Sparks flew as blades of all shapes and sizes met in the open field. Inelegant forms, unsteady breathing, tripping over their own feet. The instructor—Armon—shook his head; grumbling profanities under his breath.
Ayil couldn't exactly frown upon his attitude. Hopeless was the only word that could be used to describe the battle prowess of the teenagers. That was including himself.
He sighed. Browsing the weapons section—an area shelving an array of weapons; located a few paces away from the large sparing field—unsure of what weapon to choose. He'd never even thought about holding a 'proper' weapon in this lifetime; laws pertaining to weaponry were very strict in the Northern Province of the Empire.
'A knife,' Ayil thought, his eyes on the display of short knives and daggers. 'Has too short a range. This isn't the streets, you won't have the element of surprise. Neither do you have the skills or coordination to reach a target before they cut you down.'
"I don't think you should stay here for too long a time," Eira said, a thin double-edged sword in her hand, she pointed out the scar-faced instructor was staring at them; the children that had yet to pick a weapon. "Just choose something. Anything. Sadly, it seems I'll be on my way before you come to a decision."
Ayil nodded absently, waving her away. 'I'm overthinking this,' he thought. 'If keeping distance should be prioritized, then...'
His eyes fell on the baskets stuffed with glaives, then with a wry smile, he grabbed one of the lighter polearms. He remained within the vicinity minutes after choosing, but when he saw the instructor approach, he sneaked away in along with the other sly bastards.
Bodily odors wafted throughout the air as Ayil approached the sparring center. The children attacked each other in a large free for all battle emulation; more than forty children thrusted attacks at each other haphazardly. Even more lay dead or unconscious on the ground, riddled with both minor and major wounds. Bodies were trampled on.
"...This isn't training as that man so put," Ayil muttered, glancing at the corpse of a girl who seemed to be in her fifteenth year. Brain matter and blood spilled from the large crack in the side of her head. Her blue eyes were frigid. "It's a morbid game for his pleasure."
Desoll.
Only his likeness would find pleasure in this meaningless violence. Ayil shivered, sneakily avoiding fights by constantly weaving through the field. He recalled those ghastly red eyes. The smell of an oceans worth of blood so dense it reeked of rotting iron.
The fear paralyzed him for a second, and someone noticed. With bloodshot eyes, the young woman directed her sword down at Ayil. On reflex, he lifted an arm to guard against the steel. It bit into his skin, through the lean muscle of his forearm, lodging halfway into the bone. His weapon fell to the earthen floor, and so did his lifeblood.
Ayil's mind's eye fluttered close for a moment, he screamed as the pain flared through his nerves. The woman stumbled back clumsily from pulling back her sword. He did not miss the opening.
Ayil sprung up, grabbing the slender brunette's prominent hand, and smashing his forehead onto her face. He felt an ecstatic vibration resonate throughout his body as the wet crunch of her nose undulated on his eardrums.
They fell. The woman writhed under Ayil, an ugly desperation in the way her body contorted; her grey eyes clouded by a dark need to survive. Fortunately, that didn't matter to him, he used his masculine physique to pin her down.
Strengthening the grip on her wrist, he twisted it, but the woman wouldn't relent. Her grip on the hilt of the sword strengthened, and using her free hand she dug fingers into his neck; pushing against his windpipe. She knew as well as he did; letting go of that weapon would mean her death.
Ayil cursed inwardly. Off the corner of his eye, he saw a figure approach this direction. A spear with a lustrous tip in hand.
The spear wielder stopped, raised his weapon. Then—
Stabbed it through Ayil's back and possibly into the woman's stomach. Then, slowly, it was pulled out.
The wielder walked away, scoffing as though they did something bothersome.
A pain severe enough to numb his will to live washed over Ayil. His eyes glazed over, flickering with his consciousness.
He rolled off the woman, falling to his back. The blue sky was defiled by a spiraling black star. It beamed down on his face, with a perfect perpetual heat.
"...Maybe you d-do... belong up there," Ayil said softly, the surrounding carnage calming down. Vaguely, he could make out the instructor's voice meters away; drowned out by the countless groans of anguish. He blinked, searing tears streaming down the corners of his eyes. "Not yet. Not yet, you bastard...! I still haven't done anything... I was to have a regal ending..."
"
"Then, I suppose, you should've been more careful?" Eira said, squatting down. She raised a fingerless hand, staring at the blood oozing from the freshly snipped stumps. "It seems, I won't need to do something dirty to get meat with you dead. But you'll have to... I wonder, should I help?" she smiled sweetly. Innocently. "For a favor, of course."
Ayil tried to ignore her, bemused. But she simply stared, eyes ablaze with the desire for an answer. "...Damn you, won't even let me die in peace, eh?" he asked in a half-annoyed whisper. Truthfully, it didn't feel too unpleasant to die with someone talking to him until his dying breath. "...Do as you please... As long as it can keep you from annoying me any further."
Eira plunged a hand into the chest of the brunette lying motionless beside him, unbothered by the crunches and cracks echoing as she ripped out the woman's heart.
"You see It don't you?" she said, pointing to his chest. "And whenever you do, it feels as though your chest has a gaping hole in it. I don't know how that thing shows Itself to you. What I do know is: It's always dark. Revolting. Warm. Stop fighting them. Tell them to give you their everything."
Slowly, the chill brought by her touch disappeared. Her words resonated with him. He gazed upward, squinting. The black sun wreathed as it usually did, but this time he noticed something else. Countless humanoid silhouettes stretched, curled, and coiled from the core to create the tendril beams of heat.
'So they are Arlaths?' Ayil thought, finally understanding why the black star always felt so...divine. He closed his eyes. How arrogant he was to think it was the psychological manifestation of his hatred and sin. 'I can finally accept you...'
The myriads of tendrils converged and gently drilled into his body. It filled him with elation, alleviated the pain, and strengthed his mind, then it hurt. Countless voices screamed in his head.
Ayil body convulsed. His veins and arteries were stretched by the twisting contortions and expansion of his muscles.
"Eat," Eira said softly, prying open Ayil's mouth. She stuffed it with the bloody, raw meat. "Don't drown in the surging pain. If you do, death is certain. You have to be in control. At least you should hold on to a sliver of your Will."
Ayil chewed the stringy human heart—choking, he swallowed hard. The pain came even stronger.
"More."
He shook his head. Refusing the tender, fatty meat she tore off the woman's chest. Chills streaked down Ayil's spine, and his muscles felt as though they were melting.
"I cannot explain the whys with all these spectators," Eira said with a sigh. "They're exhausted now, however, how long before some compulse driven fool attacks us? You are indulging in a great taboo, after all." More forcefully she repeated, "Eat."
This time, without chewing, he swallowed. Again. And Again. With each bite, he forgot his humanity; with each bite the pain became more acute. Until it was severe enough to snap the last thread of his lucidity.