The White Renegade (Viral Airwaves)

by Claudie Arseneault

  Seraphin followed the rest, stepping under the once-familiar pine trees. Shaky fingers found their way to the red string at his wrist. His skeptar, a vehicle for his ancestors’ souls. Leanna’s too, now. It seemed strangely appropriate, that his father had dyed it red with blood. The braided string seemed to throb under his touch, warm beneath his fingers. Seraphin had chosen this path. He shouldn’t have, but he had. It was time he accepted his actions and owned up to his mistake. His ancestors demanded retribution.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Nothing had prepared Seraphin for his first battle.

  Freezing autumn rain covered the battlefield, obscuring their sight and drenching the soldiers to the bones. It pattered on the leaves around, the sound constant and far too close to footsteps for Seraphin’s comfort. They were in the middle of a thick wood on Regaria’s eastern shore, they couldn’t see more than a few feet ahead, and there was a cell of Regarian guerrilla fighters hunting them down.

  He’d only been in the army for a few months at the time. Seraphin remembered clutching his rifle, fingers so cold he couldn’t feel the firearm under his skin. He remembered wiping his glasses over and over, to no avail. He remembered setting his back against Stern’s, whispering a prayer of protection.

  He remembered the first shot, too. A clear bang through the muffled sounds. Then a soldier had crumpled to the ground with a cry, and the two forces had engaged in a chaotic skirmish. Between his blurry vision, the rain on his glasses, and the curtain of water falling, Seraphin had never felt so blind. His heart jumped with every shot he took, half hoping the fleeting shadow he’d aimed at would drop with a yell, the other wishing he wouldn’t manage to take a life.

  It wasn’t until Stern let out a grunt behind him, stepping back as a bullet grazed his arm, that Seraphin understood taking a life might mean saving one. His resolve hardened, and when the first men fell to his shots, the guilt was but a tiny twinge at the bottom of his stomach.

  It came back in full force later that night, as he sat in a common room with a roaring fire, wrapped in a heavy blanket. Every surviving soldier of the squad—most of them, it turned out—had one. The cold had seeped into every cell of their body and it seemed even the flames wouldn’t get it out, so they’d collectively opted for a less secure but just as enjoyable method of warmth. Three bottles of strong alcohol were passed from one soldier to another. Seraphin had filled small mugs for Stern and him, and the two men occupied a more isolated corner of the room.

  Now that the rush of battle was gone, Seraphin couldn’t help but replay the sequence of events in his head. He’d spotted the woman crossing from a large boulder to a fallen trunk, trying to get a better angle on them, adjusted his aim, and pulled the trigger. All in one, maybe two seconds. The rifle had slammed into his bony shoulder; the woman had slumped to the muddy ground. Seraphin had taken a shuddering breath and moved to his next target.

  He wondered what her name was. What her skeptar had been, and if whoever buried her would treat it with respect. Was she of those Regarians who believed you had to burn the heirloom to return freedom to one’s ancestors? With any luck, it would be Regarians taking care of her, and they would abide by her final wishes. Seraphin swirled his mug. He shouldn’t think about these things. He’d done what he had to. They were soldiers, both her and him, in a way.

  He downed half his mug in one draw, letting the strong mix burn his throat and water his eyes. The warmth at least carried to his stomach, and for a moment Seraphin focused on the satisfying sensation. Stern hadn’t said a word since his return from the infirmary. He chose that time to come out of his sullen brooding.

  “Didn’t think it’d be so easy,” he said. “Makes it harder after, don’t you think?”

  “Yeah. It’s like you do all the thinking later, because you can’t afford to when there’s shooting. Doesn’t seem a good idea to dwell on whoever received our bullets though. Nothing we can do about it now.”

  “Because you can just stop?”

  Seraphin shrugged, then filled both of their mugs to the brim. “That, my friend, is why I think we’ll need the entire bottle tonight. Numbs the mind.”

  He talked like he’d gotten drunk a hundred times, but apart from his last night with Alex, before he’d left Iswood and his father to enroll in the army, Seraphin had never had enough alcohol to induce a headache the following day. He planned on having worse tomorrow—the squad wasn’t moving out anyway. Stern sipped his alcohol without enthusiasm.

  “You never did tell me why you joined,” Stern said. “Isn’t it harder for you? You’re shooting at countrymen.”

  Seraphin tensed a little. “You never asked. I liked that. I thought you didn’t need to hear the reason.”

  “I don’t. Was just curious.” Stern stretched his legs and gave a sideways look at Seraphin. They’d been sitting next to one another, against a wall. “You don’t talk a lot about yourself.”

  Of all the things he expected from Stern, deep conversations about one another wasn’t one of them. Seraphin gave his friend a concerned look. This first battle was affecting him more than he let on. The Regarian considered opening up a little, but despite Stern’s unwavering companionship since they’d met, Seraphin found it hard to explain what had brought him to the army. The humiliating memory of the fight with his father tightened his throat. He stared ahead, holding back a sigh.

  “Some things I’d rather forget, Stern.” His mind sought another topic to distract Stern. The latter had supported him whenever the rest of the squad’s distrust and mockery became too much. Giving it back was the least Seraphin could do. “Did you leave anyone you really liked behind?”

  “Not really. One cousin, maybe.” Stern shrugged. “I can’t say I had many friends. Father tried his best, but he never was good with children. We fought all the time.”

  “I had Alex. We’re friends, but also something else? I’m not sure what exactly, it’s a bit complicated, but Alex is everything I want to be.” The moment the words left his lips, Seraphin turned his head in shame. He hadn’t meant to say it like that, to admit so much in a single blow. Yet after another swallow to take the sting away, Seraphin continued. “They’re so certain of who they are. I can’t seem to decide.”

  “Then don’t.”

  Seraphin waited for a bigger explanation from Stern, and it took several minutes for one to come. He’d spent most of the interval staring at his glass, swirling the liquid within.

  “Just … be. People are what they do. I could decide I’m a playful extrovert who likes to waste money on trivial money games, but it wouldn’t make me one. I’d have to go and join the dice table first, and I’d have to find a way to enjoy the quick evaporation of what little wealth I had managed to gain. So I don’t. If it doesn’t feel right to me, I don’t do it.”

  The vision of Stern attempting such an endeavor almost choked Seraphin. He could barely imagine his friend trying, let alone becoming that kind of person. Seraphin stifled his laugh within his glass, then turned with a smile. Ridiculous example or not, Stern had a point.

  “Follow my guts, huh?”

  “Trust yourself, yes.” Stern returned the smile. “It doesn’t matter if your brain thinks it doesn’t know who you are. Something inside you does, and it’ll scream if you’re on the wrong path.”

  Seraphin stared at his friend. He’d heard the words, but through the growing haze of alcohol and doubts, it took a long time for them to hit home. He’d heard that voice in the basement, listening to the older townsfolk. It’d pushed him to jump to his feet and interrupt, despite the obvious risks of centering attention on himself. It amazed Seraphin to have heard it explained so plainly by Stern, always so down-to-earth and practical. The Regarian leaned back, the corner of his mouth curving into a half-smile.

  “That’s deep. Didn’t think you had that in you.”

  An offended frown flitted across Stern’s features, then he burst out laughing. He tapped his glass against Seraphin’s, drank it down in a si
ngle shot, and rested against the wall again. “I don’t drink often. Let’s blame the alcohol and never speak of it again.”

  CHAPTER SIX

  Seraphin hadn’t mentioned the strange conversation with Stern again, but alone in his tent in the encampment, he couldn’t help but think about it. Other soldiers were celebrating. Seraphin could hear their congratulatory laughter and the occasional outburst of anger as a juicy dice game was lost. The night’s raid on Iswood had gone without a hitch. The rebels were dead, and almost all their soldiers had survived. Seraphin ignored the celebrations, tried to sleep the rest of this horrible night away. He spent hours rolling over, but even when he did slip into slumber, he saw Leanna, standing before the burning tavern. Her eyes bore holes through him as she moved closer, staggering with the impact of every bullet. Even when the third blew away half her skull, she kept advancing, her face destroyed but her eyes intact.

  How does it feel, to be yourself? Still liking it? The questions echoed in his mind, Leanna’s tone accusing and bitter as she fell to the ground, limp. His little voice inside, knowing it was wrong, screamed. Seraphin sat up, his body drenched with sweat, his breath a short pant. He hurried out of the tent, hoping the fresh air would clear away his rising nausea. Twigs stung his bare feet. Already, his memories of the evening were fading, squirreling away to the deepest corner of his mind. He remembered shooting flames, incessant gunshots, the prickling of alcohol up his nose, and charred flesh. A confused mess of sensations, all giving way whenever he thought of the shape crawling out of the basement. The three bangs that killed her still made his ears ring.

  Seraphin knelt before a tree and gave back what little he’d managed to eat earlier this evening. Dinner seemed so far away now, like decades had passed between then and now. His family had still been alive. Seraphin knew they had been in the basement. His father always led those meetings, his mother attended. They were gone. Killed. He was the last of the Holt ancestry. Seraphin wiped his mouth clean, ignoring the slight shaking of his hand. The skeptar burned his skin. He glanced up at the stars, barely visible between the pine trees. They stared back accusingly.

  He had to do something. And he had to do it now.

  Seraphin pinched his nose and tried to think. There would be scouts in case Iswood sought to counterattack, but they would be looking toward the village, not the camp. Sneaking out would be easier than sneaking in. Seraphin hurried to the tent, changed into civil clothes, and slid his glasses and good boots on. If anyone asked, he’d say he had a bladder to empty. Everyone was drinking tonight, no one would question it.

  The layer of pine needles muffled his steps as he slunk between the trees. Branches cracked every now and then, and sometimes ferns brushed against his shins. How often had he been through these very woods, avoiding chores or exploring? The great trunks had been friends at the time, a maze-like protection against his problems in the village. Now they loomed over him, menacing. He ran a hand over one tree’s bark.

  “I’ll fix this, you’ll see.”

  The tree gave no answer. Seraphin had almost expected one—a branch falling on him, or the wind picking up through the needles. He sighed, took a deep breath. If he started to think the whole forest was against him, he would never make it to Iswood. He had to keep his wits about him. With a final pat on the trunk, he started off again.

  The Wet Lizard was still smoldering when he reached his hometown. Its roof had collapsed, no longer supported by the structure underneath, and there was more smoke than flames, but Seraphin could see the fire still licking the wooden counter inside. He remained at the edge of the forest, watching the blackened skeleton they had left behind. Townsfolk moved through the ashes, carrying the burned bodies of their fellow villagers out of the wreckage. Some seemed to be digging a large grave, farther away. Seraphin averted his eyes, bile burning his stomach. He didn’t want to identify the bodies. Better to get moving before he lost his nerve.

  “Bastards, the lot of them.”

  Crawford’s voice stopped Seraphin in his tracks. It wasn’t in the carpenter’s habits to swear. After tonight, though … it wasn’t exactly surprising.

  “Y’know what I heard?” The second voice belonged to an older woman. The mayor’s wife, Seraphin thought. Or, well, widow was likely more accurate now. “Lin says Damian’s boy was there.”

  “Yeah. Shot us down like animals, he did.” Crawford’s bitterness twisted Seraphin’s stomach. “It’s not right, him in that uniform. It never was.”

  Seraphin squeezed his eyes shut and hurried away from the Wet Lizard, dodging through the trees. He couldn’t take another second of that conversation. His pace sped as he went around the village, keeping to the forest for as long as he could. Branches stung his face and underbrush caught in his pants, but he ignored them. The small stabbing pain was a comforting reminder that there was more to life than the numbness growing inside him. Seraphin’s frantic dash through the forest brought him behind his home.

  Nothing was lit inside, confirming what he already knew. No one was home. No one would ever be again, after tonight. Seraphin paused at the edge of the pine trees, to steady himself. He wanted to scream. Scream and cry and disappear, all at once. Instead he pulled his sleeve up. In the half-hidden moonlight, the red string coiled around his arm resembled a long, bloodied cut. His father watched over him now. Seraphin wondered what he thought of him.

  The Regarian sprinted the distance between the forest and his home, a fleeting white shadow across the open ground, then slipped inside.

  The house was quiet. Starlight filtered through the windows, enough for Seraphin to note how every surface was wiped clean. Not a speck of dust waited on the kitchen’s counter, far to his left, or on the living room’s small table. His mother had never allowed any to settle, but that’d change soon enough. Almost nothing had moved since he’d left. Pictures of him still waited above the fireplace, his favorite novels remained in the bookshelves, alongside all the others. Seraphin had always wondered if they would erase him, once he was gone, if they’d be angry enough for that. He should’ve known better. Disputes happened—heartbreaking and violent, enough to tear the family apart—but they could not erase his bloodline. He was a Holt. The last of them, now.

  The door closed with a click behind him, and the sound jolted someone awake in one of the living room’s two-seaters. Alex had been sleeping there, concealed by its back and the shadow it threw. They scrambled so much they fell to the ground and remained sitting there, wiping their bleary eyes.

  “About time,” they said. “Thought you’d get here faster.”

  Seraphin remained at the door, stunned. He hadn’t expected Alex, hadn’t prepared himself for that. The sound of their voice fissured the careful wall Seraphin had built inside him, and he started shaking. It was all he could do not to crumble right then and there. Seraphin gritted his teeth. If he stopped moving, he would never finish. He found himself crossing the living room toward the master bedroom without another glance at Alex.

  “Hey, Seraph!”

  His friend followed him into the second room. The bed was made, and not a single ripple marred the blankets’ surface. The scent of lilies drifted through the open window, bringing painful memories with it. His mother had toiled under a heavy sun to plant them, predicting that one day the flowers would invade the rest of the garden, and she would curse herself. She had been right, and the backbreaking work of keeping the lilies in check had often fallen upon Seraphin. Yet another thing no one would take care of now.

  Alex put a hand on his arm and squeezed it.

  “I’m sorry for your family,” they said.

  “So am I.” His gaze swept the room one final time, then he shrugged his friend’s hand off and knelt near the bed. “Soon enough a certain general will be feeling very sorry too. For however long he lives once I’ve put a bullet in him.”

  He didn’t turn to watch Alex’s reaction. The truth was, it didn’t matter whether or not they approved. Seraphin reached u
nder the bed and found the old leather case right away. He smiled briefly as he groped for the handle and pulled it out. Nothing ever changed in this house, especially not this. For as long as he could remember, the Holts’ ancestral gun had been stored under the bed.

  “Vengeance, then?” Alex asked.

  There wasn’t a hint of judgment in their tone, but Seraphin stiffened anyway. “I owe it to the family. I …” He couldn’t explain the knot in his guts. He had to. Nothing less than a bullet in Klaus Vermen would suffice. “I’m leaving this army, and I’m doing it with a literal bang.”

  Alex let out a stifled laugh, and Seraphin dared to look at them. Despite the chuckle, there was no mirth on their expression, only concern. “You would. There’s something you should know, I think. Before you go out again.” They fiddled with their jacket. A dull brown one, not the red clothing Seraphin liked so much. “Your father came to see me after you left. Had a bit of drink in him, and even more guilt. Said you would always belong, difference notwithstanding.”

  Seraphin’s fingers tightened on the handle of the leather case. He wasn’t sure what to think of it. Why did his father never say these things to his face, instead? “What did you do?”

  “Told him off. It’s easy as all hell to come to me and wail. I don’t have any patience for jerks seeking pity long after the act, like their guilt is more dramatic than the damage they did.” Alex shrugged and continued in a calmer tone. “I just think he’d be proud, right now, and you’d want to know that.”

  “I’m likely to get killed and end the bloodline.”

  “Perhaps.”

  They remained silent, Seraphin’s hand caressing the top of the case. Alex was right. The entire Holt ancestry was watching, and Seraphin was convinced each one of them would be proud. The thought calmed him, soothed some of his grief. If he could do this for them—put this one bullet in General Vermen—then perhaps he would have earned his place.