Lunar date: 1947 of the Shattering. Late summer; one thousand, nine hundred and fourty-seven years after the Night of the Black Knives.
Southern Edge of the Weeping Peninsula, within the walls of the city Bellard.
27th day since the Tarnished known as Lance Thompson became active in the Lands Between.
Something stirred.
Lords and Bailiffs received word of a resurgence of Those Who Live in Death across the land; the deathroot has spread further. With it, multiple nighttime sightings of Deathbirds came soon after; confessors and priests were sent to deal with them. Sightings of Tibia Mariners alongside hoards of Those Who Live in Death were reported as well. Hunters of the Dead were called upon to displace them and weed out their Deathroot.
It has been a time since Deathroot last resurged; many moons have passed since the hoards of Tibia ravaged the land.
Scholars in the Carian City will deduce that the sudden and recent surge of Tarnished flocking to the Lands Between is the cause.
Prophets in Leyndell will speculate that a hole in the Golden Order is the cause.
Yet the consensus is clear: Godwyn the Golden... nay, the Prince of Death, has begun to stir.
The way has been blocked, none can return to his body under Leyndell. Even so, attempts will be made. During this time of war, locked in eternal struggle, the sins of all have begun to manifest again.
Ghostflame and Deathroot, Destined Death and Black Flame; it will be a time before they truly manifest themselves within this vestige.
Yet, even so, 1,947 years after the Night of the Black Knives, and 4,650 years after the Rune of Death was sealed away, a vestige of the Rune of Death has manifested itself…
When I… Yeah.
I lost control.
I'll call it that.
Something came over me, and while I still felt like I somewhat had influence over my body; I began to act without thinking. As if I was in a stupor; nothing felt real anymore. I don't know how else to describe it, so I'll say I lost control.
So...
When I lost control, it felt like a dream; as I said before, it didn't feel real anymore. It instead felt like I was daydreaming, going on autopilot, taking action but not second guessing my reasons as to why.
I didn't feel in control.
And at that time, it felt like I… like I went somewhere else.
Somewhere other than here; this world, amongst the carnage and terror, fighting like a madman overcome. It felt like I was daydreaming of home.
It was vivid, almost lucid, and I can't remember it at all. I only remember suddenly coming to my senses when Melina slapped me.
In that moment, with that sting on my cheek, and frail arms wrapped around me; I felt a surreal experience.
I cannot hope to accurately describe it, no matter how hard I might try. Someone with a split personality disorder might, though I don't know anyone who was diagnosed with that in my old life.
It might not even feel like that; maybe no human has ever experienced it before…
I guess, if I tried putting it into my own words: It felt like there was two me's in my head.
Like I was two halves of a half of a whole. Like I was looking in on at myself; like I was realizing I was watching myself from within. It was like my own sense of self came into question.
If it's possible, think of what it would be like if a person's cells, every single one of them; if they all gained sentience simultaneously. The muscle cells, the immune cells, the bone cells, even the nerves and brain cells.
It all became self-aware without rhyme or reason.
An untold number of minds contributing to one mind, who would that person be anymore?
Their thoughts come from brain neurons firing off, but if all those neurons started questioning who they were, started having their own thoughts; would that person be a "person" anymore? What would happen to them? Their memories? Their thoughts? Their feelings? Would it all just fall away when the body becomes something of a collective consciousness?
Would they be considered alive anymore?
That is how I felt.
My thoughts had a second half, a part painted blue. Like alien ideas flashing around in my head, and I didn't recognize its presence until I looked down and saw half my body was the wrong color of crimson.
The whole experience left me with a splitting headache, and a whole train station of derailed thoughts.
It left me reeling.
If Melina didn't drag me out of that stupor, I might've died killing.
And if she didn't send me away, I probably would've been killed bleeding.
I was at the end of my rope, and from the fact that Melina didn't heal me all the way, she was too.
I took her power, ran her dry; I could feel the fire flowing through my veins. I chanted phrases I've never heard before; I practically coated my sword in golden flames.
I was overcome, and I haven't got a clue as to how or why.
I did it all…
…
Who am I?
…
I have a bad feeling about all of this.
Torrent is fast.
He's also hard to hold onto.
In the movies, cowboys made horseback riding look easy. But it feels like I'm sitting atop a washing machine that's gone haywire; I'm not even using the reins, just latched onto the spectral steed's neck, holding on for dear life.
I left my greatsword behind, lodged in a large misbegotten's head.
I left the two straightswords I acquired behind, bathed in blood and left broken amongst the red.
My chainmail is ruined, and my shirt; the one I woke up with on my back sporting a hole through its center; it's completely torn away now. Only the belt that fastens Roard's partisan to me holds it now; my arms are completely exposed at this point.
As for my wounds… well…
I shouldn't make any drastic movements anytime soon.
The dull sting of deep cuts and harsh gashes still cling to my skin, and the almost agonizing sensation of every bone in my body being broken still avails my composure.
But I can still walk, still fight if I need to. I just need a Site of Grace…
Irina.
I wasn't around her for long. I never got to know her, and I never will. Despite my mistakes and contentions with that blind girl, I wanted to get to know her better. And more than anything else:
She didn't deserve to die.
She didn't need to die.
The war that's going on here… she never had a part in it. She was like any other innocent bystander here, yet she's gone, while the others were just killed.
Because she's the warden's daughter. A part of me says. They knew what she meant to the Morne Soldiers, to Edgar.
...
...No.
What am I going to say to Edgar?
Damn it.
I don't think I can face him again.
A part of me just wants to run, turn my back and run away from all of this. It's all becoming too much… I can already feel the tears begin to bead at the corners of my eyes again.
…
Hah.
I'm not thinking straight; this world isn't ever giving me a chance to even think properly to begin with.
...
And it seems it won't let up now.
I practically get thrust aside.
Suddenly, with a burst of speed, Torrent careens right, nearly throwing me off.
"Woah!"
I grab tight, and I feel something whip by close to my ear, accompanied by a sharp and distinguishable snarl.
A moment later, a large cleaver slams into the cobblestone just behind Torrent, and a wayward misbegotten tumbles into an adjacent building behind us, crashing right through it's front door.
I whip my head back, and I get a truly harrowing sight.
There's misbegotten coming out of the ground.
Neil guessed right; they were hiding in the sewers.
Out of a hole, in the middle of the street, where the grate's been shoved away, wide jaws and distorted bodies crawl out like a swarm of ants, carrying cleavers and axes that they use to dig into the cobbled stone to get a grip.
Flying misbegotten archers soar up and away between them, rising into the sky like a cloud of angry hornets.
Refugees and surviving residents turn and flee, their screams of terror mixing with the snarls. Immediately, the misbegotten begin their slaughter, and it's not only here. Noises of blades meeting flesh and wailing voices being silenced sound out all across the city, nearly all at once.
In an instant, the main street becomes a river of chaos, a scene of death and terror. Wolves appearing in flocks of sheep, pursuing and ravaging every fleeing body before them. It's as if Irina's death was the last straw, before everything went back to hell.
Torrent expertly weaves through it all, jumping over chuffing misbegotten and weaving around broken obstacles. They see me, and they come after me. But my mount doesn't let even a single blade get close, and I'm left trying to hold on.
A sewer grate dead ahead bursts open, and the misbegotten come out like a giant sprinkler being turned on.
Torrent circumvents the whole thing, carrying on like the terrifying scene didn't phase him a bit.
Most horses would probably rear, probably brey or completely grind to a halt. But this horse doesn't seem to care. None of this phases him.
Just what kinds of things has he experienced already?
He dodges, I duck. A blade passing overhead at a hair-length away, an arrow whizzing by like a piece of rouge debris. Melina trailing effortlessly behind, as silent as death itself.
She has nothing important to say to me.
I don't know what happened to Roard; I left the castle before I saw what became of Dalia or Edgar.
I'm in the midst of an ongoing bloodbath, and all I can think of is other people, and what just transpired.
When we reach Morne's walls, with a wave of snapping maws nipping at Torrent's hooves, the soldiers are surprised to see me.
In Morne fashion, they were fast to react to the incoming wave, with several hundred soldiers guarding the open front gate. It's been ten minutes since I left these walls, five minutes since Irina's death. Three minutes since Roard covered my retreat, and one minute since the misbegotten returned to the streets.
In under a minute, Morne already had this number at the ready.
It's impressive, to say the least.
They see me coming, coming right down the main street. They shout while waving me over, their voices only beginning to reach me. Their ballistae and flamethrowers aiming just behind my approaching form, crossbowmen and spearmen at the ready in rows. Hastily made battlements bottleneck the street, wooden spikes jutting into the sky like massive cacti. It's a wall of bodies and flames and steel.
They are all itching to begin, but they wait. They don't fire just yet, even as the horde draws in like a living tsunami of snapping teeth and soulless eyes toward them. They're not terrified, not hesitant or confused. They see a young man with a glowing light they recognize, barreling toward them on horseback, outpacing the wave, coated in blood and embodying the very sight of a wounded warrior.
They don't fire.
They yell.
"Pick up the pace!"
Their voices boom; gnarled faces filled with rotting teeth shouting.
"Move it Tarnished!"
"Hurry!"
...
I've never felt so relieved.
Like he knows my intentions, Torrent threads the narrow gap the soldiers make for me, letting me in and shutting the living door behind me. They don't run with me; they let their injured ally in and face their dawning enemy with set expressions.
Tower shields lock together, spears held out like vile thorns. The footsoldiers pull the ripcords on their flamethrowers, and the screams of spinning gears and pulleys howl from the ballistae.
Not a moment later, and the muffled blasts of explosive ballista bolts reach my ears, as the waves begin to crash against the wall.
How are you holding up?
I feel like I'm about to fall apart. In more ways than one.
But, I'm doing fine.
You?
…I feel… tired.
We're within the courtyard, and it's chaotic in here. Soldiers and footsoldiers running every which way, the trebuchets slowly being turned back north, already loaded with glossy boulders, ready to be ignited. Archers taking positions on the ramparts, entire companies of soldiers forming up into rows, planning to flank the incoming enemy from the sides.
But Trey is no longer here, and I don't see Dalia or Edgar.
Sorry. About all that.
She hesitates to speak.
…
I… would like to… talk…
…
About what just transpired.
When we have the time.
I slowly nod my head, giving her glowing rune a glance.
Yeah. Me too.
I don't know why, but I pat Torrent, stroking an area on his neck, near where his mane sprouts from.
"Thank you." I mutter.
He seems to appreciate the gesture, rearing a little like when a cat leans into your fingers when petting them. I fight to get off, wincing with every movement I make. Torrent leans down a little, making the process easier…
I'm certain horses aren't this smart.
Maybe some are, but he feels like he's on another level.
And when my feet land on the ground, still stained from the battle nearly two days prior, he nudges me lightly, as if asking if I'm alright.
Quite the steed, isn't he?
Yes, he is.
She hesitates a moment.
He says he is happy to finally meet you. And wishes to know if you are well.
…?
I look into those intelligent eyes of his, somewhat noticing the fact he has horns on his head. He looks happy, though I'm not certain. Haven't had much experience with seeing emotion in an animal's eyes, and the first time wasn't exactly pleasant.
You can talk to him?
No, not in the way you and I do.
But, unlike humans and animals, Torrent communicates through his runes, as with most ancestral spirits.
Seriously?
There a reason why?
It is simply how ancestral spirits speak. While it is a language only spirits can hear, there are some tribes in Northeastern Liurnia that can commune with ancestral spirits.
I can merely mimic the gesture.
I pet Torrent's snout. Quelling his worry.
"I'm fine."
He appreciates it.
With that, Torrent gives me a delighted snort, before his body glows, breaking into small particles and phasing out of existence.
"Wow."
He completely disappears in a matter of seconds, and I vaguely feel his presence return to the ring on my right middle finger. There he stays, bordering reality between corporeality and otherworldly like a ghost that readily assumes a body.
Though I guess that's normal.
If he is an ancestral spirit, then he's something outside the realm of reason; that's how I've come to reason it. Something that can shift between having a body and no body.
What's more… well… maybe I was expecting something else.
I know some things about Torrent, pieced stuff together from what Ranni and Melina have said. From what I've heard, maybe I expected more fanfare.
But he really is just a horse, another being that lives in this wayward world. His circumstances are different, yet he's no different from Roard or Melina. All lost souls, clinging to objects or people in a reality that seeks to snuff them out.
A collection of runes that gained or retained sentience, constructs that maintain a form of conscience.
Then again, I guess all life is like that.
We're all just semblances of self, assortments of atoms that have…
…
What are these thoughts? Why am I thinking this way? I believe all life was created, believe my existence has a divine purpose.
I believe in a Creator…
What? Do I?
Are you sure you are alright?
She sounds almost worried.
Your runes are becoming more and more unstable.
I clutch my forehead… it feels like there's a sort of residue on my thoughts. The words I think don't sound like my own, yet they are my own.
What? Are they?
I think I'm still a little shaken up.
I try to focus, taking in a deep breath.
A battle has just broken out; why am I so complacent?
I'm surrounded by erratic soldiers and noises of warfare; why does it not feel real?
Irina…
Irina.
I bite my lip, feeling a small sting in my heart.
I need to find Edgar.
Are you sure?
My weird attitude can wait; now is not the time.
Yeah, I'm sure. He needs to know.
Someone other than me needs to know.
"Soldier!"
I call, flagging down a rather burly man, armed with a warpick and brass shield. He was marching by but stops to look at me.
"The Tarnished." He drones.
His eyes show the smallest undertone of unease and anger, but none of it is held for me. He's more or less indifferent to me. From what I've seen, discrimination against Tarnished hold deep roots in the Lands Between, and it's no different this far south.
Yet, it feels that most of the soldiers have simply accepted that I'm an ally here, though there are still I few I can spot that are against it.
"Where is the Warden?"
The soldier gives me a complicated expression, frowning deeply. He looks like he wants to tell me something, but he decides against it.
"The keep."
Is all he says, turning his head toward that mass of walls and towers. It's where he just exited from, and he looked to be in a hurry to get out of it.
His eyes say something else; one could call it fear.
But he quickly leaves me, marching away toward the front gate, where I can catch glimpses of burning misbegotten being mowed down by volleys of arrows and exploding ballista bolts.
Fear… Afraid of what?
We should hurry.
Melina seems to give the sight of the front gate a glance too.
We cannot believe that the gate will hold forever. It may become a melee in the courtyard again.
Yeah.
I turn and run, bathed in blood with a partisan on my back, limping, and fighting for breath; turn and run toward the keep, where I can hear shouts echoing through the stone.
The soldiers of the keep flock to the mess hall, following the noises of an enraged man, like scavenging dogs to a dying animal.
Skirmishes have broken out in Bellard, the enemy is coming in force. No sight of Agheel thus far, but even the Limgrave Soldiers have begun to attack the front of Castle Morne.
It seems the enemy has decided today is the day Morne will fall.
So, why do soldiers wander from their duties, crowding in the mess hall of the keep with surprised expressions? It is because they know the man who yells, who bellows and growls as if he were a troll locked in a cage.
It's their warden…
"YOU BITCH!"
He roars, dragging a wounded knight by the hair. His booming voice echoes through the halls, shuddering the windows and rattling the cutlery.
"YOU FOOLISH BASTARD!"
The soldiers make way, as Edgar, warden of Castle Morne, drags the knight Dalia into the mess hall; she's already wounded.
A deep wound bleeds near the right side of her torso, and her helmet has been removed. Her stern yet pained face covered in fresh bruises, her arms too weak to retaliate.
Some soldiers shout protests, but they make no move.
It's already common knowledge by now that Dalia has gone against Edgar's orders. Her actions of the previous days were already called into question, but Callum spread the word this morning, shortly after he found Edgar awoken.
The word spread when the soldiers rushed to their barracks under the castle, obtaining their weapons and armor. A game of telephone, a spread of hearsay. A common knowledge, that Dalia has been accounted for insubordination.
She deserves punishment.
Yet, this brutality… what is the cause of it?
Nobody knows, none of the soldiers and footsoldiers in attendance know that the warden's daughter is gone.
None besides the Tarnished and his spirit know.
Yet, Edgar knows.
Nobody told him, he didn't see her burn to ash. But he felt it, felt it somewhere down deep in his soul.
His daughter is dead.
His daughter is gone.
He practically throws Dalia, sending her crashing into the tables and benches. She lets out a shocked cry of pain, clutching herself.
Plates and mugs from yesterday's feast clatter to the stone floor around her shriveling form; Edgar's metallic footsteps draw closer.
"Disobey me?" He hisses, his eyes manic and full of hatred. "Treat my orders for naught and flaunt your authority?"
He stalks by her, reaching for a banished knight's halberd off the wall. Dislodging it from its metal hooks, wielding it in practiced, yet currently unstable hands.
He tests its weight, gripping the handle enough to strain the leather in his gauntlets.
He clenches his teeth, kicking Dalia about as soon as he reaches her.
"WHO GAVE YOU THE RIGHT!?"
Another sound of pain, the beginning of tears have begun to bead in the corners of her bruised eyes.
The soldiers might as well be paralyzed, the sour sensation of ailment in their mouths, in their hearts. Blanching their souls; they avert their eyes.
This is hard to watch.
"YOU KILLED MY DAUGHTER!" He bellows. "YOU KILLED MY BABY GIRL!"
-The doors to the keep open, none of the soldiers notice-
"My sweet, sweet daughter. Dead."
He stands over her, his face stricken with selfish and unending grief.
"Gone." He breathes.
"Taken." He spits, considering her with accusing eyes.
"Taken by you."
He heaves his halberd skyward, tightening his grip.
Dalia, in pain, feeling cast aside and cursed; she closes her eyes, accepting her fate.
It was her idea to bring the Tarnished back; she believed he was too valuable to let go. She had her personal reasons too, her selfish and intimate reasons. But she truly believed the Tarnished would be an asset.
She watched him face the misbegotten, burning and cutting them down despite his small stature.
She watched him save her fellow soldiers, working hand in hand to destroy their enemy.
He survived Agheel's fire, caring more for if the warden had survived than his own injuries.
He discovered the enemy before any could see them, out in Bellard's winding alleyways.
He held his own.
She knew Morne needed him; she just knew it.
But she's made a grave error.
-A young man, bathed in blood, and running faster than he should, plows into the crowd, his spear already drawn from his back-
Dragging the Tarnished back to the castle brought Irina along too. At first, she believed Irina would be safe here; anything could happen to the Princess of Castle Morne outside its walls.
But that proved naught, and she caught onto Trey's scheme too late.
She's made too many mistakes, and it seems Irina has paid for Dalia's nearsighted foolishness.
She has betrayed those she swore service to.
Destined Death may be the only way to reconcile.
She knows she will lose her head, and her body will be burned down to ash. It is what they do to traitors, and it is her fate now. So she takes in a deep breath, lowering her head.
She accepts this.
Edgar's halberd comes swinging down, aimed for Dalia's exposed neck.
"NO!"
The voice isn't Dalia's or Edgar's.
It's not from the soldiers, who watch on with complicated expressions.
Not Neil's, he is holed up in his room until the battle ends.
Not Trey's, he's down in the sewers of Bellard, conversing with Shabriri and Rick.
It comes form the Tarnished known as Lance, who thrusts his spear forward, his golden spirit following close behind.
The high pitched noise of metal against ascended metal rings out; a partisan's flat head skims over Dalia's neck, pressing into her skin. It's hooked end slices into her hair, ascended edge cutting her braided ponytail clean off.
A halberd's axe head slams into the partisan, making the Tarnished's newly strengthened arm jerk upward with the rising shaft.
The axe head deflects, carrying on down with the partisan, burying both heads into the stone... saving Dalia's life.
"So." Rick says, picking at food caught in his sparse teeth. "Did you get what you wanted?"
The three men are in that large room under the city, which is almost entirely vacant now. Agheel and the Bloodhound Knight are nowhere to be seen; misbegotten and soldiers are topside.
The Lionel is still sleeping like a kitten by Rick's side, hugging onto its large sword like it was a pillow.
Trey gives Shabriri a wide berth, standing far enough away to show his disdain for the unhinged man. Shabriri pays him no heed, patting that concealed blade within his cloak like it was his child.
"Oh yes, I did."
He speaks in such an off-putting manner; it makes Trey's skin crawl.
"It is secured."
Rick nods, his face the very picture of boredom.
"Great, then get out of here already."
He begins to play with that strange glass marble in his hand again… it looks more like an eyeball than anything else.
"I got things to do."
"Oh my, does my presence not put you at ease?"
Rick gives Trey a look, slouching on his makeshift throne of metal pipes.
"Does his presence not put you at ease?" He says mockingly to the knight.
Trey answers truthfully, growling a little.
"Not in the slightest."
Rick grins, showing off his rotting teeth.
"Hear that?" He says to Shabriri. "Pinhead wants you gone too."
Trey snorts, Shabriri doesn't look the least bit offended.
"My bosses don't like you anyways." Rick continues, grunting to himself. "Says you're a threat to their plans. Deal's already done; you don't have a hold over them anymore."
He makes a whisking motion.
"So, shoo. Be gone with you."
"Ah, very well."
Shabriri leaves soon after, saying nothing else to the two men. He simply disappears into the darkness of the sewers, taking that disgusting yellow light with him.
He is an elusive one, seemingly coming out of nowhere. Trey would cut him down in an instant... but fear grips his heart. There's something seriously off with Shabriri, like there's a part of him that shouldn't exist.
Rick shivers a little, cackling to himself.
"If ever you saw a ghost, in the flesh."
He looks toward Trey, musing himself with a grin.
"What was he after anyway?"
"The daughter of the warden."
"That a fact? What did he do?"
Trey snarls.
"Burned her to ash, left nothing behind."
Trey doesn't know how to feel about it…
So, he'll bury the sensation. He's chosen his side, and by all accounts, Irina would've suffered if the Limgrave Soldiers ever got their hands on her. Then again, it would be worse if the misbegotten got her. Castle Morne will fall eventually, so it was best Irina died quickly.
It's the most he can give her.
"Oi."
He says, finally looking toward Rick.
"Why are you here? Shouldn't a general be leading his men?"
Rick waves him off.
"I won't ask your reasons. You don't go asking mine. We clear?"
He stashes that marble eye back into his pocket, stretching.
He winces a little, something about his left arm bugging him.
But he doesn't dwell on it, laughing a little to himself.
"Well now, back to business."
He points a burly finger at Trey.
"You said something about another target?"
Another target…
Yes. Another target for the Bloodhound Knight.
"The Tarnished." Trey remarks, thinking back at what he saw. "Little dog might be a problem after all."
He saw that Tarnished; who did nothing but yap and bark without showing results; light his sword on fire, attacking the misbegotten and soldiers head on without a shred of fear. Trey didn't get a good look, but if the Tarnished still lives, he needs to be snuffed out too, before they attack in force.
"Tarnished?" Rick asks, giving Trey an amused expression. "Afraid of a little Tarnished?"
Rick seems to remember something. He cocks his head, grinning like he was a madman too.
"Wait, you mean the boy with the little light thingy?"
He shrugs his shoulders, amused at his own gesture.
"Hey now, I owe that toad a favor, he took care of a spear-wielding thorn in my side for me."
The large soldier continues to shrug, like he thought it was the funniest thing in the world.
"My, and let me tell you, it was a large thorn indeed."
Trey stares him down… he's starting to grow tired of this oversized soldier's antics. Comparing him to Edgar's stubborn and calculated demeanor, it's like night and day.
"Fine."
Rick says, rolling his eyes. He averts his eyes from Trey's cold gaze, losing that annoying shoulder shrug.
"I'll add him to the list. Just for you."
He raises his voice, shouting into the empty darkness around them. He makes the Lionel stir.
"Oi Darriwil! I got more prey for you! Where are you!?"
Tuesday, June 21st, 2022. Springfield, Missouri, en route to Cox North Hospital.
The time is 9:04 a.m.
Subject: 19 year old Lance Thompson, birth date January 1st, 2003.
Address: Battlefield, MO, 65619.
Subject is Deceased.
The body was discovered in a neighbor's fenced backyard at approximately 8:28 a.m. of the same day, paramedics arrived 13 minutes later. Declared dead at the scene, cause of death unknown.
The Thompson home burned to the ground in the night, firefighters quelled the dying flames at 3:03 a.m., though the subject's body was not discovered until the morning.
Estimates of the subject's time of death set for nearly 6 and a half hours before paramedics arrived, or around 2:30 in the morning. Assumed that time of death coincided with the fire of the Thompson home, seeing how reports of the fire were recorded at the same time.
Subject displayed penetrating trauma from a missing or foreign object that passed through the upper torso, alongside acute cervical trauma, craniofacial trauma, and acute alanto-occipital dislocation.
Cause of death presumed to be caused by a building explosion, though the trajectory/state of the body and eye-witness reports of the fire refute this.
Subject currently has been sent to the morgue wing of Cox North, for further autopsy.
No other information is available at this time.
Awaiting results…
"Poor kid."
Amanda looks up from a harrowing and familiar sight of her placated knees and the shiny vinyl floor, glancing across this small and sterile room in the back of the ambulance.
She tries not to look at the body between them, looking only at her probie, Alex, who has taken his post at the other corner. The young man doesn't meet her gaze, giving the body a longing look.
She doesn't want to say anything to sour the already downcast mood, so she takes a different approach.
"Did you know him?" She asks.
They look about the same age, though Alex is probably older by a few years.
The newbie shakes his head.
"No. Can't say I did."
He picks at the decaled badge velcroed on his shoulder, jostling a little when their driver hits a pothole.
"Still, doesn't mean it sucks."
The residents at the house told Amanda this boy's name is Lance, a quiet and aloof kid who rarely wanted to talk. Amanda isn't too fond of quiet people like him for her own reasons, but still, he sounds like he wasn't a bad kid.
And even if he was bad, nobody deserves to die in such a gruesome way.
Chest completely destroyed, organs ruptured and ribcage shattered. Something big went straight through his torso and sent him flying. It must've hurt, hurt more than Amanda has ever gotten the chance to experience.
At least he passed on quickly; he somehow hit a tree hard enough to snap his neck and cave in half his skull.
Even so, it didn't need to take a practiced paramedic to tell the boy was dead; it was unfortunately a little too obvious.
There was nothing she and Alex could do, except take the body away to give that old lady a little peace of mind.
What a terrible way to start a Tuesday.
Amanda sighs, leaning back in her seat.
"Worse part's yet to come. We still need to notify his relatives."
The old lady said the parents of the boy are supposed to return home from a business trip today… It's never something she looks forward too.
Alex finally breaks his gaze away from the body, giving Amanda a confused look.
"Aren't the police supposed to do that?"
She sighs. He has a point.
"Normally, yes. But-"
"Tears of a maiden."
…
…
…
Amanda loses her train of thought.
Alex almost stands completely up.
He leans over to the body, as bewildered as a dog.
The body just talked.
This body, this boy, not even moving an inch, mutters.
So quiet that it's barely more than a whisper. So devoid of life that it sounds like a robot.
But still, he's talking.
"Blood of an empyrean."
Alex animates to life, Amanda stands.
"Holy shit…"
"Sir!"
Alex yells, looking over the boy's bloodied head with an incredulous expression.
"Sir, can you hear me!?"
He's still alive…
How in God's name…
The heart… he doesn't even have-
Amanda pounds on the small door between her and the driver, yelling loud enough to make her voice crack.
"Step on it!"
Their patient lives.
Despite all odds; despite every organ in his chest being destroyed. Despite a blow that shattered his cervix, crippled his brain; flat out internally decapitated him.
He lives.
She jumps in at Alex's side, fishing for a flashlight.
"Sir, can you hear me!?" She shouts. "Can you tell me your name!?"
The two paramedics nearly fall over; the ambulance guns it down the road with a violent lurch.
The dull and muffled screams of sirens begin to drone on through the cabinet-filled walls; Amanda's heart begins to beat a million miles an hour.
"Can you tell me your name!?"
"It all burns the same."
She finds her flashlight, forcing one of the boy's closed eyelids open.
She opens the right one.
Is his brain unaffected?
Is he still neurologically intact?
Is such a thing even possible?
The boy's navy blue eye flutters, bordering on rolling into the back of the head. It doesn't react to her flashlight; it doesn't react to anything.
It's not a good sign.
She snaps her fingers at Alex, forcing him out of his shock. She needs him right now.
"Get the Benzodiazepines and analgesics."
He doesn't answer… She barks at him.
"Now!"
Alex is slow to react, but he turns around, opening their medication cabinet and fishing through the Tupperware, muttering to himself.
She elevates the boy's head and legs, propping up their stretcher and reaching for the diodes hooked up to their multi-parameter monitor.
It may be a seizure; he might've been on and off for the hours he's been alone.
It might be swelling in the brain.
If he hit hard enough to sever the ligaments in his neck, then it's easily a possibility.
There's the blood loss to consider too, and the fact he doesn't have his heart, or one of his lungs, working anymore.
It should be impossible for him to be alive.
Even with such an inconceivable miracle, it might be too late at this stage. He could just be having death throes, but she's never heard of someone being capable of talking if that were the case.
He must be alive, somehow.
Is it a lucid interval?
If they can just alleviate the pressure…
If they can stop the seizure…
If they had a…
Amanda's mind is working a million miles a minute, thinking about calling to ask about the patient's blood type for a transfusion and venipuncture.
Alex is fumbling with a syringe and multiple different fluids, giving the boy quick glances as if he expects him to die if he doesn't keep an eye on him.
The ambulance screams down the highway toward downtown Springfield on a bright Tuesday morning at 9 a.m.; even the driver knows what's happened.
The world continues to spin… in it's creator's waning absence… continuing on without his presence. The boy, laying in the back of this ambulance; that boy is no more.
Something else stirs.
This place may not be what it seems, but nobody is the wiser.
Nobody in this world, not even the two paramedics, know what has happened.
Nobody in this world, not even the driver, notice when Lance mutters his last phrase, and his vital signs spike.
His right eye snaps back to center in a jolt, iris shifting into a shining gold.
And his pupil... constricts into an almost elliptical slit... like the eye of a dragon.
"Kindling, accept this meager flame…"