ARELLIA

“O’ father of Blood and bone, hear me sing your name,” My whisper is a gentle caress on Marcel’s lips as he stares at me, incredulous. Blood sluices over my palm as I dig the blade deeper into his chest. “This, I give to you. A Blessed child of Blood.”

"W-Witch-" He spurts and grabs my neck with his right hand, fingers still slick from when he last touched me. His hand tightens around my throat, causing me to gasp. I cannot falter. I cannot feel remorse. But my body betrays me. My every heartbeat is a sledgehammer against my ribcage. Tears stream so thick I can barely see. I stare into his honey-brown eyes, full of rage and betrayal and watch as the light in them slowly fades. I twist the blade and pull it from his chest, folding a steady hand over the wound.

“I’m sorry.” I whisper, feeling an emotion I thought I’d long forgotten swell inside me. He chokes and staggers back. His hand around my neck loosens, his grip weak now from blood loss. I lock my legs behind him and pull him back into my embrace. When he looks at me, I am reminded suddenly of cold blue eyes and golden hair. The ache in my chest expands until it feels like I cannot breathe, until all I see in my mind are the faces of those I loved. Those I lost.

“O’ father of Blood and bone,” My lips tremble, tears obscuring my sight. I press my forehead against Marcel’s and breathe in the tang of blood and sweat and the aftermath of our intimacy. I throw the blade to the ground and clasp his cheeks in my blood soaked hands. “Hear me sing your name.”

Hairs stand on my legs and arms as a sudden gust of ice-cold wind swells from the ground. I clench my jaw and ride out the throbbing ache in my skull. I feel myself shuddering. Books scattered throughout the room flutter open in a fury, plumes of dust and the smell of rotting paper fills the air. “This, I give to you,” I mumble as I hold Marcel between my trembling hands. His mouth parts, small breaths shallow and quiet. I sob against his lips. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. But it makes no difference.

What is one more death, Arellia? How many men have you killed now? His death is necessary. His death will give you freedom. Everything you ever wanted.

I squeeze my eyes shut, ignoring my conscience. “A Blessed child of Blood.” I mutter. Window shutters rattle against its hinges as strong winds hiss through its cracks causing the hairs on my body to stand as if a violent storm is passing through. I feel a tingle under my skin as the room plunges into a darkness so deep it feels like the Heavens has swallowed me whole. When the room stills and pages of books fall and rest against itself; as silence envelops me, I know he is finally here.

MY DAUGHTER.

I hear the echo of his voice in my mind, resonating within me. I grind my jaw from the pain of it. Fear travels through every inch of me now that I feel his presence in my very soul. “Zarxos, please,” I plead into the blackness as I hold Marcel against my chest. “Please, let it end.”

THIS IS ONLY THE BEGINNING.

“How many more must I kill before you are satisfied?” He does not answer. “If you want blood, I will give it to you. But I need men, I need allies. Give him back to me and I will give you all you seek!”

A GIFT IS A GIFT, DAUGHTER. HIS BLOOD IS RAGE. POWER. DOMINANCE. SO VERY SWEET ON MY TONGUE.

“A gift I did not want to give! You have forced my hand with visions and desires of the Wicked! I will give you Blood if you give him back to me.” I bite my lip until I taste blood in my mouth. I feel my heart in my throat, hear my every breath as I search the darkness. For what? The Angel only appears in my mind, in my Blood.

YOU OWE ME A LIFE, DAUGHTER.

“Whose?” I clutch at Marcel’s ice cold skin, breathing in the last scent of life before he collapses into me. His weight a heavy burden on my chest, leaving me breathless. But Zarxos’ responses are clear as sudden pain dances up my right arm and into my shoulder, neck and chest. I fall forward, gasping, clenching my arm between my thighs. Blood-red flames lick along my wrists, a searing crimson light in the darkness, touching nothing else but my arm, burning and burrowing into bone. I smell my flesh burn and stifle a gag. Marcel slides off me and falls onto the stone floor. I sob from the pain but I dare not scream.

I HAVE TAKEN AWAY YOUR PAIN BUT I CAN ALWAYS GIVE IT BACK, CHILD.

I feel a sudden sting between my legs, raw and aching. Disgust fills my belly as I think of the heinous crime I committed. What is one more death? Just one more death. Then freedom will be mine. My mind fills suddenly with an insatiable desire for Blood. A shooting pain blasts up the side of my skull. I gasp and squeeze my eyes shut, hoping it will dull the pain. When I open my eyes, I see the desert. Hot and humid and soaked in crimson. I feel blood on my skin, flesh melting under my fingers. The screams of men. The wrath, the rapture, the lust. But it is gone in an instant and I am surrounded by darkness once more. I stare into it as hot desire flushes my skin, burning me from the inside. “Make it stop! Please!”

I GAVE YOU A GIFT. YOU OWE ME A LIFE, DAUGHTER.

“Then, his life for mine!”

I WAS PROMISED A LIFE AND IT WAS NOT DELIVERED TO ME. I WILL TAKE WHAT I AM OWED.

“Whose life do you desire, father?” I ask. The answer comes to me in the form of a cold breeze, forcing me to shiver. When I close my eyes, I see a valley of snow-capped mountains, colourful fields of wildflowers. Raging rivers of blue that travel down the mountain side like the crooked spine of a beast. I taste the crisp air, smell the grass and mud and pine. In the distance I see a man in dark leather. I feel his hands, I hear his voice. When he turns to me, his piercing blue eyes are filled with fury and sorrow.

I gasp as the vision disperses like smoke. I slide onto the floor and collapse onto Marcel’s legs. His skin is now as cold as the stone. In the darkness I crawl, reaching out trembling hands, dragging them over piles of paper and dirt until my fingers find the dagger. I grip it tight, willing my nerves to calm.

“Let him live and I will kill that person myself. The one who was promised to you.”

BRING HIM TO ME AND I SHALL GIVE YOU THE WORLD.

When the darkness fades and warmth crawls up the length of my body, I let loose a long sigh. I did not realise I had been holding my breath. A silent sob escapes me. I bite my arm and buckle forward and scream. I scream until my throat burns, until the fear and anger and sorrow burn away. I push myself up and stagger over Marcel and bring the blade to my wrist. I make a quick cut. I do not even feel the sting. When my blood enters his wound, strands of his flesh and sinew knit together, folding and mending until nothing is left but smooth bronze skin. Colour flows back into him as he takes his first soft breath.

I sit and watch and wonder if this is how Father Phillippe felt when he resurrected me? Did he feel an ache in his chest? A hollowness in his bones? An unappeasable anger? When Marcel’s lashes flutter open, he groans and sits up slowly as if he had been sleeping for days. Dazed eyes search the chaotic room until he sees me next to him and flinches.

“Princess-” I stand slowly and fix my dress, my hair. “What happened here?”

“Commander Larousse, if I told you the truth, would you believe me?”

He scrunches his face. “I’d have to hear it first, your highness.” He swallows audibly and gathers himself into a sitting position. I straighten my bodice and extend my hand, offering him his blood-stained dagger. Now, he sees. The blood-splattered floor, my hands, his skin. The upturned room. His eyes widen as he remembers.

“Will you answer me this, at least?” Reluctantly, he nods. His eyes follow my every movement as I lean back against the table and close my eyes. I have never been good at politics or deceit. But now, I must be the best. I hear Marcel shuffle beside me. When I open my eyes, the point of his dagger rests just under my chin. Cold steel against my burning skin.

“You tried to kill me, princess. And you succeeded, somehow. No man has ever done that before.”

“I am not a man.”

A wild howl of laughter escapes him. “No, you are not. So is it true then? The prophecy? I can’t believe it,” He laughs again, shaking his head. “So why am I still alive?” He grits his teeth and digs the blade into my skin, just hard enough to hurt but not enough to break skin.

“Are you happy, commander?” My question takes him by surprise but he merely grins.

“Happier than most. Glory, gold, women… and my youth.” He shrugs and wipes the dagger against his tailored britches and slides it back into its sheath. I let out a small breath of relief. “What do you want, princess? I believe I deserve an answer considering my blood all over that table has not yet turned cold.”

“You are alive because I need you. You are an accomplished commander. You know war. You know our enemies.”

“Now, which enemy are you speaking of, princess? Khronish heathens? Those ugly sheep-fuckers in Nessaz? Askos? Pethyan?”

“All of them. Especially the one that leads this very court.”

Marcel’s eyes light up as a grin spreads across his face. He laughs, buckling over, gripping the blood-soaked table. I clench my jaw. “Now, that sounds almost like treason, your highness.”

“I need an army. I need loyal men. Men that will follow me to the edges of Hell, if need be.”

“Dare I ask what for?”

“To quell the thirst of our Angel.”

“And once His thirst is quenched?” He stalks closer to the table and smiles down at me. “What will happen to my men? To me?”

“I will give you something you have always wanted, commander.” Softly, he tilts my chin up and caresses the curve of my jaw with his rough, calloused hand. I grab Marcel’s arm and pull him into my embrace once more. He stiffens but does not recoil. As I look into his eyes, I see a raging fire behind them. Greed, fury, lust.

For freedom, for vengeance, I will bathe this world in Blood. The world that took my father from me. My mother. Enka, Yhana, Ermund. I will burn the men that let me believe freedom was in my grasp only to take it away, awaken a beast inside me and throw me back into this Hell. The world that caused me so much pain, so much sorrow. The prophecy has bound me in shackles of Blood since my birth. If they so badly want me to be the Redeemer, the reincarnation of Zarxos, then, I shall.

Marcel studies my face for a moment before letting out a small chuckle. He leans forward and kisses me, soft and passionate, as though I am his lover. But I will never be. He is but a pawn in this game, in this wretched world. And in time, I will be his unfortunate end.

“What is that?” He whispers against my lips.

“A crown.”