Revolutionary Veins

by Rey Balor

  The shuttle’s radio crackled, but she was too far to hear anything it may have said.

  Chapter 22: The Citadel

  “I have sinned;

  I have vowed;

  I have guarded against the world.”

  Death’s Lament, 7.11

  “They’ve called for a day of sacrifice, my Queen. It is the only day we may speak directly to Death, and if at the end of the day, Death has chosen a new captain, I shall be shamed.” Claymore tried to keep their head held high at the admission, but their eyes glowed all the darker at it.

  Right now, their fellow shields went through the rituals, while the captain took sole responsibility for the safety of the five Queens. It was a dual opportunity: the Aegis had to prove themselves before Death, and Claymore had to prove themself before the Queens. Claymore stood in the throne room, knowing they could do little else, and the room seemed far emptier and far colder with only the pair in the grand space. Claymore with their gifted cloak, freshly polished armor, and shaved head; the Queen with her fastened robe, loose hair, and bare feet. The rose throne loomed in the background.

  “We will know more when the sun sets,” Claymore finished.

  The Queen of the Summer Isles gave such a sympathetic look, worried as a friend might be instead of a ruler, that Claymore felt the urge to continue speaking. It was not duty that guided them for once, but it was a want for the Queen to understand their worry. Their vows, their principles, their very life was dedicated to the Aegis, and to have the shields turn against them was a cruelty they had brought upon themself, but a cruelty nonetheless. However, wanting was proving to be a dangerous thing. Had it not been want that set them in this situation in the first place, with lies so easily leaving them? They did not like it, but selfish want had made other emotions possible as well. Had it not been want that placed them so near to the Queen, so near to one so brilliant? Was such a thing bad?

  They could not form the words, but there was a slight, deep fear that it was their commandments that were wrong, not this stirring inside them.

  “If Death forsakes me, I have no choice but to reclaim it,” Claymore continued, stone-faced. Perhaps this would be the last time they would feel the weight of their blade or the warmth of their boots, hear the dripping rain on the stone walls outside, smell the mixture of sickly sweet perfumes and cool, cool marble of the floors. Perhaps this would be the last time they stood before the glory of home and hearth. In light of such an acknowledgement, they had to close their eyes to the relief of darkness. There would be nothing honorable about the act required of them should they be proven unworthy, but in taking their own life, they traveled to Death like an old friend instead of a bitter rival. They knew not what else to do.58

  The Queen cupped Claymore’s cheek gently in her hand, and beyond that empathetic smile, there was a warmness all others lacked when looking at the captain. Individuals only saw the arming-sword by their side and the vows carved into their pistol, but Claymore saw themself reflected in the Queen’s rich hazel eyes. There was something more there.59 At first, Claymore did not understand her look for what it was.

  “I would rather see you in life, my darling,” the Queen spoke.

  “I don’t understand why. I have followed your commands, but so could any other. So would any other.”

  “Do you know the purpose of a shield, dear Claymore? Of course you do. A shield protects, but a shield does not think of its own accord. It is little more than a piece of armor, and when it breaks, we replace it with ease. Such are the luxuries of the Citadel. Even your scriptures make note of this. What do they say? ‘Come back with your shield or on it.’” The dripping of the rain outside slowed, as if the world did not want Claymore to miss a single syllable the Queen spoke. She dropped her hand from Claymore’s cheek, continuing with a sad shake of her head. “Shields were meant to defend and ultimately break, if they accomplish their task. You were not meant to give your life in service of something greater; you were meant to usher in something greater. I look to you, and I see your claymore sword, I see your cloak, I see your hands. I do not see the shield you represent any longer. Sweet Aegis, you were born with a birthmate,60 and those blessed by life in such a fashion should never be resigned to mediocrity.”

  It stunned Claymore. Blasphemy, was it not? They were part of a whole, nothing more. To rebel against that would be to start a revolution they could not finish. It was not who they were, nor what they had ever wanted to be. They took a step back. Their sword remained close to their thigh, their cloak shifted quietly around their body, and their hands, the hands they wanted to protect the Queen with, were sweating. The Queen saw each of these things and offered so much more.

  What was blasphemy if not a form of truth?

  “We aspire for nothing more than duty. Yet still… Your words are kind, and I thank you for such kindness,” Claymore whispered. It was written in the Queen’s every interaction with the Aegis, ever since Claymore had taken the title of captain. In her expressions, in her words, in the brush of her hand — the Queen was kind, and Claymore wasn’t certain what to do in the face of it. To be the shield or the hand that held it?

  The Queen chuckled softly, tucking a loose strand of blonde hair behind her ear. It seemed to envelope her like the waves on a shore, and just like the water, the curls kissed her skin every time they moved. The woman was the closest thing to magic that the captain had ever reached.

  “I am not kind,” she corrected, leaving Claymore more confused. “Sometimes, I do kind acts, but I remember that I am not good, and it opens up so many doors for me, my darling. Morality will only ever get in the way of what needs to be done, and while I want nothing more than to be adored by the masses, there will always be those who carry hate in their hearts. They will die pitiful and sad, but I have greater plans than that.” Still unsure if they understood, Claymore remained silent, and the Queen lowered her voice in secret continuation. “Tell me something that no one else knows about you.”

  The conversation suddenly felt like sin, and everything said would only be further condemnation. Claymore had nothing to offer the Queen — nothing but everything they had once been, everything that had been stripped from them. Already, they had told her so much more than they had told anyone. They stumbled on what they wanted to say, able to feel the air tremble with the Queen’s anticipation. “My trueborn name…” Oh, it was a dangerous path they were moving down, but it was too late. The truth was falling from them, and they could only pray the Queen would catch it. A prayer to her had worked before. “I was once Athol Pen. I was once a good many things.”

  “Perhaps you will be again,” she said in wondrous answer.

  Strong with purpose, with the promise of tasting the infinite on her tongue, the Queen intertwined her fingers with Claymore’s and gently closed the space between them. Claymore had rarely been so touched, but the Queen leaned upward to press her lips against the captain’s own. Time stilled around the pair; the world abandoned the Aegis there. It was a deceptive gesture: for as soft as it was, it teased a reaction out of Claymore. They found themself yearning for more — a horrifically inappropriate reaction from a captain. They melted one moment, froze the next, and before the Queen could offer anything else, they were ripping away from her touch.

  Their cheeks flushed with a golden undertone, and they forgot the foundation of breathing. To breathe, one had to be in control, and control had slipped completely from them. Everything was a blur, and they continued to step backward, as if the Queen planned to chase them in her seduction. The woman wore a smile, never apologetic and never without a promise for something more. It was a promise Claymore was terrified to learn about, and their fingertips brushed against the curve of their mouth where the kiss had gone.

  “Why…?” They asked, unable to keep their voice from matching the wonder that had been in the Queen. It was all that could be said: why, why, why? Death had not prepared them for this life.

  “I cannot give you my truebor
n name yet, for various reasons, but believe me when I say I want to. I yearn to give you everything I am, Athol Pen, and it is because you stand there with such trust in you. You consider yourself my protector, and I wish to protect such trust from the outside world.” The Queen took a careful step forward, watching to see if Claymore would continue their flight. The captain stood almost a foot above her in height, but they carried the same expression as a trapped animal. The Queen treated them in the same way, allotting Claymore the choice to stay or run. Her entire reign was marked by the promise of choice, and when she was only an atom’s length away, Claymore made the decision to remain. “You are so careful, so new, and there is a world waiting for us — a new world. If Death forsakes you on this day, I say we forsake it in turn. Eternity is a long time to live alone, my darling, and yet, I ask you to live it with me.”

  The woman’s light touch threatened to burn; her heat was a warning that both would soon be swallowed by something much bigger than Claymore had prepared for. Each felt the air build around them, and each seemed to be waiting for how the other would push through it. In her confidence, the Queen had become the most dangerous woman known, and Claymore answered her plea with one of their own: leaning down so that they could willingly brush their lips against hers. Beyond the burning, there was calm in the gesture. After all, flames were only meant to last for so long; calmness was something much fickler and infinitely sweeter.

  The way the Queen looked at Claymore, in a way that they swore was meant to drive them mad, had to be considered wicked. They wanted — to see those rouge lips form an expression of pleasure, to remind them how alive they truly were, to love and laugh and be in this moment. Their hands had always held too much, carrying the weight of a world that would never fully be theirs. Such hands had been used to kill and hurt and protect, but they didn’t feel that way now. They felt soft as they rested on the Queen’s hips; they felt as if they would be enough to carry her soul, heavy as it had become throughout the centuries. Her hands, however, had always controlled too much in the kingdom, carrying the strength of a spiraling galaxy. Perhaps Claymore could hold the whole of the galaxy with her. Perhaps Claymore would not have to leave at all.

  It was wrong.

  They kissed her anyways.

  She contained the power of a goddess, but the tragedy of a myth — anyone willing to bend the set rules was a tragedy in the making, Claymore knew. What a pair they were! The sheer taboo of the situation pounded in the captain, matching the Queen touch for touch. A few pretty words, and the Aegis was willing to turn their back on those who were now praying to Death. If their sins no longer mattered, if they were to be shamed, why shouldn’t they satisfy this want blossoming so strongly in their chest?

  “You ask me to live, and I’ll live,” they murmured, forehead resting against the Queen’s own. Death crouched in the shadows, but for this one brilliant, terrifying moment, they paid it no mind; the Queen personified everything glorious they sought in it. “I rebel.” With a kiss, the world had become theirs, reclaimed from the deity who wanted to bury them inside of it. It was an equally brilliant, terrifying realization, but for the first time since the day of sacrifice had been announced, they smiled.

  The moment paused and shifted. With deft fingers, the Queen unlaced her robe and left it in a crumbled pile at her feet as she walked farther into the throne room. The cold marble floors swallowed the sounds of her steps, and once more, she was left in her purest form — only this time, it was for Claymore’s eyes alone. A strange humanness shone from the Queen. Everything good and bad about their species, every vulnerability, everything she was, and she was letting Claymore see it. The scent of roses trailed after her, beckoning them to follow, and when she sat in her throne and parted her legs, Claymore felt weak as they knelt before her. Here was true sanctuary, at the heat between the Queen’s thighs.

  Hand of devotion, spirit of Death, forgive me.

  Her fingers brushed against the nape of Claymore’s neck in encouragement, and they paused their tongue’s teasing to simply look up at her. They were desperate to touch, feel, revel in the fact they had her. The world had tried to damn them to purgatory, but by the Queen’s porcelain hands, Claymore was raised to the earth once more. She did not just carry the power of a universe; she was a universe. Nebulae sparked in her half-lidded eyes as she met their gaze, and her lips parted in a moan far more brilliant than the light of a new star.

  With another touch, Claymore damned themself.

  Across the Citadel, plumes of smoke roared as both the lamb and the blood that had been spilled from it were devoured by flame. Ash floated on the wind, and when the Aegis inhaled, each could begin to sense the secrets it held. Glaive believed she glimpsed something in the flickering shadows, but she said nothing. The images were too blurred, and her mind was floating to the group’s sworn captain, trapped indoors and barred from participating in the day of sacrifice. It made her stomach curl with disgust. If Death did not want the only individual who had dedicated every cell to it, what was Death searching so hungrily for?

  Shishpar stood separately, and by the furrow of his brows, it was clear he was as conflicted as her. The history of the Aegis was a complicated one, but Claymore had not led them astray as of yet. Was it fair that the group gave up on their captain so quickly? It was a cruel standard to hold their leader to: immaculate perfection or utter disgrace. The white of bone became visible from their sacrifice, and Shishpar felt nothing more than an aching sadness. If Death spoke to him, he did not hear.

  Maul and Falchion remained side by side, and they enjoyed the proceedings no more than the other two. The only difference was that they could mask their emotions as easily as ash masked the sun. Such rituals were part of duty, and duty came before all. It was precisely what Claymore preached, and for that, there would be no bad blood between the Aegis.

  The flickering light of the flame triggered something in Maul, and his body went taut, jaw locked from speech. As Maul slumped to the ground, Falchion could do little more than kneel beside his friend in hopes the episode would pass quickly. When Death touched them, brought them close to the edge and kissed their skin, it left its mark, and Maul had no exemptions from this. It took its toll, but gradually, the shaking in his body came to a halt, and his lungs filled with air easily once more. Even still, he remained resting against the ground for several minutes, and the others stood in a semicircle around him, ready to hear the deliverance he could offer.

  “It’s them,” he wheezed. “Whatever fate Claymore leads us to, we follow.”

  Shishpar and Glaive relaxed as soon as it was said, but Falchion remained at attention, gaze sharp on his friend. “‘ow do you know?”

  “I saw the whole Citadel burning,” he answered. “The walls were broken, and the people were revolting. Blood, smoke, all of it. The captain might be many things, but they won’t lead us to that. I vote we keep them.”

  Shishpar was the first to answer. “Aye.”

  “Aye,” Glaive followed.

  “…Aye,” Falchion finished, with more hesitance than the others.

  With the acceptance of each of the Aegis, it was decided. Whatever their captain had done, it was nothing compared to this new threat. Judgement was forgotten. The situation would have to be contained, and after each shield made the sign of the star across their chest, they headed to deliver the news to Claymore. The Aegis would follow them with the growing hope that they would lead them from such assured destruction.

  Chapter 23: The Wilds

  “There is nothing either good or bad,

  but thinking makes it so.”

  Death’s Lament, 32.15

  ARISTA:

  Illias gave himself three days with the group of guards — one to rest, one to befriend, and one to gather information. The band of aspiring soldiers was a close unit, a surprising fact in itself, and they welcomed him with warmth, which he returned in kind. As they spent all hours together, it allowed him a balanced position in the gr
oup. Morning was filled with training, afternoon was filled with patrol, and, most intriguing of all, evening brought them within the walls of the inner Citadel itself.

  It was his third day in the city, and the small group walked along the edges of the Citadel’s inner walls. Only the Aegis themselves seemed to wear armor, and the others traced a star across their chests each time they passed one of the five. Illias refused such signs, and although he was quietly chastised each time, under the guise of a village man’s ignorance, he was allowed his quiet form of rebellion. His clothes had been changed to the gray garments of the Queens’ followers, his hair had been combed and tied back at the nape of his neck, and his skin had been scrubbed of the wild’s dust and dirt — refusing their symbols was the only thing he had.

  The line of guards in his group stepped in time, but his feet hit against the ground without any notice of their careful precession. As the group’s commanding officer, Lye led them and continued to glance over his shoulder, ensuring the band remained somewhat presentable in the Citadel. When he fixed his attention forward again, Pan leaned close to Illias to pass along whispered stories. Illias’s attention was torn between these glimpses into her life and searching for a way to slip away toward where the Queens rested. He had not even managed a glimpse of their thrones.

  “They’re made of the bones of Erie-folk, aren’t they? The thrones of the five?” he interrupted Pan’s story with a whisper of his own.

  She did not miss a step in line, instead giving a soft sigh that sent her bangs fluttering. “No, they aren’t made from the bones of the wolflings. They’re made of other stuff, I guess.”

  Lye lifted his hand, forcing them all to pause. Their round was quickly coming to an end, and Illias was no closer to a discussion with the Queens than when he first arrived. He could feel his cheeks blotching red with the humiliation of failure so close, and the scent of sweat and cement only served to taunt him further. How much of his people’s ashes rested in those endless walls? He nearly ran into the guard in front of him, but he caught himself.