Lightblessed
Chapter 45

Death was the Void’s method of reclaiming matter and energy from the living, an entropic triumph over the Light. Reused and recycled, the process would repeat ceaselessly until there was no more energy, and nothing mattered. The Void ever hungered.

***

Lightning burst forth from Shallin’s sword and she clenched it tight, bracing for what was to come. She heard a gasp of air, and watched a bubble of blood pop on Trynneia’s lips. That was when the rumbling began. Clods of dirt shook as the earth quaked beneath the fallen girl’s body and her own. Wind whistled, flinging dust and dirt in every direction, abrading her skin.

Shallin lost sight of Lady Desdemona and Lord Elanreu, caught in a maelstrom of dirt and lightning. Flame blasted the air above her as electricity ignited pockets of gas and smaller particles blowing around. From somewhere she heard a scream.

It was her. How has this unmastered me? She puzzled over this development while taking no action to stop it. Pain arced through her hands as lightning charred its way through her skin, tracing every path the blood runes had made before, turning them black. Shallin smelled her flesh sizzle, burning like overcooked bacon as the lines seared up her arms, lost under her tunic. Her skin split and began to bleed.

Writhing uncontrollably, Shallin felt her muscles spasming as the burning electrical fire reached her chest. She shut her eyes to the pain as rocks and dirt scoured her flesh. Was the count seventeen now? It shouldn’t be like this! Her lungs struggled to breathe, and she felt suffocated as the air pressure around her dropped. Gasping, her scream collapsed into a tortured sucking, wheezing noise. Shallin watched incredibly as Trynneia turned her bloody face to her, renewing her smile. Is this death at last?

***

Is this death at last?

“Tryn, your tea’s growing cold! Come eat your dinner!” Rendrys called for her. Trynneia smirked at Ditan, then took off running away from her home.

“Light blast it, Tryn, you know I can’t keep up with you!” Caught off guard, Ditan huffed as he trundled along, his short legs hurrying as fast as he could.

“We’ve only got a little bit of time before Mother comes looking for us, we’ve gotta finish this!” she said over her shoulder. Trynneia raced down the well-worn game trail, beaten down by deer or foxes, maybe both, and others besides. The knee-high grasses flicked at her shins as she charged, keeping well ahead of her goblin friend. “Quick, Ditan, over here.”

Ditan reached her a moment later at the pond, huffing and puffing. “Warn me first, okay? Or give me a head start.”

“You didn’t know where I was going, and I’d beat you here anyways,” she said.

“Well, I’d know if you told me first.”

“How do I keep it a secret then?”

“Why keep it a secret?” He glared at her, arms on his hips.

She chuckled. “You look like your mother when you do that.”

“I do not,” he denied, looking over his shoulder as if she would magically appear. “What are we doing here, anyway?”

“Finishing it, silly.” She smiled, her runes blazing a brilliant, pure yellow. Ditan sat heavily on a rock. Trynneia coughed into her hands, unconcernedly wiping away blood on her trousers.

“Well, we’re here then,” he said. “Finishing what?”

“You’ll see, now that we’re here.”

“Where is here, if somewhere that isn’t there? Perhaps you should be there, and not here,” said Driver, walking out of the reeds. Trynneia could smell his wafting odor before he appeared, his scent giving him away much like a skunk. Ditan gagged. “There are chances to give chase, if you have the grace to lead the charge.”

“Who’s this?” Ditan asked, pinching his nose and making a disgusted face. His big ears drooped.

“Seriously, Ditan? This is Driver. We’ve met him before.”

“Who else would I be, if not who I am?” Driver squatted, placing his walking stick across his knees and leaning upon it. He looked at ease. “Well met, Ditan Coinlock. You remind me of your mother when you stand like that.” Ditan’s cheeks browned as he blushed.

“Do the thing,” Trynneia urged.

“The thing?” Ditan asked, more and more confused.

“Things have already been done and some things will need doing. Do not, or do. Which is it for you?”

Trynneia scowled at him, then looked up. The other two followed her gaze. Head back, she braided her hair as she looked into the blood red sky, filled with murky, bulging patches of coagulation. Thunderless lightning flashed brilliantly, illuminating the trees that grew up around them. Dirt parted, forcing a rocky throne up from the depths, fit for a primordial king. Or queen.

“We’re in the Chapel? How’d we get here?” Ditan looked around, confused.

“He did the thing,” was all she offered him.

She walked up to the throne, its seat of granite rough-hewn and untouched, blocky slabs forming its back and armrests. Dirt clumps nestled in the corners still, an unused, unweathered place from which to rule, or contemplate. Trynneia ran her hands longingly across the seat.

“Care to let me in on what’s happening, Tryn?” Ditan wrapped his arms around himself, as a cold chill surrounded the three.

Driver rapped each armrest three times with his staff, then swiped it with his palm, leaving behind a bloody stain. His hand dripped as he pulled it away. He nodded, and looked at her. Closing his eyes, he began to mutter:

“In the tinker town dies a failed crown, its majesty thrown away.

Where does it go? There is nothing to show how the Light led it astray.

Now covered in dust, forlorn, its betrayed trust caused its luster to turn gray.”

Trynneia bobbed her head along, weaving her hands in the air, drawing them to her scalp. She ran her hands down her braid, flinging it over her shoulder where it rested just upon her chest.

Is this death at last?

“There you are,” Rendrys said, calling from the rectory across the lane. Trynneia waved at her. Her mother approached carrying a tray laden with tea and cups, and she set it down on the long table spread before the throne.

“Momma,” Trynneia said warmly, hugging her mother. “Thanks for coming,” she smiled.

“Well, I couldn’t let you go without your tea, love.” Rendrys returned her hug, her tight clasp reassuring and familiar.

The sky darkened, thickening to a deep maroon. Blasts of lightning revealed crust at the edges of the sky, like the remnant of scabs at a wound, but Trynneia’s attention shifted down once more. Colors separated from the teacups, the rock, the dirt, and the trees, delaminating and hovering above each object before fragmenting into millions of tiny lights, shimmering in the air. Only the people present kept their colors, but even those began to desaturate, fading amidst a growing glow that surrounded the throne.

Lengthwise, the table spread away from the stony seat, with rope-bound wooden chairs to either side and another at the far end. Ditan and Driver sat one to each side, with her mother at the far end. Driver gestured at the throne.

“You may take a seat, if it is your seat to take.” His rancid scent made her want to gag, but instead she coughed, harsh and fierce. Rendrys came over to comfort her. More blood on her hands.

-blood calls to blood- -use us- -abomination- Whispers susurrated all around her like vipers slithering into the caves of hearing. “Stop it,” she whispered back, her mother watching with concern as she covered her ears. “Stop it,” she continued, blood from her fingers staining her hair. -unseat the regency- -the throne is yours- -command us-

“Your duty is your purpose, Trynneia. Your purpose is your duty,” Driver said. White light continued to grow, obliterating the colors floating through the sky, overwhelming the meek hues of the other three people. -shaman- -monsters- -destroy them-

“You’re all monsters!” Trynneia yelled at them, shrugging off her mother’s ministrations.

“There’s no monsters here, honey. Come on, have some tea.”

“Mother, please,” Trynneia scoffed. “You’re a fucking caricature. You’re not her. My mother’s dead!”

Trynneia watched as Rendrys gripped at her own neck, and it jerked unnaturally beneath her hands, blood spurting between her fingers. Once, twice, three times, then she pulled her head off, placing it on the throne. Trynneia watched through her tears as her mother blinked at her from there. “Suit yourself,” the head said. Her body walked back to the far end of the table and sat down, taking a tea cup and pouring tea over the gaping wound that still sprayed blood.

Is this death at last?

“This is your fault, Driver,” she spat, pointing her bloody hands at her mother. A fissure split the ground beneath the table, spreading it apart until the table plunged into its unseen depths. Her mother’s body tumbled in after. Ditan stood aghast, looking across the gap to where Driver and Trynneia stood facing each other.

“No, that’s my fault,” he smiled. “Faultless here none of us are who feel the flaws of nature’s calls.” The din about them rose even as the brightness filled the Chapel, blazing away all until only whites, grays, and dwindling shadows remained. Above, untouched, the sky churned blood red, the only color visible as lightning slashed away in time with her rising heartbeat.

“Tryn?” Ditan’s voice carried with it worry, and fear. Trynneia looked at him. Blood spurted from the stump of his left hand. “Ah!” he yelled as his ribs caved in, then his right knee shattered, followed by his right arm. A gash grew in his stomach, sawing to the side until he collapsed, falling out of his chair. “What’s happen-” he burbled, then fell silent.

“You are a perversion of the Light, Ditan!” Anger filled her, an unholy passion that made her want to leap the crevasse and desecrate him further. “A monster!” Wind howled, pelting her flesh with dust and dirt, abrading her skin, scouring her flesh. She shut her eyes, wailing with rage, frustration, and betrayal.

“There are no monsters here but those you’ve brought with you, Trynneia,” Driver said.

Everything stopped, and she felt nothing.

“What must I do to make you see, girl?”

She continued screaming, deep guttural pain pouring forth from her throat, over and over as her voice shredded and faltered. Trynneia fell silent, unable to scream no further, and Driver spoke again.

“Open your eyes. That’s the first step.” She did so, and found herself surrounded by Light so bright there were no trees, no ground, not even what had been the blood red sky. Only herself and Driver, and the blocky throne. Her mother’s head stared back in judgment.

“See, that wasn’t so hard.”

I’m not one of you, she mouthed, blood trickling from her lips, panting. -blood comes from life- -listen to us- -the elements- -love is nature is Light- Trynneia slumped near the throne, seeing only white as she avoided looking at the old man. I’m not one of you, she mouthed again, indignant.

Driver scooped at the ground, and tossed a handful of nothing into the air, right in her face. Multi-colored sparkles twinkled and vanished.

“Don’t deny that you hear them now,” he said, even as she shook her head against his words. “The voices of the elements.”

You pervert the Light, she moved her lips, forcing the air past them uselessly. -twisted perverted- -Light fails, dark prevails- -dwell on your sins for you cannot be redeemed-

He sighed, smoothing dirt she could not see. You bend nature, twist it from its normal flow, she forced herself to whisper. Nature recoils from you.

“Nature recoils from itself? I think not,” he replied. “I am nature. Nature is me.”

You are not nature, she mouthed, sucking at air.

“If I’m not, then none of us are,” he said sadly, patting her on the head. “You made the braid so quickly. Rendrys would be proud.”

Trynneia’s eyes smoldered. They died because of you. Nature corrected its course. A course it didn’t need to correct if you hadn’t altered it. -bleed him dry- -take his voice- -stop him-

“You really believe that, don’t you?” He wove his hands before himself and she felt wisps of air lift her backwards until she settled on her knees and ankles, looking at him. “Your denial doesn’t make things untrue. Let go, and accept your duty.” Driver looked down on her sadly.

“My duty is to end your kind,” she sneered, replaceing her voice at last.

“So shall it be,” Driver demurred. She could see just the faintest hint of color around his limbs, and she grasped them, pulling with her intuition. He strained for a moment, suspended in the air in front of her. She mustered one last scream. Before his body tore apart, he managed to utter one last line.

“Is this death at last?“

***

Trynneia grasped the blade embedded in her chest, pushing it away from her, pulling it from the hellish, sickening wound between her breasts. Above her, she saw Shallin holding on, unable to let go, but that didn’t matter. Blood trickled from the cracked flesh in the other girl’s hands, running down the pommel to the blade, mingling with her own. Lightning flowed down, etching the blade with bloody fern-leaf patterns before striking her own hands as she pulled the blade free.

Colors pulsed around them both, following a trail of blood that trickled along, saturating the dirt between them and the fallen body of Lord Elanreu, his eyes already glazing over with the thin haze of death. -this is not the way- -wield us- -blood calls to blood- The whispers spoke in ever escalating murmurs, most unintelligible. His aura still glowed, so very, very faint.

She pulled with her intuition, feeling the blood slick upon the ground, upon her body, upon his throat, upon Shallin’s hands. Each pulse mattered, from Lord Elanreu’s fading beat, to her own muted one, to Shallin’s confused, erratic, terrified throb. Each thump made its own hum, a vibrant, rhythmic harmony of intertwined lives connected through injury. Trynneia savored its taste, the blood from her cough-ravaged throat mixing with what she’d swallowed from the Lord’s own neck, its coppery tang both sickening and full of life.

Life responded to her need, leaping from Shallin to Lord Elanreu, criss-crossing the bloody mess they’d made. She heard someone yelling in the dusty haze around them. Lady Desdemona, she thought, and felt for her too. There, she felt through the dirt and the wind, slicing through the flames to one more body and felt her pulse as well. With that final gestalt merging, an eldritch transference began. -blood calls to blood-

Is this life, at last?