by Rosie Scott
“Will you ever go back to Sera?” John asked, sitting back from the fire when he finished his second fish. He picked at his teeth with a fingernail as I replied.
“The only way I'd go back to Sera is if I had the manpower to burn it down.”
John burst into laughter and slapped his knee. “Good gods, Bob! That's a story I need to hear if you're that upset with it.”
I smirked, but mostly because it felt so awkward to be called Bob. “You'll be going there next.”
“Yeah, and I won't say a damn thing about whatever vendetta it is you have against it,” he replied. “I've gotten into so much trouble in Sera that I can't use the front gate no more 'cause the guards will either turn me away or attempt arrest.”
I sighed, unconvinced. I decided to settle on a vague story because I truly wanted to share it with someone who might understand. “Let's just say I was in the middle of getting a great education in Sera when I stumbled across something illegal. Instead of turning away, I gave in to curiosity. A walking waste of space eavesdropped on said curiosity and reported me to authorities. I fled, a criminal but a harmless one, and when Sirius's men came after me I used deadly force. That's the day I became a murderer.”
“That's not murder,” John retorted lightly. “That's self-defense.”
I shrugged. “Self-defense is murder by another name. Arguing semantics to Sirius would get me nowhere.”
“No.” John tilted his head with curiosity. “You speak of Sirius like your hatred of him is personal.”
“I've met him.”
His eyebrows raised. “Truly? Is he as ugly as they say?”
I huffed. “Yes.”
“Is Sirius one of those people you'd kill if you could?”
“Painfully, yes.”
“Is there such a thing as a painless death?” John smirked.
“Yes,” I repeated, thinking of leeching.
John shrugged and chuckled. “Ah, it don't matter. If you were wanting to go on some crazy quest to kill Sirius, you'd have my support.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Like I said before, I'd have to be dragged kicking and screaming back to Sera unless I had some way of swarming it with force. Otherwise, I'd have no chance.” I took a sip of my tea. “Besides, I'm not looking to start a band of criminals. I do fine alone.”
“I can't disagree since you're still alive considering the troubles following you,” John agreed, “but there's strength in numbers. No matter what crimes you've committed, there will always be like-minded people who would join you, if only for common survival.”
I stared at John across the fire for a moment. “Is that advice or a suggestion?”
“I don't know,” he replied. “Maybe both.”
“I'll stay in the forest for a while. Build my strength. Remove any threats thrown my way. Hope to the undeserving gods that one day the walking waste of space I talked about earlier will be one of them so I can spill his blood.”
“Do tell,” John said excitedly, and I huffed with amusement.
“Not much to say other than he treated me like shit for years. Humiliated me and someone I love time and time again. He's the reason I was exiled and had the troubles I did. Worst part of all?” I thought back to Kenady's rich background and dual casting abilities. “He's talented.”
“Ugh,” John blurted sympathetically. “Like fate itself is pissing on justice.”
That mental image amused me greatly. “Exactly.”
Afternoon evolved into evening until nightfall came to beat all daylight into submission. John told me about many things: delving into drugs, the majesty of the Cel Forest, and he hinted at being a runaway from a childhood of abuse. We could somehow empathize with each other despite not telling whole stories. After listening to his stories of abuse, I mentioned Kai and the emotional abuse Sirius put her through, hinting to John that I'd fancied her. We bonded over that. John hadn't lambasted me for my admittance that I'd killed many pursuers, but he openly accepted when I expressed a hatred for undeserved mistreatment. Our moral compasses differed from most, but that warmed us up to one another.
By the time I stood up to head into the house for bed, I seriously considered asking John to stay. I felt rejuvenated from a long day of socializing, no matter how meaningless most of it was. Such an idea would require immense trust; I'd have to come clean about my necromancy before the next attack forced me to use it in front of him, and John would need to be honest with me in turn. I wasn't ready for that yet, but John seemed reluctant to leave.
John watched me carry things into the cabin, still stoking the fire. Over the course of the night he'd started twitching and showing signs of anxiety, but I said nothing of it.
“Where have you been sleeping?” I asked, nodding at his knapsack as I carried my dishware to the cabin. “You have no tent.”
“No. I've been sleeping under trees and using the bag as a pillow.” He stared at it and wrinkled up his nose twice in a row like a tic.
“That's dangerous to do considering all those needles you have.”
“I secure them as best as I can.” He twitched again.
“I have a tent and a sleeping roll you can use,” I offered. “You can stay here tonight, but you'll have to sleep outside.”
Relief washed over his face. “Oh, thanks, man. I appreciate it.” He stood and rolled his neck to the side. Once, twice.
“Are you okay?” I asked, motioning to his tics.
“Yeah.” John squinted his eyes shut and opened them again. “Just having rempka withdrawals. You don't mind if I shoot up out here, do you?”
I frowned and glanced at his bag. “As long as it doesn't affect me, you can do whatever you want.”
A shaky grin brightened his face. “Out of all the Bobs I've met, you're the best one.”
I huffed and turned away, feeling conflicted. I didn't know much about rempka, but rumors stated it was the worst drug of all. Few tried it once; its destructive and addictive nature killed thousands every year. As I prepared to go to bed, I pondered over whether any life magic existed that could cure addiction. I doubted it. There were so many psychological aspects to addiction, and life magic couldn't affect the mind. If there had been such a spell and I'd known it, I would have offered it to John for free in a heartbeat to help him.
I situated the chair beneath the broken door knob like I did every night. It didn't offer much protection, but I didn't know the first thing about fixing hardware and couldn't lock the door. I tugged the blankets down on the bed, but before I crawled in I brushed the near drape from the corner of the window to check on John. He hadn't touched the tent supplies I'd left outside for him. John still sat by the fading fire, resting one arm on a raised knee and tightening a tourniquet around it with his teeth. A prepared injection needle sat on a rock nearby, and he grabbed it like a saving grace.
John put the needle just outside a deep purple bruise on his inner elbow, and he grimaced as it punctured the sore skin. He emptied the clear drug into his veins. He'd told me earlier that while one could drink or inject rempka, putting it directly into the veins caused a more potent high. I believed him, for he abruptly stopped twitching and went limp, dropping his supplies and falling back into the bed of pine needles like a weighty lump. At first, I was concerned he'd overdosed, but then his stomach rose and fell with breaths.
I turned away from the depressing scene and went to bed.
*
Crrk! Crrk! Crrk!
I awoke with a start and scrambled out of bed. My hand instinctively swept under my bed and grabbed my scythe.
“Open up!” John screamed hoarsely on the other side of the door. It rattled in its frame. The chair keeping it closed scraped into the wooden floor, leaving scars and sprinkled wood chips.
“What do you want?” I shouted, my heart racing as I tried to figure out if he'd become hostile or was simply under the influence. I shoved my feet into my boots, but I didn't tie them.
“I want that blade, man,” he called throug
h the door like a whine, beating on it again.
I glanced down at my scythe. “You're not getting it.”
“But I want it,” John argued childishly, hitting the door again. His words slurred, but they weren't sluggish. Still, that told me he wasn't of mind.
“I have many more weapons you can go through,” I reasoned, thinking of all the looted weapons I'd buried with my corpses. “You can't have my scythe.”
“Open up,” he repeated.
“You're high,” I retorted. “You don't know what you're doing. Go sleep it off.”
“Oh, trust me. I know what I'm doing,” John argued through the door. “That scythe'll fetch me a nice chunk of gold in Sera. Beautiful weapon. Unique, too.”
I froze. Somehow, John admitting that hurt worse than the last time someone stabbed me. “You planned on robbing me?” I yelled, my voice heavy with sorrow. “After everything I gave to you freely?”
John chortled outside the door like he found my shock hilarious. “How do you think I pay for my habit, genius? Rempka ain't cheap. No hard feelings. I like you better than most. I definitely reconsidered doing this at all, but...” he trailed off and laughed again. “Well, then I got high. It makes me loopy!”
I stood in the middle of my cabin in a cloud of befuddled misery as John beat at the door. All the conversations we'd had throughout the day flooded back, along with the contentment, relief, and camaraderie I'd felt from having someone near. Now, a sick betrayal took their place.
I stared at the soft moonlight that leaked under the door as it danced with John's kicks. I helped you. I confided in you. I'd only confided in four people in my entire life. John was the only one I'd done so out of desperation, but I'd started to trust him nonetheless. Because it felt safer to do with a fellow criminal.
I would stop giving people the benefit of the doubt from this day forward. None of them ever deserved it.
“John,” I called out. “Just leave. I don't want to kill you, but I swear to the gods, if you kick at the door one more time—”
Crrk!
Anger took over, triggered by John's betrayal and his refusal to listen to me. I jerked the chair out from its place beneath the door handle. Before I could open the door John did so by kicking it again, tumbling into the cabin at the mercy of a sudden lack of resistance. I stepped to the side, watching him fall flat on his inebriated face before standing over him to block his exit, one boot on either side of his shoulders. John grunted as he spun between my boots to stare up at me. A squeak of a noise escaped his lips as he noticed the gleam of the scythe's blade in the moonlight streaming through the windows.
“Wait, man,” John blurted, hitting my left boot and trying to scoot out from under me. I moved the boot, but only to stamp it on his chest and hold him still. I held the scythe handle with both hands and ensured I could make the swing without hitting nearby furniture.
“Wait,” John pleaded again, though he still slurred with bewilderment from the rempka in his veins. “Keep the scythe. I don't fuckin' want it.”
“There was a line,” I retorted, my heart roaring so loudly in my ears I couldn't hear the curses John rambled that matched up with his moving mouth. “You already crossed it.”
The sharp whipping of metal cracked through the cabin as I swung the scythe in a downward arc. The tip of the blade sunk into the back of John's neck, curved in toward the spine. A metallic stench immediately engulfed the room as the wound bled, but the awkward angle kept it from killing him. As he coughed up blood and shook with sudden trauma, I jerked the blade further into his throat one tug at a time, ripping stubborn tendon to work metal through to the spine. Steel hit bone, sending reverberations of resistance through the handle to massage my arms. With his spine punctured, John finally ceased moving, and eyes widely dilated with a drug-induced stupor dulled.
With the quick confrontation over, the rage fled my head and left only misery. I stared at the body of a man I'd only hours ago considered befriending, and a profound sense of loss overcame me. I swayed on my feet until I collapsed on the side of my bed. Blood leaked out of John's wound in a constant stream, puddling over my hardwood floor and spreading to my belongings.
I grabbed my head with both hands and shook profusely. “Fuck.”
I'd been wrong to think death no longer fazed me. Death of foes didn't bother me at all. But as John's neck audibly emptied his body of all its blood onto my floor, I kept repeating everything he'd ever said to me in my head. It was possible he told me nothing but lies. Maybe he hadn't been born in Sera or traveled to the Cel Forest. Perhaps he'd had a lovely childhood. None of that mattered; I'd started to trust him. And here he was, dead by my blade after manipulating my only vulnerability: desperation for companionship.
I shed silent tears as blood pooled to all four corners of my cabin. It wasn't like I had anyone to hide it from. Once again, I was rendered utterly alone.
Twenty
I buried John in a shallow grave within view of the campfire where we'd eaten our shared meal. I found two hidden daggers in his boots and carved initials on the underside of multiple pieces of his armor. None of the initials were the same; his thievery had known few limits.
I dumped John's rempka and needles in with him, but I kept the knapsack. After some cleaning, it would serve me well. I found nothing to indicate John's true identity or whether anything he'd told me was true. As I shoveled dirt over his corpse until it disappeared, my eyes burned with unshed tears of panic because I second-guessed myself.
Conversations and happenings repeated in my head. Everything about the night before happened so quickly it was a blur, but a nagging question refused to leave me be.
Which was the true betrayer: John or rempka?
I didn't understand how rempka affected a man; I'd never knowingly seen someone abuse it before John. Anger from feeling betrayed and threatened was the final straw leading me to kill him, but what if he hadn't meant to betray me at all? What if the drug affected his decisions? John's daggers were still in his boots after death. When sober he was well-aware of my willingness to kill to survive; he'd have to be ignorant to think he could barge in to steal from me without a weapon in hand and win.
These reflections after killing John haunted me similarly to how I'd felt after taking the first man's life in Sera. There was no going back to re-evaluate situations to handle them correctly, if there were correct reactions at all. I could only move forward and learn from it. Beating myself up over decisions made during chaos meant I still possessed a shred of humanity, at least.
Even after scrubbing the cabin floors multiple times the blood stains in the hardwood refused to leave, like my own home would never let me forget tragic memories. It didn't matter whether I handled the situation with John well or not; every time I walked across the floor stained with his blood, I questioned it. The worst forms of torture are self-inflicted and psychological.
Mercifully, mercenaries took that time to show up again, which took my mind off of over-thinking my morality and put it back on battle. Once one group found my new location in the forest others followed, attracted there from pursuing the tracks of their predecessors and signs of recent conflict. I buried the corpses after each fight as usual, but I couldn't always find or remove other evidence such as bloodstains on tree bark or dropped supplies.
My seventeenth birthday passed in late-Red Moon without me realizing it until I changed the date in my journal the day after. I noted this birthday in particular for one important reason: it meant that soon I might face mercenaries who had once been my peers at the Seran University. Many mages began fieldwork at eighteen, and I'd been a good year younger than most my peers due to a late start. They allowed mages still enrolled in classes take up work with university approved mercenary parties or the official Seran Army as a form of internship. Kids I'd once shared classes with could end up hunting me. This excited and terrified me. I would jump at the chance to kill Kenady and his pretentious sidekicks, but the prospect of facing Kai i
n battle was too much to bear. Even if I managed to kill her, doing so would likely cause me to become deranged from despair and guilt.
Perhaps the myths about necromancers were right. They probably all went insane from lives of turmoil and loneliness. After all, Valerius died with a letter clutched protectively in his hand. He likely loved just as deeply as anyone else.
Similarly, I found solace in Kai's letter and the ring that hung from my neck. As more time passed, however, their nostalgic value changed. I still clung to them like lifelines connecting me to a normalcy I desperately wanted and could no longer have, but the memories I had involving both objects no longer felt like my own. My life had become so dramatically different in the course of a few years that it felt split into a before and after. The boy who once hoped for a good future wasn't just gone; I convinced myself he never existed. I read Kai's letter like I was a third party to it all, because surely I'd never had a friend. How had I ever trusted someone enough to make one? I held the ring from my parents and realized that if they were still alive, they wouldn't recognize me. I no longer resembled the son they'd loved and encouraged.
The seasons changed three times, and I barely noticed. I fell into a pattern.
Fish. Listen for attack. Raise corpses and defend cabin. Loot new corpses. Bury corpses. Rebuild defenses. Rinse and repeat.
The dates didn't matter when I had nothing but time, so the ones I ended up remembering most were particularly special for better or worse.
The 17th of High Star, 413 was the worst of them all.
Scorching sunlight rampaged through the forest canopy and became trapped in a fog of strangling humidity. After waking from a restless night of sweat-soaked tossing and turning, I grabbed my fishing rod and set out for the water. I wore my armor as usual, but mercenaries never found me at the stream since it arced south of the cabin and they came from the northwest. As I neared the cool water, I allowed this sense of security and the awful heat to guide my decisions. I set the fishing rod up against a dead pine and hung my satchel from a knob of wood. I started tugging off my armor, but I hesitated to pile it below my other things since recent rainfall turned the dirt into sopping mud. Eyeing the bank of the stream, I spotted a rock large and flat enough to hold my clothes, so I headed there and stripped.
