His blood felt thick.
Fighting against the Balicani, pitting his human strength against their powerful limbs and scything claws, his muscles cried out and fell dead, one by one clusters of feeling fell to dull, useless pounding. It wasn’t that these people meant anything to him, he did not know a single one of them. But somewhere in his journey, from the time he wandered cold and alone from the Kalean mountains into Alvadas and here, fighting these serpentine monsters, there had been an almost unnecessary amount of death left in his wake. Perhaps his blade had taken too much blood, siphoned it from bodies and left it uselessly on the ground. Sometimes he justified it, called it progress…and other times it was just the impersonal slaughter of insanity.
His time in Sahova, in Sunberth…he had dealt with insanity before and nothing felt so much like insanity than the careless taking of life. Yes. The strong lived and the weak died, but he did not always have to be the executioner of that will. Most would die of their own accord, trapped in a harsh world with harsher realities. The rest…well, he brought them Vayt’s judgment merely by existing. Twisting, stepping back, dancing even, he pushed himself for people who may never make it from the forests of the Syliran wilds. Many had already been lost, these people surely were broken of will and of idea.
The blade drove into his side with the swift strike of a snake, but Wren did not feel it at first. Instead he was only aware that his movement had stopped, that someone had wrestled him to the ground. The world spun in slow kaleidoscope, his vision dancing from the low winging Balicani to the earth that rose to meet him. His body clattered onto the soil, lay there senselessly as Dean was hurled off. Pain was far past his screaming muscles and instead he simply lay there, feeling a cold creeping up his body from his back, a wet warmth seeping around his waist. So…Dean had made his move, he could see the bloody dagger between them, glinting in the firelight. Words echoed strangely, harsh and soft at the same time, bouncing around his ears like senseless noise. He did not rise, only looked up into those cold dispassionate eyes…Minerva, so young, so cold already. She had seen too much death out here, had learned swiftly to deaden that part of her that felt emotion…like Wren, she distanced herself from the insanity of death that gnawed at her conscious mind.
Maybe he was dying. He couldn’t get up. When he tried there was the ebb of agony that kept him prone, eyes rolling over to Dean and the crossbowmen, his narrow chest rising and falling in ragged rhythm.
Are you going to die?
Are you going to die.
Are you going to die…
Maybe he just should. Would it be so awful to let go now? Die protecting for once?
He didn’t answer Minerva, not at first. Instead he turned his attention to the guards and Dean, transfixing them with his tired brown eyes. A balicani shrieked, winging low over the fire and back up, clawing at the air. Reaching down, he pressed his fingers against his back, and they came back slick with blood. Holding up the bloody fingers towards the guards, they trailed toward Dean, holding steady and firm. “Consider my words before you act,” he said, and to Wren’s surprise, his voice was stronger than he gave himself credit for. “While the monsters continue to sweep the sky above us, while your people die, should your crossbows really be pointed at a man like me?” He held the gaze of the guards for a moment, then dropped it, looking up at Minerva, “We’re so small, here. Every one of us have a life measured in…moments.” He gasped, unexpectedly taking a harsh breath of air into his lungs, holding it there, and then expelling it quietly, “I came here with a companion, on a single horse. Consider the folly of one man attempting to control an entire caravan, even direct it. Then…if you can, consider the same folly of anyone with that plan assisting in the survival of those that might oppose him.”
A balicani wheeled low, bit at the fire, and two guards bit into its flesh with crossbow bolts. “Without my help you would…” he here he paused to take another breath, it always seemed like he could hold less in his lungs with each sentence, “Have surely scattered, died, but here we are fighting them off.” His eyes trailed back to Dean, “I believe that the strong should live. But there is no strength in cowardice. If you must kill me, then kill me. But point your weapons at the more pressing threat first and consider that the only blood on my accuser’s weapons is my own. No monster, no injury…the snake…” Another breath, “That slides through your midst is clever enough to save his strength when you would spend yours. Look into his eyes, and mine, and make your decision.” The dagger fell from mute hands to the ground, and Wren let it, laying himself out besides the fire, dying. “Either way, keep the fire going…use some of the cargo if you have to. If they fear the light we only need wait till morning. Tie us both up and make your decision then.” He smiled at Minerva weakly, pale, so pale. “By then, your decision might already be made.”
Fighting against the Balicani, pitting his human strength against their powerful limbs and scything claws, his muscles cried out and fell dead, one by one clusters of feeling fell to dull, useless pounding. It wasn’t that these people meant anything to him, he did not know a single one of them. But somewhere in his journey, from the time he wandered cold and alone from the Kalean mountains into Alvadas and here, fighting these serpentine monsters, there had been an almost unnecessary amount of death left in his wake. Perhaps his blade had taken too much blood, siphoned it from bodies and left it uselessly on the ground. Sometimes he justified it, called it progress…and other times it was just the impersonal slaughter of insanity.
His time in Sahova, in Sunberth…he had dealt with insanity before and nothing felt so much like insanity than the careless taking of life. Yes. The strong lived and the weak died, but he did not always have to be the executioner of that will. Most would die of their own accord, trapped in a harsh world with harsher realities. The rest…well, he brought them Vayt’s judgment merely by existing. Twisting, stepping back, dancing even, he pushed himself for people who may never make it from the forests of the Syliran wilds. Many had already been lost, these people surely were broken of will and of idea.
The blade drove into his side with the swift strike of a snake, but Wren did not feel it at first. Instead he was only aware that his movement had stopped, that someone had wrestled him to the ground. The world spun in slow kaleidoscope, his vision dancing from the low winging Balicani to the earth that rose to meet him. His body clattered onto the soil, lay there senselessly as Dean was hurled off. Pain was far past his screaming muscles and instead he simply lay there, feeling a cold creeping up his body from his back, a wet warmth seeping around his waist. So…Dean had made his move, he could see the bloody dagger between them, glinting in the firelight. Words echoed strangely, harsh and soft at the same time, bouncing around his ears like senseless noise. He did not rise, only looked up into those cold dispassionate eyes…Minerva, so young, so cold already. She had seen too much death out here, had learned swiftly to deaden that part of her that felt emotion…like Wren, she distanced herself from the insanity of death that gnawed at her conscious mind.
Maybe he was dying. He couldn’t get up. When he tried there was the ebb of agony that kept him prone, eyes rolling over to Dean and the crossbowmen, his narrow chest rising and falling in ragged rhythm.
Are you going to die?
Are you going to die.
Are you going to die…
Maybe he just should. Would it be so awful to let go now? Die protecting for once?
He didn’t answer Minerva, not at first. Instead he turned his attention to the guards and Dean, transfixing them with his tired brown eyes. A balicani shrieked, winging low over the fire and back up, clawing at the air. Reaching down, he pressed his fingers against his back, and they came back slick with blood. Holding up the bloody fingers towards the guards, they trailed toward Dean, holding steady and firm. “Consider my words before you act,” he said, and to Wren’s surprise, his voice was stronger than he gave himself credit for. “While the monsters continue to sweep the sky above us, while your people die, should your crossbows really be pointed at a man like me?” He held the gaze of the guards for a moment, then dropped it, looking up at Minerva, “We’re so small, here. Every one of us have a life measured in…moments.” He gasped, unexpectedly taking a harsh breath of air into his lungs, holding it there, and then expelling it quietly, “I came here with a companion, on a single horse. Consider the folly of one man attempting to control an entire caravan, even direct it. Then…if you can, consider the same folly of anyone with that plan assisting in the survival of those that might oppose him.”
A balicani wheeled low, bit at the fire, and two guards bit into its flesh with crossbow bolts. “Without my help you would…” he here he paused to take another breath, it always seemed like he could hold less in his lungs with each sentence, “Have surely scattered, died, but here we are fighting them off.” His eyes trailed back to Dean, “I believe that the strong should live. But there is no strength in cowardice. If you must kill me, then kill me. But point your weapons at the more pressing threat first and consider that the only blood on my accuser’s weapons is my own. No monster, no injury…the snake…” Another breath, “That slides through your midst is clever enough to save his strength when you would spend yours. Look into his eyes, and mine, and make your decision.” The dagger fell from mute hands to the ground, and Wren let it, laying himself out besides the fire, dying. “Either way, keep the fire going…use some of the cargo if you have to. If they fear the light we only need wait till morning. Tie us both up and make your decision then.” He smiled at Minerva weakly, pale, so pale. “By then, your decision might already be made.”
