The Lupine Curse: A Tale of Netherway
Chapter 18: Chasing Dawn

That morning was like any other. That is to say, quiet, sleepless, and echoing ever so often with Vidarr’s footsteps.

The old stairs leading from the dormitories creaked under him, though there was no tap of his foot as he padded like a cat to ascend them. Vidarr’s trained step couldn’t stir so much as a sleeping ghost.

He had just returned from the kitchen to retrieve salves from the botanist’s cabinet. It relieved some of the pain and quickened the healing, though for the most part, it left a strong odor of ground herbs in his bruised nose, much to his chagrin.

Vidarr didn’t put the salves back once he finished using them, as he had the passed two days. Behind the closed door of his dormitory, he shoved them into a satchel, with a few other books he had kept tucked under his bed, minding the objects in the room as he contemplated what was necessary, and what could be left behind.

Someone knocked on the door. Vidarr’s heartbeat quickened as he thought about another visit from Dalibor and the Hands. I’d kill them, this time. Kill them as sure as Siflos’ step. Fortunately, a gentle voice answered his thoughts.

“I heard you downstairs,” said Ashara. “I stayed up after hours to search for you. No one has seen you for two days. Will is worried for you, and so am I.”

Vidarr didn’t say anything.

“… Are you asleep?”

“No. Come in.” He had considered not responding at all.

She had been yearning to see his face; it was always a comfort to her. But his back was to the door, and his arms were reaching to items strewn out on his bed, organizing them into his satchel. He was already dressed in his black, worn traveling cloak, fastened by a miniature dagger with a ruby stud. Even his dagger was hanging loyally at his waist. It didn’t take more than a moment to figure out what he was doing.

He turned around. Ashara gasped. “Afimer have mercy. I’ll kill—”

“Ashara, I appreciate it. I really do. But please, don’t—”

“Two days ago, I awoke in the middle of the day, and found the hearth still warm with embers. The smell of burnt flesh and hair was lingering in the air. I thought someone had, well, I don’t know what I thought. But it was you, wasn’t it? You were burning?”

“Yes, it was me who got cooked like a slice of ham.” He undid the bandages and showed her the wound. It seemed to flare with a heat of its own.

“Who?” Her eyes were already brimming with hateful tears.

“It doesn’t matter who.”

“Who, Vidarr.”

“If I tell you …”

“By my stars, I swear I won’t lift a finger. Just. Tell me.”

“Dalibor, Signy, Sindri. And a younger one I don’t know. Younger than you.”

She shook her head and took up his hand in hers. Her finger fell on the mark just to test the tenderness, and Vidarr winced, pulling it back and wrapping it up immediately. “What does it—”

“Traitor, I suppose. What other words could they possibly have in mind? Tickle?”

Ashara stepped closer and held his face, forcing him to interrupt his packing.

She’d never seen anyone besides the dead this damaged before. There was more color from the vibrant bruising than the pale of his flesh, some of the hues delving into a deep black—as if the skin already belonged to a frozen corpse. Where the white of his eyes should have been, a murky red had replaced it.

His face looked more stoney than it ever had, as his muscles flared with pain at every expression. To relieve himself, he was forced into scowling.

Not that it was much different than usual.

She was overwhelmed by a paralyzing helplessness. She couldn’t do a thing for him, or herself. And when she realized it, she could scarcely utter a word, couldn’t look him in the eyes. But more importantly, she couldn’t let him leave her behind.

Her thoughts froze. Words choked her throat.

Vidarr had to stumble backwards to catch her as she all but fell into his arms, clutching him so tight through his clothes he could feel her nails digging into his skin. She was shaking, trying to keep the tears back, but it was all that she could do not to sob hysterically.

“Everything will be fine,” he whispered to her. But he actually believed it. The words even made him feel more confident. He kissed the top of her head.

“Why didn’t you?” Her voice was muffled.

“Kill them? For what, doing what they were raised to do? I would only be serving as an example for the rest of them. The High Priest would make it seem as if I had killed them out of malice, instead of defense. He’d twist the story for his own purpose.”

She looked at him with eyes, now red from crying, searching, pouring all her hope into him.

“And, gods be good, I would never want them to hurt you. If I let their provocations tempt me to action, perhaps others would think to do the same to you.” This time, it was Vidarr who gently touched her face. He stroked her cheek with his thumbs, wiping her tears. “Keep your brilliantly silver head down, Ashara, and all will be well, one way or another. It was my foolery that got their attention. ” He kissed her head again. “They won’t notice you so long as you hide what’s inside. On the outside you’re simply a strange gem in the ruff of them. Only I can see what beauty is beneath the surface.” He grinned at her, and his face felt on fire again. She managed to smile back, so it was worth it. “And so you understand,” he began again slowly, “why I must leave?”

“But haven’t we already spoken of this? You’re asking for an arrow in your back. They’ll murder you.”

“It’s either I die here or out there. That much has been true since I was born, but it is obvious now, it will be by my own blood that kills me, my own brothers or sisters, if I stay. Running, I have a chance to die by a kinder fate.” Vidarr nodded at his window, which showed the last of autumn’s leaves dancing on a massive tree growing beside the house. “I don’t mind dying with blood in my mouth and iron in my bones, Ashara. And so long as I live, I won’t harm another Cursed. I’ve been thinking about that—too much, maybe—and wondering: what if they are more similar to us than we think? What if they are just lost, killing on instinct rather than reason? What is the Crimson Hand, if not that?”

“And maybe that’s true, but can’t you see that, this time, you are the sheep? You’re walking straight into their ploy. They wanted to hurt you so you’d run.”

Vidarr didn’t like to admit it, but lately, he did feel afraid. His face tensed. The bones in his cheeks stabbed like daggers.

“The moment you leave, they’ll pounce on you—finish the kill. And the last thing you taste won’t be freedom, it will be the foolish, angry decision you made rotting in your mouth.” She felt hurt that he would even consider leaving; he was all she had, and nothing he said suggested he planned on taking her with him—not that she’d be brave enough to accept, even if he did.

Her weakness made her hate herself more than anything.

“I am afraid. I am frightened, enraged. But I have been living in the shadow of the High Priest all my life, hiding from a leader whose name is a mystery to us all. I have always been frightened. I have always been afraid. This is so that, one day, I won’t have to anymore.

“Average folk worry about Death. Fear and respect her. But we are quivering beneath a single elf with a longsword he uses to cut down his own followers. Hiding from those very same followers, too. How pitiful is that? Beyond all else, Ashara, I am enraged.”

More tears flooded her eyes, soaking Vidarr with their misery. “And the anger, it’s been building up all your life. It has been in all of my life. It did, even with Sinara’s. But she stayed, I stayed. She saw her life through. I’m going to do the same, and spare myself from gambling with suicide. Now you’re just going to let that anger burst out of you, make you do something idiotic, foolish and stupid!”

“If that is what you must see me as so I may leave quietly, so be it. Just know this: we are all dancing with Death. I am merely deciding to do it someplace else.”

When their words had finally ceased, Vidarr finished packing. Most of his belongings had remained where they always were, save for the books he’d stashed—literature that the Crimson Hand banned, ranging from poetry to contrasting philosophies. His shelves kept the dust-covered tomes of his cult’s history and Afimer’s proclamations, (as interpreted by Vorus Scarlet). The only thing that seemed strange was his empty desk, usually occupied by inkwells and quills. They were now in his rucksack with the rest of his belongings, with the hopes that one day he would replace peace enough to use them frequently.

Now at the door, Vidarr was shaking with anxiety, meanwhile Ashara was still with sadness.

“Perhaps one day I will be foolish enough to join you,” she said.

“That is, of course, if you don’t hear of my body being found beforehand.”

“You mustn’t talk that way if you are going to do this,” she said, tucking a lock of silver behind her ear. “A wise traveler once told me that words and thoughts are the first steps of our future.”

“Oh?” Vidarr politely allowed his heart to melt as he recalled telling that to a very young Ashara, long ago.

She smiled. It’s strange, and almost remarkable, how there can be so much sadness in a smile.

Returning a familiar look of affection, Vidarr felt some of his worry melt away with his heart. “Then what would you say, if you were to create my future? What would you tell an old fool before he embarked on a long quest?”

“That you would be pleasantly surprised with what you discover on your path.”

“Not eternal happiness, peace and good company, away from the worries of the world?”

“That’s far too boring.”

Somehow, they managed to kindle a laugh together, before he crushed her in an embrace. As he released her, he said his farewell.

And before he could trust his instincts to stay, he opened the door.

But his scowl returned, though it was not because of his wounds. He looked down at the foot of the door, then back to Ashara, and followed her gaze again to what lay at their feet. “Pleasantly surprised,” he grumbled.