DILLON

The first time I encountered death, I was only a boy of thirteen. I was spry and hot-headed, always getting into trouble. I used to sneak into the forest at odd hours of the night, running and climbing like a wild animal– sometimes even sleeping there, huddled under a tree– until my mother became so worried that she combed through the forest herself. She used to hit me for that. Her slaps were painful. It stopped hurting after a while, but still, I pretended. Father laughed.

My brother used to scowl at me, envious of my freedom and lack of care. He was frail, always sick. I would tell him stories of my adventures just to see the twinkle in his eyes. Perhaps, that was why I used to cause so much trouble. One more adventure I could bring home to him.

I came home one quiet evening, trudging mud and leaves after a day of swimming in the lake. The house was dark. Only a few lanterns were lit. My father sat, face sombre with a jug of ale by the hearth.

"Your mother is upstairs, go to her." He said. He did not look at me. Couldn't. There was a roughness to his voice as if he'd been shouting. He chugged the rest of the ale and turned away to stare out a window. Almost as if my very being disgusted him. That was the first time I ever felt like I wanted to disappear.

I still remember how heavy my legs felt— like I was being pulled towards the centre of the earth. The sloshing of mud and the sound of every footfall were like thunder in my ears. Mother and father must have fought, I thought then. From the way father acted, it must've been about me.

But, I was naive. I smiled when I reached the top of the stairs. I'd been picking hogweed roots by the river the past few days after I'd heard from the village girls that if I boiled the weed, it could cure any illness. Even now, I can feel the mud under my nails like it happened yesterday– I can still smell the hogweed roots. Sour, pungent and earthy.

My brother's bedroom door was ajar. My mother sat at the edge of his bed and held his hand. When she turned to me, my heart sank. Her face twisted in horrifying anger. I had seen her mad before. But, it was never like that.

When she stormed up to me and slapped me across the face, I did not cry. When she screamed and grabbed my shirt, I did not question her. Even as she kicked and hit me over and over– until I was panting and tasted warm blood in my mouth– I did nothing.

Because on the bed next to my brother's lifeless body were remnants of half-eaten hogweed roots I had plucked from the river the night before.

***

I hear crickets chirp in the distance. The sound of horse hooves against rocks. Then, I hear Arellia's voice. She is afraid, trembling. She is crying. I feel her hands on my arm and face. Her fingers are small and cold against my burning skin. I want to look at her but I don't want to open my eyes. If I open my eyes, I'd be awake. And that pain– the burning in my side, the dull ache in my legs and the searing pain in my feet– will not be just a nightmare. It will become real. And I will have to deal with it.

I have not thought about that day in many years. Why, all of the sudden, did I dream of it now? I feel a rising ache in my chest as I think of my brother. Only a boy of ten. Why did I dream of him?

"Dillon!" Arellia shakes me lightly. I drag my hand to hers and brush her off. Everything aches. Every length of muscle, every inch of my goddamned skin. My head pounds. It seems that even my very bones are sore. I want to lie motionless until the pain fades– until someone comes and drags me out of this Angel's forsaken land. But, that would be all too easy. But, don't I deserve to do what is easy, for once?

But, I cannot. To stop moving, to give up, would be the same as dying and I cannot let that happen. Not when someone needs me. I made my decision the moment I saw her in that wretched dungeon. I would lay down my life to protect her. Now, all I taste in my mouth is blood and the bitterness of regret.

Why did I promise such a thing? If I die now, she will be dragged back to the palace. Maybe it is for the best. I will be rid of her. I will be free. Am I cruel for wanting this? Do I care where she ends up?

"Dillon!" She calls once more. I'd trade her to Vasilis in this instance just to stop her from calling my name. I feel her move away from me as if she heard my thoughts. Her footsteps recede into the distance. Guilt crawls down my spine.

How did I get here? Gradually, it comes back to me. I remember collapsing onto this rock after arriving at this little hidden outcrop. I spotted it as we rode away from the ravine.

Slowly, I open my eyes. I am enshrouded in deep darkness. But the stars and moon are bright in the sky. I am still alive. As long as I am alive, I can pretend. Play the part of a guard, guiding a lost princess to safety. I can pretend that everything will be fine.

But, I'd be a fool to believe that there is a safe place in this world anymore. I have been branded a criminal. An assassin and a traitor. Now, they will think I kidnapped their beloved princess. I almost laugh at the absurdity. How did my life come to this?

The air is crisp and chill. I drag myself up on my elbows and look around. But, my eyes have not adjusted to the darkness. Even something as small as sitting up has me panting and groaning in pain. I try to ease myself back down. Then, I feel a hand on my arm. I did not hear her approach me.

"You're alive!" She says.

"Unfortunately."

"Don't be so morbid." I turn to her but when I see her eyes, a jolt runs through me. Her eyes are two bright discs of silver against the shadow of her figure. As luminous as the moon. It is unnatural and terrifying. She closes her eyes when she notices my reaction.

"I can't help it. I was born this way. My eyes…" She removes her hand from my arm and turns away. "My eyes are cursed."

"Maybe they are." I say. She doesn't reply. Illya has always been a superstitious kingdom. Their Angels are revered and worshipped in every part of this continent. If you are heard sprouting heresy, you can be flogged or killed. After a while, I learned to keep my mouth shut.

But, Illya's devotion to the Faith and their fondness of Arellia does not come from a place of love. No, they see her as a path to salvation. The prophecy that Zarxos would be reborn again to bring back magic and balance into the world is utter horseshit. They have not seen magic. They have not suffered at the hands of an Arcana. I have. No amount of prognostication would ever make it true.

Arellia is just a pitiful girl. Unextraordinary and incompetent. She was just unfortunate to have been born at the wrong time, in the wrong place. To be locked in a cage and told that she is special– that she alone can bring balance to a corrupt world. But, it is hard for me to feel sorry for her when she has lived her whole life in an opulent palace.

We lie side by side, listening to the sounds of the earth. A buzz murmurs in the darkness. I breathe in the scent of sand and stone. When the breeze comes, I feel Arellia shiver beside me.

"Come closer if you are cold," I say. She takes a small nervous breath and shuffles closer. We are lying shoulder to shoulder. I sense her discomfort, but she does not recoil. Her bare arms are cold, I feel her goosebumps against my skin.

"Roll down your sleeve." I tell her. She does not reply. I turn my head to look at her. Arellia stares into the sky, her bright eyes reflecting the light of the stars. In the dim light, I see both her sleeves are torn at the shoulders. The wound on her forearm is red and exposed. Blood has crusted around the cut. When she notices my gaze, she hugs her torso tightly.

Arellia had been wearing a long-sleeved, baggy tunic and trousers. But, now the sleeves are ripped, as though she had been attacked by wolves. She senses my gaze and turns away, embarrassed. I bring myself painfully to my elbows and look down at her. But, before any words leave my lips, I notice a strange tightness around my feet.

I turn my gaze from her and see a pile of old, torn, blood-stained cloths at the foot of the rock. When I see my feet, I let loose a small breath. Because wrapped around my injuries– tightly and clumsily– are ripped beige fabric. The sleeves of her tunic.