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For a moment, Lays wasn't Lays any more. For a moment he was the blacksmith, the vile and detestable Avora who'd harmed and hurt his Khara in the past. For a moment he was the rioters in the tunnels last winter, the ones who'd needed to die so Zhol and Khara didn't have to. For a moment he was the hulking, inhuman beast that had burst from within the landslide cave, that had hurled boulders with effortless ease, shaken the ground with every footfall, and burned so spectacularly when Zhol's reimancy had finally been unleashed. For a moment he was Zhol's father, the one person in all the world that he hated more than any other, a loathing that burned and seared with white hot pain. In that moment, Zhol willed his reimancy like never before. He commanded it, demanded that it melt the flesh from the bones of the man before him, that it extend the agonising suffering to every inch of his utterly deserving body. For a moment, Zhol watched the man burn before his eyes, and was glad.
Then the moment ended, and all Zhol could do was stand and stare. He blinked his bloodshot eyes, lids feeling like sandpaper as they scraped across the surface of his vision. He could taste copper in the back of his throat, and it took a few moments for him too realise that it was blood; a quick smear with the heel of his palm was the only effort he made to stem the crimson flow collecting in the faint stubble of his upper lip. He stared down at the charred remains, and realised that in all of this he'd never learned the man's name; nor could he recall his face. This was a person, with friends, and responsibilities; and yet to Zhol he had been nothing but an abstract concept; a threat to Khara - every threat to Khara, all compressed into the form of a single person - and nothing more. Zhol knew he should feel remorse, and he knew that it would come upon him full force in due time, but for now he just felt an emptiness, a chilling void, one that begged to be filled with more donations from Zhol's soul offered to the flames.
Fire could wait. His body ached in protest at that thought, but he knew it was the right one. He had just killed a man, and while death was part and parcel of life in Wind Reach, he had no desire to discover first hand what the consequences of such a thing might be. Yet, here he was, stood gawking over the corpse of his victim. He looked around him for any signs, any indications that might prove that he had been here, or might identify who the burned remains might belong to. With any luck, the Inarta would simply dismiss the body as belonging to one of the myriad Inarta who went missing over the course of the winter, and the Avora - whoever he was - would become a forgotten part of those lost. His gaze settled on the sword, the only thing that had survived the flames relatively unscathed. He had no idea if it was exceptional or unique for a talon sword, but he knew that his own blade was distinctive and recognisable; if the sword could tie back to the Avora in any way, it was best not left simply lying on the ground. If nothing else, the sword would let people know that a fight had occurred; the more mysteries Zhol could leave behind, the better.
Sheathing his own blade, and picking up the talon sword, Zhol set about scuffing away as many bootprints as he could manage, kicking away at the snowy edges of the footsteps to - he hoped - obscure more of what had transpired. Clearly people would know that something had happened - Inarta did not, to his knowledge, spontaneously burst into flames - but a large patch of disturbed snow was far less easy to interpret than clear signs of a duel.
His heart pounding in his chest, Zhol allowed himself one last glance across the crime scene before he resumed his path down the mountain, trying his best to follow along the path that others had paced out before him, adding his bootprints on top of the others. He considered his options - he couldn't go to the Greco Hut now, but he couldn't return to the city either; not yet. He didn't know the terrain around Wind Reach well enough to approach the mountain from another direction, and didn't know of any secret ways in or out - if there even were any. What he needed to do now was hide. Fortunately, he knew the perfect place.
The snow faded away as he left the Sanikas Road for the path that led to the Hideaway, the heat from the open wound in the world's surface keeping winter far out of reach. The warmth of the lava pool usually seemed so welcoming, but now it felt as if the heat was judging him; as if Ivak stared out from the liquid fire, displeased at what Zhol had done. The weight of guilt had slowly begun to press against his shoulders more with each step, and as the hot air assaulted him, it became worse. This was a mere fraction of what the Avora must have experienced: the hotness of the air inside his lungs, the feeling of the moisture being torn from his skin. Perhaps Zhol deserved to feel the same. Perhaps he should surrender himself to the warm embrace of that lava pool.
No; as much guilt as there was, there wasn't that much. Zhol clung to the certainty that his means were justified by the end that had been achieved. The Avora would have done worse to Khara if Zhol had not stopped him; the Avora's suffering had lasted only moments, whereas the harm his actions would have inflicted upon Khara would have burned her for as long as she lived. Zhol had warned him, gave him every chance to walk away... the Avora had brought this upon himself. Zhol was merely the instrument of Lhex in this instance, the means by which the Avora was punished for his stupidity.
Zhol stared down at the talon sword that he had taken, and after a few short moment of contemplation, hurled it into the lava. That was what they did here in Wind Reach, when someone died: hurled their remains into the volcano, and let the heat release their essence to the wind. This sword was all that remained of the Avora; the lava seemed to be the only fitting place for it.
At last Zhol turned, retreating from the oppressive heat into the comparative cool of the Hideaway's cave. It was strange to think that a few dozen days ago he had been here with Khara, showing her how far he was willing to go to show her how much she meant to him. Strangely fitting then that he found himself here, after a twisted display of additional proof. A few scattered remnants of that quiet celebration lay around; a mostly empty sack of fuel, a few discarded containers set aside for kindling; enough to start a small fire, at least. Perhaps not though; perhaps the darkness would be better. There had been enough fire already today.
Settling himself down on the floor, Zhol closed his eyes, and tried to draw upon his meagre understanding of meditation, trying to calm his mind, soothe his nerves, slow his racing heart; and most importantly, to scrub the back of his eyelids, so the burning face of the Avora as he'd died wasn't presented before his vision every time his eyes closed.
"Pavi" | "Common" | "Nari" | "Symenos"Dad Thoughts | Dinah Thoughts | Khara Thoughts...This template was made by Khara, the letter Q, and the numbers 87 and 13.
