Part One
Trigger Warning: Mild gore, mentions of violence, and some dark thoughts
In the deepest hours of the night, past the final ringing of the bells by the guardsmen of the province of Nansra and the closing of the last shop in the Nox Market, the skies of Davkheim turned a lovely shade of rich indigo that cast a melancholy hue over the homes of the Fela below. There were never many stars out—it rained often, and when it wasn’t raining it was still overcast—but the air was always crisp and clean, and it was rarely cold save for the winters, when the snow lined roofs and streets in pure, crystalline glory. But in the fall, it was a simply splendid time of day to be out. Stray, young couples up past their bedtime would roam about, pink-cheeked and bright-eyed, wasting away their youth in midnight picnics, and friends in packs would embark on adventures to riversides to wade ankle-deep in the moonlit waters. Elders would laugh at their recklessness as if they hadn’t done the same at their age. It was all fairly charming, but to Anchoriel, who’d only lived in Nansra four months, it was just a constant, aching reminder of just how much of the world he’d missed during the war.
His favorite spot in all of Nansra was on the roof of his temporary cottage. For hours he’d sit up there, golden eyes focused on points in the distance, legs crossed, with darts poking out from between his fingers. Whenever he managed to break from his thoughts, he’d sling a dart towards a tree or flower. Despite his discharge from the force, his aim was still excellent. He rarely missed a target. The only hinderance he had was his right shoulder, which they’d said would never heal. He’d known that coming out to live with his sister—he had, truly—but a nasty part of him still wasn’t used to it. Prima tried her best to help. Even she couldn’t ease the shooting pains that traveled down his arm, the tingling in his fingertips, the white-hot ache in the joint that had brought him to his knees on more than one occasion.
Sometimes he wondered if he missed fighting. He missed his unit and the painless days for sure, but he never wanted to kill again. He’d been there, done that, watched Cynter soldiers cry over bodies he’d downed. The worst part of it was the look in their eyes as they crumpled, dead, defeated. They looked shocked, as if they’d never believed that they could be in danger; shocked, sad, and then, horribly relieved. Every single one was relieved. They didn’t have to fight anymore. The stress was too much for them, just like it’d been too much for him, and he was sure if he’d died on the battlefield then he’d be just as glad to be done as his enemies.
Some days he’d wanted to.
He’d never told Prima or Agra that, and he didn’t plan to. Their concern already overwhelmed him, and he told himself constantly that he was doing well enough. Life was better in his sister’s little house than it was in any cramped battle station. Food came consistently three times a day, there was always water for a bath, tea was never not available for the drinking, and he could spend as much time as he wanted on his own, reading, walking, or learning to cook. Bloodshed was nothing but a memory; boredom was his biggest enemy.
And bored he was. Darts only did so much to puncture the dullness of his everyday life. He dangled his legs into the open air, inhaled a damp breath, and flattened himself onto his back. There were no constellations to spot, but he could at least admire the moonlight flickering through the fog.
Something creaked beside him. Panic rushed through his body, and he rolled onto his side, ready for action, only to find his sister’s head poking out his window. She lumbered out onto the roof next to him in her light, frilled nightgown and crossed her legs.
“It’s a little late to be up.” Her voice, much like her appearance, was nothing like his. She spoke confidently, like she was sure of everything about herself; she had long lashes and a soft, heavy figure that was great for hugs; she wore elegant shirts that flowed in the wind to match the oceanic waves and curls of her blue hair.
“So why’re you?”
She yawned. “Some kid slammed his finger in a door.”
“The parents pay you?”
“No, I decided to let it slip. They were pretty upset.“
“How generous,” he teased, grinning, waiting for a whack on the shoulder that never came. Prima was staring at his hands distractedly.
“Hey, what happened?”
“What?“
“Your hands, they’re-“
He glanced down and froze. At some point, the tips of his last two darts had gotten lodged in his right palm. Thin streaks of red were dribbling down his wrist and onto the ground far below. Gingerly, he prodded the wounds, wincing.
“How’d that happen?” She shook her head. “Never mind, you can tell me in a minute, just- here, get-“ He scooted towards her. “No, closer than that, let me-“
He helped as she yanked him across the roof. Her magic was much more gentle than her fingers digging into his forearm. It washed over his knuckles in a glowing tide and looked up around the base of the darts, which clattered downwards and rolled off into the grass far below. The tingling sensation her powers brought faded just afterwards. She wiped the sweat off her forehead, crossed her legs, and gave him a curious look.
“You alright?”
“Yeah, thanks. That feels a lot better,” he responded in what he hoped was a casual tone.
Her eyes dropped. “I didn’t mean your hands.”
“Then-“
“Why’re you up here?” she blurted. His heart stuttered as she turned her gaze on him once more.
“I don’t know.” Then, when she frowned, he quickly offered, “It’s nice out, I guess.”
“Is that really it?”
“What else would it be?”
It was her turn to say, “I don’t know.”
They sat in silence a moment.
“I’m just kind of worried about you. Agra says you’ve been acting weird, and now this whole thing with the darts… I don’t know,” she repeated, sighing. “I know this isn’t the first time this week you’ve been up here. Sometimes when I wake up in the middle of the night I can hear your footsteps through the ceiling. At first I thought that maybe you just needed time, maybe you were adjusting to living here and not being on the road, but it’s been months and you’re still up here instead of in your bed. Is something wrong with it? I could always buy different sheets.”
“No-“ He swallowed around the lump in his throat. “No, Pri, that’s alright. Really, I’m fine.”
“Don’t say that, please. I actually want to talk to you. Like, really talk to you.”
“We are talking,” he said desperately. His sister said nothing, just looked at the ground where two silver darts lay glinting in the moonlight. Anchoriel found himself wanting to speak—hoping to comfort her—but nothing came out, and when he reached out his hand to brush her arm she pulled away.
“I’m going back inside,” she muttered finally. “Don’t wait up for me for breakfast tomorrow. I’ll be at work.”
Watching her climb back through the window made his chest tighten and head go fuzzy. Everything in him told him to call out to her, make her turn around, let her know that something was wrong, but he couldn’t. There simply wasn’t enough energy left in him.
Anchoriel slumped backwards, let his cheek press against the shingles, and stared at the two new pinprick scars on his right hand. Once more, he was entirely alone.
End of Part One
