signaling a return to flesh. A series of alarming pops and crackles ensued. Slava attempted to inhale only to taste and choke on that warm copper smell from before. It shimmered in their chest like sparkling wine on the tongue, and their lungs filled with something sweet touched sour. The pain dissipated again as they groped for air.
The schism in Slava’s psyche between their unreconciled states remained. Light was too bright; darkness indecipherable. The face looking down at them expressed… something. Slava was having trouble determining what exactly. All of this coming to and fading from was exhausting. They just wanted to know what was going on. Color resonated again and the face yielded itself to analysis. Even with that it took Slava a second to recognize concern. Expressions had always been somewhat hard to make sense of.
“Slava? Slava, oh gods- Are you okay? Can you get up? Please get up…,” Carlilia’s voice was frantic, she was crying. Something about it was off. It almost sounded how the messages felt. The effect was fading, if it was even there to begin with. Imagined or real, it made her words easier to understand.
No? Of course not? My whole torso is broken. Aren’t I actually just dead entirely? Wasn’t I dead? Am I not dead?
“Uh-aiuh…,” Slava kicked themself for not being able to articulate- well, anything. Their ribs still felt too fragile despite the absence of pain. They looked down, faintly grateful for their ability to do so, and found their uniform in tatters. Two large tracts of skin on the left side of Slava’s belly were now gnarled and irregular. Otherwise they appeared fine. Lady Carlilia’s hand was gripping the tattered and burnt cloth at their diaphragm. Flickering green lights traced along the new scars and winked out.
“Carli, we need to get out of here, this is beyond bad,” the voice snapped Slava out of their daze, “…is he alright?” They looked to the source. It was Oryxa Rynn; a member of Carlilia’s customary entourage. She was running towards Slava and Carlilia from a nearby stairwell. Oryxa was short, with dark skin and vibrant green eyes. Her amber locks were coiled and beaded in beautiful patterns that resembled a bouquet. The red and orange fabric that composed her dress moved like the fins of a swimming copperfish. Slava thought they could see lustrous, teal shapes darting through the bands of cloth as they shifted.
“They’re fine,” Slava didn’t miss the emphasis Lady Carlilia put on using a neutral pronoun as she wiped her upper lip. It was the first time anyone had done that for them. They noted immediately that it felt better than the alternatives. Oryxa let out a sigh, but the tension didn’t leave her. Slava moved to stand. Lady Carlilia helped. As she rose, Slava took note of the large, bladed polearm she picked up from the floor, and was somehow casually sliding into the coin purse at her side. Slava’s eyes widened as they saw the bisected guard beast on the floor behind her. It’s flesh was sizzling and cracking like dying embers. Pieces of its hide blackened and fell inwards.
This is all too much.
“Can you get us to the manor from here?” Carlilia’s tone hinted more at the approaching dangers all around. Footsteps echoed still, and a ragged barking howl sounded throughout the tower from above.
“What? No! Of course not! We can’t do the ritual here! Not now!” Oryxa was clearly frustrated and scared. It was only her comment that clued Slava into the fact that they were all now standing in front of Živko’s; the restaurant Lady Carlilia was attempting to locate earlier.
“What i-,” Carlilia’s question was cut off by a radiant orange flare, and a crash that sent the trio sprawling. When Slava regained their senses, Lady Carlilia was already getting up and sprinting towards the source of the disruption. They followed her path to see she was charging Vera, who had crashed and was kneeling to the right of the restaurant. Her hair was almost as bright as the dissipating fires that still wreathed her form. She was pale, with menacing blue eyes that spoke of the kind of beauty that could, and would cut anyone down to size. Tear stains, and red mascara marked her cheeks. The floor that had endured the crash was cracked deeply beneath her feet. As Lady Carlilia approached, Vera rose, and her hands started glowing the color of the rising sun.
“YOU KILLED M-,” much like Vera had interrupted Carlilia with her meteoric stunt, Carlilia interrupted Vera with a noteworthy punch to the face. Vera hit the ground, and her hands extinguished. Tiny chartreuse lights danced around her head. Lady Carlilia wheeled around to face Slava and Oryxa, “Ryx! Take Slava and fly!” Oryxa’s response held something in it that threatened to break Slava’s heart in that very moment, “Carli, no! They’ll kill you!”
“You don’t have time to think about that right now!” as Lady Carlilia spoke, she rushed back towards the two who had now righted themselves. She untied something from her wrist before tackling Slava into a sort of half hug with one arm and reaching out to Oryxa with the other. When her hand reached Oryxa’s face, Carlilia drew her in for a kiss. The two remained for seconds that felt like lifetimes; Slava acting as nothing more than an unwitting bystander.
Carlilia pulled away first, “I’m sorry, Ryx.” With that, she shoved Slava towards Oryxa and yelled with the same voice she used to make Vera’s firebreath miss, “GO!” A choked sob escaped Oryxa’s lips, and she grabbed Slava’s wrist. The last thing they saw before another enveloping pop and complete darkness was Vera stirring, and Carlilia reaching into her coin purse to draw her weapon.
1.6
Lights flashed and distorted; imploding and exploding. The pieces of those lights came into and out of focus in ways that confused and bewildered Slava’s best attempts at mental recalibration. It felt like their ears were on the edge of bursting over and over again. The only constant was Oryxa’s grip on their hand. The lights and pressure reached a fever pitch before it all seemed to explode into incomprehensible shapes in bright contrast speeding past the two in every direction. The ambient feeling of being crushed broke into squirming torrents of force. It felt like forever in a fraction of a second between hurricane winds before Slava heard the screeching sound again.
Lights bloomed.
The air was drawn from their lungs as they began to fall from the night sky. All around them were fluttering, buzzing shapes much like the pieces of light Slava had just witnessed, but paradoxically much easier and much more difficult to process. There was a sharp cracking noise above them. Something red rushed past Slava faster than they had been falling and wrapped around their chest and upper torso. The tethers stretched and contracted, arresting Slava’s momentum with a bouncing motion. Their vision focused enough for them to register that the buzzing shapes and sharp screeching sounds like shattering glass were in fact what they had feared; shatterfae.
The creatures were in various forms, but since childhood Slava and their piers had been shown pictures and diagrams detailing their identification. The carapaces shimmered in shades of rose copper with varying degrees of green markings. Wings seemed to drift out from elytra in every color as they moved, shedding tiny pieces of light off into nothingness. Some took forms akin to humans. Others chose to dawn more numerous appendages; wearing claws, faces, arms, and pincers like holy regalia. Slava knew then that they were in the midst of machinations that would affect great change, and horrendous grief. The shatterfae themselves had never directly brought harm to a human in recorded history, however swarms of them almost invariably preceded every major conflict and tragedy. They were also known to appear in fewer numbers as harbingers to shorter reaching tragedies and hardships. The most important lesson that children were taught about these fairies was that they were to be avoided at all cost. Slava was still at an age where they knew to get away and tell an adult, but they also recognized the dissonance in their ability to apply that knowledge. There was nothing they could do. They looked up through the swarm to see Oryxa clinging to the side of the tower with eight of the red tendrils from her dress. Two of the cloth appendages were the ones holding Slava. The cloth was angular; segmented in just the right way that the scene evoked images of some large spider held fast to the side of the building. The ends of the appendages each bit into the metal supports between the stained glass windows with tensile power that reverberated above the din. Oryxa flexed her body, preparing to move, and her dress responded in kind. The windows began to crack.
“High Court of the Shatterfae!” Oryxa’s voice cut noble and strong through the sky, “I humbly request safe passage! For myself and the child!”
The motions of the surrounding swarm changed abruptly. Insectoid and uncannily humanoid forms danced in mesmerizing fractals. A song that wasn’t a song echoed through the air. Slava was almost entranced in the movements and sounds enough not to notice one of the creatures depart from the formation and land on their shirt. Their sharp little claws poked at Slavas exposed skin and tender new scars as they found purchase. The fairie scurried towards Slava’s face and up around their shoulders. Their behind stayed where it was; their middle simply extending to take on characteristics akin to a centipede.
“What is the purpose of this request?” Oryxa’s voice rang out again. Slava’s gaze remained fixed on the tiny iridescent creature shedding polychrome shards of light next to their face.
What? Is she talking to them? What do they want? Why is one ON me!?
The tuneless melody played again, this time with a distinct sharpness to Slava’s left. They tried not to let themself get drawn in again, but the gentle chitinous droning and chirping drowned out all clarity and washed them into a haze. Oryxa, in turn, cleared the haze.
“The child cannot-,” the swarm shifted formation again, turning clockwise and letting out clicks and stridulations in staccato syncopation. Almost as if to punctuate the statement, a gunshot rang out, punching through one of the nearby windows. The fae scattered in ripples to avoid the projectile. Slava swung to the side as one of the tethers snapped. Lady Oryxa looked down at them with a pain they couldn’t grasp the meaning of, and then back to the swarm.
“I evoke the right of King Ekene Bassem Samarra!”
More shots fired, and the fae shifted rapidly into complex arrays and formations; almost like loose rings suggesting tunnels or pathways. One of these advances showed a steep plummet down onto a balcony with a large metal box below Slava. The ambient wind dissipated the steam and other more acrid smelling fumes that came from the vents in the sides, but the smell prevailed.
Do they expect me to drop onto that?
Without warning, the fairies emitted a sudden, blinding flash. As Slava’s vision escaped them, they felt a sharp sting at their shoulder, and then numbness across their body. The cloth around their torso loosened, and slipped.
“Oh shit- No!” Oryxa’s voice pierced through the ensuing volley of gunfire, but Slava only felt themself falling and saw brightly colored shapes.
1.7
Slava had heard stories from radio shows and at various performances for the royal military elites of daring folk who would take to the skies simply for entertainment, but actually falling through the air felt much less exhilarating than it had been made out to be. That may have had something to do with Slava being unable to even flail about as they plummeted. Another deciding factor in Slava’s enjoyment of being airborne was the landing; a dull percussion that left their right hindquarters and thigh in formidable pain. They felt a tug at their left sleeve and, without thinking, followed it. Getting up was uncomfortable enough that under normal circumstances they would have simply waited in the dent in the thin sheet of metal for help whilst crying. Dropping into a clumsy roll from a distance of two meters or so would have left Slava almost entirely incapacitated, but the shimmer throughout their body from the sting and the gentle fluttering tugs at their clothing seemed to be all they could react to. Everything hurt so much, but they couldn’t seem to do or feel anything about it other than what the creature was telling them to do. The faerie chirped. Slava reached their hand towards the handle of a door they only just realized they were approaching, and the faerie that had been guiding their actions quickly skittered up to the lock.
It’s body was short now, with three segments; the back was large and round with shimmering little hairs that looked like glass fluttering off into Slava’s vision, the middle was longer, with the legs branching off of it in pairs, and the head was relatively small and graceful. It had eight appendages, with two that resembled scythes at the front. The hyaline fibers continued up the creature’s back and gave them an almost soft appearance. Their head, which seemed to sit atop a fur collar, sported branching, feathery antennae. Everything about the faerie was captivating. Even as they reached their limbs up to the keyhole and shifted the inner mechanisms, they seemed to be changing ever so slowly. The edges of their body sharpened and elongated. The fur became more intense; almost too bright to look at.
All at once, the faerie leapt from Slava’s hand with a sharp stridulation, and Slava involuntarily threw the door open. At the same time, the faerie’s coat flashed an impossibly bright red. The color seeped into their eyes, and distracted Slava from their renewed descent down the crowded stairwell. Slava could tell they weren’t using the stairs as they were intended to based on the feeling of hands on railings, and the aches in their body as they lifted and dropped to and from ever more precarious perches. The red began to drain from Slava’s vision as they dropped from the last railing and started running despite the pain sitting sharp in their leg. They could see the faerie flying a short distance ahead of them, and the forms of soldiers all around them blindly flailing about. They screamed in terror and swung at something in the spots that Slava still couldn’t see. Still able to function enough in the sanguine terror and blindness, one of the soldiers found Slava’s wrist and held it in a painfully tight grip. Upon the faerie’s tactile instruction, Slava twisted their arm beyond any comfortable angle in a sudden lurching turn. The soldier’s grasp was broken and Slava tumbled away, scrambling to their feet and out of the stairwell.
Everything ached. Their shoulder felt like it was about to hurt a lot, and the dread was almost worse than the coming pain. The faerie pushed against Slava enough that they crashed into the wall mid run, and felt an unsettling series of pops where their arm had hurt. Agony shot through their chest and arm with the actual joint too overwhelmed to feel like anything at all.
Slava crumpled behind a large column among two dozen set in a circle around the grand foyer. They couldn’t help but cry out as they grasped desperately for breath. The heaving of their chest shocked through their armpit and around their shoulder. It was leagues behind the pain of the soldier beast’s bite, but that had nearly killed them.
The faerie tugged at them again, and Slava commenced a slow, and awkward crawl across the red and white tile. The faerie now appeared with long, fluttering wings, and a long, slender body. Their legs were thin with tiny hooks that gently pressed into the skin on Slava’s finger and hand as they did their best to pull Slava along.
Sounds of people rushing around the surrounding hallways and grand foyer filled the air. Soldiers and guards shouted at guests in the upper floors to remain in their rooms. Vera and Lady Carlilia’s battle raged on amidst the moonlight cast through the rooftop fenestella. Slava, unable to actually do much about the situation, briefly reflected on how they had never seen a government building in such disarray before when a mass of screaming orange and green fire crashed into the floor behind them. There was a brief silence before a wet sucking heave pulled itself into the sound of Lady Carlilia’s gasping voice.
“You know your family always was a liability to the N.R.M….,” Vera’s voice cut ragged through the still air, “Like fucking cockroaches. None of you seem to know how to stay dead.” Her tone held that icy rage that terrified Slava in their waking hours since early adolescence. She had taken Slava’s ego to pieces countless times with that tone, even when they felt they had no self worth left to lose. Now they were sure she was going to take both Carlilia and Slava’s bodies to pieces in her ubiquitously baleful manner.
Vera emerged from the mess of broken marble she and Carlilia had made next to the central support structure of the tower, “Maybe your little brother will be better at knowing his place…”
The Omniad 