The Lupine Curse: A Tale of Netherway
Chapter 22: The Swing of a Sword

It was an autumn morning covered in winter’s frost, howling with its wind. Leaves were falling from an ancient tree in aged hues, rustling past the feet of a mutilated corpse dangling by its hands from an iron post, beside the road just outside the dormitories. A crow dove from the nearby tree, landing on a bony shoulder to pick out the remaining eyeball.

The High Priest is getting more creative with his executions, Fenris thought as the crow ate with relish.

Ashara and Vidarr were not always there to keep him company in the mornings, though he didn’t particularly mind that. They did what they could to resist their urges to sleep, but the occasional nightly hunt left them exhausted and wearied. Even Vidarr—becoming more guilt-ridden with each day—had to spare himself from the agony of prolonged sleep deprivation, though he often murmured, “I deserve it,” and found chores to do for Fenris almost incessantly.

But Fenris understood the desire to inflict pain on oneself for the sake of past deeds, so he didn’t say anything about it. He knew the effect he had on Vidarr whenever they exchanged glances. There was always contrition in his eyes, no matter what transpired that day.

He felt he never could atone for what he did. Neither did Fenris.

Unconsciously, they were becoming fast friends.

The familiar aches of depression had returned. As his body healed, he needed less sleep, and spent more of his waking hours thinking of Evara and Ash, people of his past, wishing he had never interrupted their lives.

The sound of leather soles on wood interrupted his thoughts. Fenris forced a calm breath through himself, despite the hammering of his heart.

Ashara was silent, sleeping under the bed. It was forbidden for two followers to sleep in the same bed, so they often swapped places to be more inconspicuous. She had argued that his body needed the mattress in order to sleep and heal properly. He had relented, but now he regretted it.

Vidarr topple onto his bed like a rock into sand, hours before.

Whoever was coming was going to meet Fenris alone.

The sounds of the footsteps ceased. Fenris pulled the mask Ashara lent him over his face, and drew the hood down so only his eyes were showing.

Ashara will know what to do, Fenris thought as he rushed to the side of the bed. As soon as he stood up, the footsteps started again, only this time they did not stop; the door opened, and someone stepped in. The door clicked shut again. Fenris cursed himself for not asking Ashara for her weapon.

It was clear who it was, even though Fenris had never seen him before. Vidarr had told him the stories, uttered the name with a scowl. He put a cold hand on his shoulder, with a grip like stone. “Good morning, brother,” the assassin said.

Fenris was not in the mood for games, or pretending to be someone he wasn’t. “I’m not your brother,” Fenris replied. The assassin’s other hand was on the hilt of his dagger. Fenris returned to his seat by the window and looked out, as if nothing was the matter.

All the light in the room seemed to dim. The boy’s eyes focused on the details outside; he realized, perhaps, this could be his last glimpse of an autumn morning.

“It’s not wise for you to neglect your rest. The High Priest told me we will need to refine our methods of hunting, spend longer hours searching … expand our territory. He told me that the peasant could have afflicted dozens, by now.”

“That’s simply not true,” Fenris replied. His hands curled into fists.

Dalibor’s voice was purring like a cat’s before it caught its prey. He returned his hand to Fenris’ shoulder once he was close enough.

Being so close to Death did not frighten Fenris, not nearly as much as he thought it should’ve. “Where’s Ashara?” the assassin asked him.

“Maybe she transferred rooms,” Fenris offered.

Dalibor scoffed, spluttered, falling out of character. “That is mockery. We don’t transfer rooms, here. Nobody transfers rooms.”

“Oh? Then I suppose the High Priest didn’t inform you. Perhaps you should ask him,” Fenris replied, tossing him a daring glance with green, sarcastic eyes.

Dalibor’s chest huffed, enraged. He wanted his prey to challenge him; he wanted the kill to be something to enjoy. Fenris, certain that his death was within minutes, continued staring out the window and thinking of strange responses to amuse himself before his time came.

Ashara realized what she’d been hearing was not a dream. She tried to sneak from under the bed, but the floorboard creaked, and Dalibor felt the movement instantly. “Well, good morning to you,” he spat. “I hope you’re quite proud of yourself, harboring a Cursed One, letting him sleep atop your bed as if he was one of us. Did you really think it would fool many of us for long?”

“Somewhat, yes. I also think you are animals. Scream all you want, Dalibor, alert the others. You won’t get the satisfaction of me begging,” Ashara said as she crawled out fully, her hair a tangled mess of silver curls.

Fenris smirked.

“You’re a leech, you and that traitor I taught a lesson weeks before. We keep these lands safe, Ashara. How dare you betray your own kind? And so blatantly? For the likes of this creature?”

Just as she got to her feet, Dalibor smacked the back of his hand across her face. She didn’t react, just clenched her eyes shut while Dalibor dragged Fenris from the room. He kicked and squirmed, but his grip was too tight. Fenris could feel his arm losing circulation as his feet thumped against the stairs, alerting the sleeping assassins like a wooden bell.

At the last few steps, Fenris wriggled enough that they both toppled to the ground, and for a moment he was free. Dalibor lashed out with his dagger, managing to cut his leg and drag him back, leaving a blood smear on the floor.

Where’s Vidarr? Where’s Ashara? Fenris’ instincts returned, he panicked, clawing the wood as he tried to get away desperately. Thoughts of jumping through a nearby window were beginning to seem more and more reasonable. Splinters of wood dug into his fingers.

“Let go of me, filth!” Fenris snapped his teeth together as he tried to gnaw into the elf’s wrist.

“Biting already? You haven’t even shifted.” Dalibor laughed darkly. “Wake! Wake up you unobservant fools! We’ve been betrayed!”

The hand with the dagger was vulnerable. Fenris wrestled it into his grip, opened his jaws and …

Dalibor’s knee slammed into his chin. Fenris glimpsed an opportunity as the momentum sprawled him forward, and dove for the front door. His hand wrenched the handle open, a gust of cold air embraced him, but Dalibor caught the heel of his foot just as he was about to lunge out.

He brought him back after kicking his legs from under him, such that his head slammed against the floor with an audible crack.

“Demonic thing!”

Fenris meant to speak, but a growl came out instead. Blood poured from the side of his eye where his head had met the floor.

Dalibor shoved him down, pressed his knee against his back. “Stubborn brat,” he spat at him.

Finally, he stopped fighting it. Fenris let himself go limp, and breathed hard while the waves of pain came back through the numb of adrenaline.

Members of the Red Hand stormed from their rooms. They all descended the stairs swiftly, like a stream of black water that found another path, enraged, interrupted during the deepest hours of their sleep, and confused.

“We’ve been searching for long since that night, brothers and sisters, searching for that foul creature’s infected son. And here he is! The offspring of Siflos himself! Look upon his scar, see the mutilation, see the decay of his spirit before you! Do you see the lack of humility in his eyes?”

Ashara’s face came into view from the top of the banister. Vidarr was behind her, then slipped into the crowd beneath the long flight of stairs.

Besides those two, there wasn’t a single person in the room that didn’t want a piece of him. They had been searching through the densest and darkest thickets of the Duskenwoods, even reaching to the borders of the Tangled Expanse; they were exhausted, disappointed. Most of all: bloodthirsty.

Dalibor was moving Fenris around so each of them could get a good look. “And now we see not one, but three souls at fault! For we’ve been searching through every last, forsaken brush and groove of those forests, only to replace that this creature has been sleeping with one of our own the entire time.” An outpour of shouts and curses nearly shook the roof. “But now he’s here, kneeling, awaiting his penance.” Dalibor pushed Fenris to his knees. “Now the hunt is over.” The edge of his dagger slid beneath his throat.

A fistful of his hair was grasped and wrenched back, till his neck was stretched as far as it might.

Fenris closed his eyes.

“Dalibor!” the High Priest’s voice thundered.

The crowd parted and he strode through, towering over all of them, dressed with his longsword and two daggers.

Fenris never imagined he would be so thankful to finally meet their leader.

“Priest … I found him. Caught him this very morning.”

“And what did you think you were doing?” he asked, eyeing the bloody dagger in his hand.

Dalibor stammered. “Well, I … I was simply—”

The High Priest kicked Dalibor square in the chest. The whole room heard the crack of his ribs. He was sent into the cultists behind him, who sidestepped to let him fall to the ground, coughing and wheezing. His dagger flew from his hand, sliding to the edge of the room.

“Fool. Do you think me blind? You don’t rally your brethren, I do. Who gave you the right, the authority, to call upon my children?”

Dalibor was clutching his stomach and groaning. “But Priest … the Cursed One. I found him.” He raised a finger at Fenris, as if it were not obvious that the only kneeling, bleeding, human in the room was not the evidence of his toil.

The High Priest sighed. “And if it weren’t for that detail, you’d have your head off right now—for your insolence. Some gratitude is expected for that,” he added. “Put your finger down before I snap it and use the three pieces to draw straws for who gets to kick you next.”

“My head!?” Dalibor shouted in a voice muddled by surprise and rage.

They all widened their eyes at his defiance. A hush very much like the one at the cliff, where the follower was pushed from the edge, entered the room.

The High Priest slowly, deliberately walked toward Dalibor, the scene of his death already playing out in their eyes. The elf looked scrawny and weak as he crawled backwards in retreat, stuttering like a fool. “I-it was Ashara who had him! Ashara was hiding him in her room, keeping him safe, feeding him! Please, High Priest, forgive me! I didn’t wish to speak out against you.”

The look of a bird before it devours a mouse. Calculating, severe, unforgiving. That was the High Priest’s expression, before it faded at the name: Ashara.

Fenris watched it in fascination, glad that the attention shifted from him to the High Priest, as something of confusion, maybe even concern, swept over his face.

“I will deal with her personally,” he said quietly. The Priest’s hand relaxed, and fell from the handle of one of his daggers. Dalibor hid his sigh, but was just as mystified that his life had been spared by the mention of Ashara being a traitor, which should have only enraged him more.

Even if it did not anger him, no one suspected words alone would ever stop the High Priest once he’d made a decision to kill something, or someone. They’d seen too many fall halfway through their beseeches, shameless begging and prayers, literally choking on their words.

In humiliation, Dalibor shrank away, inching away towards his dagger. His demeanor had gone from that of a courageous leader to a reprimanded child all within a few moments. Even Fenris, who could no longer feel his leg, was amazed, and chuckling.

“Hmm, laughing?” The High Priest grinned—not wickedly—at the boy, turning his body and attention fully to him. “I suppose this must be shocking to you, after all. A little laughter could help remedy that.”

Fenris resisted the urge to replace Vidarr and Ashara’s eyes in the crowd. He nodded.

“So, you are the Cursed One of Crowshead?” The High Priest asked, crouching down to meet him at eye level, as if talking to a child who could never possibly understand life’s complexities. “At long last, we’ve found you. Or, at least, you’ve found us. And you seduced Ashara into healing you. Fascinating.”

Seduced? Fenris didn’t laugh, this time, though the situation had grown relatively lighter. The tension had shattered. The situation was naked. Crumbling, afire, and burning with the fact that he would be executed, but bare and truthful nonetheless. “Tell me, has she licked your wounds enough, or are you still weak? Broken from the transformations?”

In truth, he hadn’t felt whole since the first day he felt the nail digging into his side. I’ve been broken this whole time.“I can’t seem to pick up the pieces,” Fenris mumbled.

“The pieces?” The High Priest scrutinized the boy’s eyes. “Curious response,” he murmured, more to himself.

Fenris only bowed his head.

“Regardless!” the High Priest exclaimed, standing to his feet, joyful at last. “We cannot perform the purification this morning. There is far too much sunlight, and any ritual done under the sun of Bafimer will be ineffective. We want the Cursed’s soul to be cleansed when it departs, and only Afimer’s moon can do that. Please, everyone return to your rooms and rest well. We’ll keep it where it belongs until it is time. That is, a cage. We will await the waning moon, the time of month when all things meant to fade, shall.”

The High Priest, who noted his bleeding leg, offered his arm to help Fenris stagger to his feet. Reluctantly, he grasped his forearm and was hauled up.

“As for you, Ashara, please do not attempt anything foolish. I would hate to chase you down. Surely, a quiver full of arrows is far worse than a single, clean cut. You would be following in your sister’s footsteps, after all. A much more romantic gesture, no?”

Fenris was able to lift his eyes up and meet her downtrodden gaze, before the High Priest pulled him. “Come,” he commanded.

They emerged into the morning light. Fenris was leaving a trail of blood behind him. To his surprise, he wasn’t lead immediately to the cage. The High Priest lead him around the left corner of the massive house, and kept walking at a leisurely pace. “We’ll take our time in the shade,” he explained, “no sense in rushing to bed after being awoken with such an exciting event. We’ll let things simmer.” His voice was deep, calm.

Fenris thought to himself, Had I not been Cursed and met this elf on the road, I might not have thought him to be so terrifying.

“You’re a foolish boy. Foolish, but brave.”

Fenris raised his eyebrows, and couldn’t replace a response.

“Doubtless, there are few your age who earn scars like that,” the High Priest said, nodding at his face.

Fenris snorted. “That one was earned by foolishness.”

“And what of the mark that cursed you?”

He stammered.

“It was bravery, wasn’t it?” the High Priest was careful with the kindness that just barely seeped through the cracks of his stoney voice.

“It was … kindness,” Fenris agreed hesitantly, as he thought of the way Deidre was standing there, defenseless, her eyes shut tight, her hands conjuring that blessing.

The High Priest hummed. “It is often this way.”

“How many of us have you killed?” Fenris asked.

“Oh, hundreds.” He waved his hand, as if it were a trivial thing. “But … in all honesty, your race has been falling on its last hind legs, if you will, in recent years and seasons. Perhaps in the Moonlands, you are the last of but a handful. I would be surprised if you could count them beyond the fingers on one hand.

“ It saddens me to say this: but it seems our kin won’t be needed much longer. I tell my followers otherwise, of course, but I think our duties here have all but been fulfilled completely.”

Fenris face contorted with anger. “Why does that sadden you?”

“Well, what do you do with your life when your calling has been answered, a quest given, and its duty fulfilled?”

Fenris shrugged. “Find another quest, if you must call it that. Some do not have any to begin with. Some just farm the land, eat the harvest, and do it all again the next day.”

The High Priest looked down at the boy with a strange look, something that Fenris might’ve considered friendly. “I always loved whittling,” he admitted. “Before I was appointed the high priest here, I carved runes and small busts of Afimer and his patron gods for other villages.”

There were thick clouds coming on the horizon. For now, the unimpeded rays of sunlight were hitting the Priest’s face unforgivingly, brightening the red color of his eyes to a harsh brilliance. “It’s a shame you hate Bafimer so much; his sun complements your eyes. Shouldn’t you be hating Siflos more, anyways? Don’t you believe he’s my father?” Fenris’ left sock was now soaked with his blood.

His voice turned sharp, and abrupt. “Everyone hates Siflos. That hatred is not meaningful. Do not question my principles.”

There was a long silence. “But, why do you speak so kindly to me?” he asked. “This whole time I dreaded meeting you.” Fenris stared at the thick bedding of leaves on the ground. He picked one up—crisp, curled and red.

“No sense in hating somebody who already loathes himself.”

“Is it that obvious?”

“Had you not tortured yourself enough, Fenris, I would have done it for you. But I’ve seen far older people succumb to this curse and try to reason their way out of penance, out of the process of judgement they owe themselves. Something tells me, though, that you—at least a part of you—wants this.”

It certainly was true, but even Fenris could not bring himself to affirm the hands that would swing the sword upon his neck. “The worst part about shapeshifting, High Priest, is that by the time you are human again, you have lost a sense of time, of growth. You are literally torn from yourself.”

“What are you saying?” he asked as they rounded the last corner of the house, and found themselves on the road again, across from the cage.

“I’m saying I’m undecided.” Fenris dropped the leaf and picked up another.

“Well, I’ll make sure to bury you beneath a heap of leaves. You seem to enjoy looking at them.”

“Don’t you like them as well? Look, this one is the color of blood.” He offered it to the High Priest, who took it from his hand, careful not to touch his skin.

He twiddled with the stem of it. “Earlier … you said something about pieces. What pieces?”

Fenris laughed, his teeth white and perfect from the transformations. Yet, he felt hallow inside. “Perhaps it will come to you as my head falls from my shoulders.”

The High Priest grunted with dissatisfaction. He retrieved a key from his pocket and unlocked the cage. “It appears we’ve arrived.” Fenris let himself through the massive door and stood there as the iron hinged squealed. The mechanism made a satisfying snap as the key locked it tight.

“You know, this is what caused the Curse to spread to you. Or rather, the lack of it, which led to the events that ensued.” The High Priest went into his pocket again and withdrew a vial. The liquid inside was the color of bile. “It a precaution that simple must be taken, and was neglected the night you were afflicted.”

Fenris looked at it questioningly. Then, the Priest uncorked it, and cringed as he reached over the cage and poured it over him. Fenris did not flinch as the foul concoction showered over his body, but soon his face turned green while the smell overcame his senses.

He spat out a little of the poison which had collected on his lip. “What … is this?” Although the wind was not particularly cold against the clothes lent to him, he started shivering.

“The Cursed we held here in this camp escaped. During the execution, one of my followers forgot to bring this elixir with him. As a result, the creature shifted, and nearly killed all of us. The harsh truth is this, Fenris: brave, stupid, foolish or not, you will die. You must. It’s only right. For these lands, and for the people in them.”

The words just scarcely reached Fenris. He was quickly losing touch with consciousness. His body swayed, and he fell to the back of the cage. It was as if winter harbored itself in Fenris’ spine, and finally uncurled to spread its frost across his body. The potion was taking its effect: a paralytic, soporific, painful elixir.

He blinked.

The High Priest had disappeared from the courtyard.

When did the sun go down?

Fenris could feel the concoction saturating him. It turned his bones to ice. He was sprawled on the floor of the cage, shivering as he tried to move his body—a toe, a finger, anything. From the corner of his eye, he could see the veins in his wrist bursting with hues of blue and violet. Time slowed to such an unbearable pace that the rustle of leaves sounded like the tremors of a quake.

“I’m so cold,” Fenris whispered to himself, or at least thought he did. His body shook. He began to ponder on the fact that these would be his last sensations before he died. Icy tears formed at the corners of his eyes. They fell, crystallizing and freezing on his cheek. When he tried to brush them away, he found they were frozen to his skin. This only made him weep more, as the world turned unbearably dark.

Worst of all, it was the confusion of a sleeper between dreams, reality and nightmares; it was the odd place which intertwined the two. That feeling as if all was unreal would not leave him, would not crawl off of the sickly, cold sweat on his skin.

“Fenris. Fenris are you alive?”

It was Vidarr’s voice, drifting through the veil of Fenris’ mind. Deep into his frozen slumber, Vidarr’s words dragged him out of his sleep. Although he could feel his eyes quivering, and his ears picking up the slow breathing of the Moon-elf, he thought he was only sinking deeper into that frozen rest, imagining it all, as he had imagined the frozen tears.

“I suppose that’s a stupid question.” Vidarr sighed. “You know I used to be the one who brewed these potions. After I saw what it did to … folks like you, I stopped. I had to convince the High Priest that the fumes from the spellwork were getting to my head. I’m not the best alchemist, anyways.”

Hardly lucid, he stirred. Every bone and muscle in his body had grown complacent to the effects of the elixir. When he moved his shoulder, it felt as if it had turned to iron and rusted in its socket.

“I don’t know why I’m telling you this. I suppose I squandered the opportunity to speak with you when you were with us. I had been wanting to escape to the outside world for so long now, and the moment the world came to me, in the form of you, I could hardly grasp it.”

There was a long silence. For awhile, Fenris thought he’d left. He couldn’t see. It was too dark out, and he still hadn’t managed to open his eyes.

“I’m sorry,” he heard from somewhere between his dreams.

Fenris tried to move his lips. A hoarse cough shook some of the chill in his throat. “W—why are you … h—here? H—he’ll see you,” he stuttered. By now, Fenris didn’t have the stamina to care for himself. He was ashamed he had not accepted his fate the moment he found the nail in his side.

I should’ve jumped off that cliff as my father did. Nobody would have been hurt.

Vidarr reached through the small gap in the iron bars, and shook Fenris. “I know how these potions work. The more you move, the easier it will be. Please, get yourself to sit up, at least. If you stay down there, it’ll only get worse. You will go numb until you die. I’ve seen it before.”

“W—why?” Fenris asked while he obeyed, slowly. Everything burned terribly, as if his skin was pushed against the wall of a glacier. Only when he moved his limbs did the pain start to fade.

“The High Priest said we have to keep you healthy for the stump. He sent me out here to feed you and warm you, just enough to give you strength. I’ve been watching you from my window, Fenris. I could tell you were close.”

“S—stump?”

“It’s where you head will be before …” Vidarr stopped himself, wondering why he wasn’t better with words despite all the books he read.

Fenris got himself to sit up, against the back of the cage. At least he could look Vidarr in the eye. “No. W—why should I live, now? Why fight?” Needles stabbed his hand. His sense of smell returned, though he didn’t appreciate what it brought him: raw meat.

He shrugged. “If I didn’t volunteer to feed you, someone like Dalibor would’ve. I’m not saying you should live now. I’m tired of this world, as you are. They wouldn’t let me cook the meat. The High Priest insisted it was raw. I don’t know why. Do you still want it?”

Fenris nodded his head. “Not t—tired of this world,” he slurred. “This path. I’d just t—take any other. Yes.”

Vidarr pushed a blanket through the bars and helped Fenris wrap it in himself. Awkwardly, he fed him the chopped up, raw meat they’d prepared for him. “I tried to tell them to cook it …” he started again, but Fenris shook his head and took it gladly; he hadn’t had a proper meal in too long. It was cold, and he could scarcely chew it, but it slithered down his throat easily enough.

“W—what meat is this?”

Vidarr just looked down at the plate and back at him. It said everything.

“Orphan, murderer, Cursed, and now c—cannibal. I never would’ve thought as a child …” he chuckled sadly to himself. “It’s n—not exactly the … dreams I had. You know, a b—blacksmith.”

“We can never be certain of what’ll chance upon our paths. That’s why we’re creatures of worry. Worrying, overthinking … it’s simply our nature. Maybe that’s why there are so many gods, and so many followers to whisper prayers. People just want to feel comfortable in their own skin.”

Fenris was done with philosophy, for the moment, as the last of the chunks slid down his throat. He counted six, though it felt like a dozen. “What about Ashara? Will she die before me?”

Vidarr thought it over. “Traitors are treated more harshly than others. It’s possible she will be forced to suffer the shame of having you watch her.”

“This has happened before?”

“Of course not,” Vidarr scoffed. No one has ever been so selfless, nor mad, as Ashara, not even her sister. “I can only imagine from what I’ve seen. One night, many years ago, the High Priest planned to execute one of your kind. Before he brought the sword down, another one of his followers tried to stab him. The werewolf was left for the High Priest to deal with while the assassin was stabbed by the rest of us. Of course, the Priest hardly flinched—we were trained to protect him, and he needn’t worry.”

Vidarr saw the look that passed through his eyes. “But you don’t need to hear this.” He fidgeted with the handle of his dagger while the guilt drove its blade deeper into his chest. “I’ll come back in a few hours to check on you again. Try to stay awake, Fenris.”

“Why?”

“You can fall asleep, and dream all you want if you wish to… but these may be your last thoughts. If I were you, I’d think them into eternity.” Vidarr turned away, and walked back to the dormitories.

Fenris clenched and unclenched his hand. There was some sensation returning to his fingers. He pushed away the self-pity, and set out to pondering.

Vidarr didn’t return as he said he would, and Fenris couldn’t keep himself awake. The elixir’s effects were too strong. Sounds of feet thumping and doors shutting inside awoke him. A long, black trail of followers emerged from the home with anticipation for the execution.

In a sudden panic, Fenris began flexing all the muscles that he possibly could. Everything had gone rigid again in his sleep.

When some sensation returned, Fenris felt somebody behind him. He turned his head. It was Ashara. There was a dark bruise over one of her eyes. Her eyes were shut, though they were wet with tears and she was trembling, her body wrapped around his back.

A fire pit was lit in the center of the village, and the High Priest was standing there, arms crossed. Their eyes met, and a chill went through him. Ashara clutched him tighter. Fitful sobs that shook him, sent shivers down his spine.

Her crying rekindled some warmth in his body; his cheeks flushed and anger started through him. Thoughts of his death did little to enrage him, though when he imagined Ashara’s dying, there was a heat in him that stretched up into his throat, made it difficult to breathe.

An ember of strength? There was some feeling in his fingers, and the cold breeze of the late evening was caressing his face. He turned and faced Ashara, tried to convince her that it wasn’t her fault, though he could hardly hear what he was saying; the words were too rushed. The reality of the situation berated him with every sideways glance. She didn’t seem to hear him, either, the words didn’t break through the fear she was experiencing. Whatever he said—or didn’t say—simply made her cry more.

The courtyard was full. There was an eery hush over the cult.

It was too late for words of courage.

Three followers came to the cage. One was Dalibor, whose face bore several fresh bruises, where the High Priest had continued his punishment. The other two Fenris did not recognize.

“Get up, cur,” Dalibor commanded, his voice much more confident than his beaten expression.

Fenris and Ashara rose stiffly; her hands were bound.

Not wanting to be dragged, they walked with bowed heads towards the tree stump, the High Priest, and his longsword, gleaming in the moonlight. The assassins, at the very least, had the courtesy to let them walk slowly.

The torches they held were close enough that Fenris could feel the heat from their flames caressing his face. There was an opening in the circle so they could pass through, which was stitched up as soon as they did so. When Fenris turned around, Dalibor’s pale countenance had melded with the others’. He searched the crowd for Vidarr’s familiar gaze—if it could be familiar, at all, amongst all the others—but gave up quickly. He bit his lip. Tears started at his eyes. Ashara inched her hand toward Fenris’ and locked her fingers around his.

Despite the occasion, Fenris felt as if he was alone with her, again.

The High Priest began a long incantation to invoke Afimer’s presence. Fenris sighed, relieved he had a few more seconds, at least, and looked up to the sky. A swift fleet of clouds were sailing through the dark, star-speckled waters. Wakes of cosmic dust were illuminated in shades of gold and jade.

A drop of water landed on his forehead. The dense clouds of the morning’s horizon had finally arrived, bringing with it a steady rain that fell—cold, and sharp—onto the backs of the congregation.

Fenris closed his eyes, let the water run down his cheeks, and cried silently. He bent his head to the ground, grinning, though he couldn’t exactly explain why.

The High Priest’s chanting subsided. Fenris felt his heart give hard, heavy beats against his ribs, while Ashara’s hand clutched his hard enough that his fingers became more numb.

“Ashara, child of Afimer and daughter of mine, I think it is you who will be first,” he said, beckoning her with a hand.

After looking at Fenris with a sad grin, she nodded solemnly; it was a grin that he had seen Deidre wear countless times. Nostalgia rose up in his chest, choked his throat. Finally, she nodded at the High Priest, and started forward.

Fenris caught something out of the corner of his eye: a patch of moonlight pushed through a gap in the clouds, falling upon a pair of eyes. It illuminated two, small orbs like sapphires in the brushes beyond.

Fenris rubbed the tears from his eyes and looked again. The pair of eyes had vanished. He shook away the hallucination, checked once more, and after seeing nothing, returned his stare to Ashara.

She was kneeling in front of the tree stump that only rose a foot or two off the ground.

A murmur started in the crowd of assassins. The High Priest came out of his devout praying with a look of utter rage. “Who dares interrupt the Rite of the Damned?”

Someone spoke out rather excitedly. “We think that the Cursed should go first. Our sister should see the fault in her ways before she dies. She should watch her mistake die in front of her.”

Fenris’ heart went from a trot to a gallop. As he looked from the followers to the High Priest, he could see the words taking consideration in his head. And then, another moment, and it was decided. It was written on his features. He thought he had more time—if even just half a minute—to think through so much in his life. He needed that half-minute desperately.

“I suppose … that would be right,” he admitted. “Get up,” the High Priest commanded.

“But, that isn’t right—” Ashara began.

“Must you prolong this?”

Ashara stood, and was able to squeeze Fenris’ hand one last time before he replaced her beside the tree stump. It was so eerily similar to the way he imagined it when Vidarr mentioned it hours before, as if he’d seen it before. Fenris felt a chill down his spine. The elixir’s effects were just barely lingering on him.

With honest eyes, he looked up at the High Priest, who took in his stare and felt not pity, but a sense of proud duty instill him with vigor.

“To your knees.”

They sunk into the wet ground. The congregation had hushed itself while the rain fell harder. All of their hoods were beginning to drip. Fenris heard the High Priest’s blade hiss as it came from its sheath. “Lay your head down. Close your eyes, if you prefer,” he said, lowly so only he could hear.

Slowly, he let his body fall. The side of his face met the stump of the wood.

Fenris didn’t want to cry during his last moments, at least, not in the manner he did. But all the restraint he had suddenly shattered. The pieces were lost again, and his throat rasped as everything spilled out. He wanted his life to end quietly, with a face as cold as the mask he showed the rest of the world in his earlier days.

The sobs were loud enough that it interrupted the followers’ enthusiasm, just enough that the High Priest set his sword down in the dirt, to listen to the cries as if they were last words. People had cried before at the stump, but not like this; this was the cry that awakens villages when someone’s body is found on the morning of a summer day; the wail of a mother as her newborn fidgets its first and last movements.

But it is not the Crimson Hand’s way to see things in a merciful light; it is certainly not in their nature to empathize, or recognize pity as an acceptable emotion.

The High Priest repositioned his grasp on the longsword. Fenris opened his eyes once more, the Priest’s legs were doubled in the obstruction of his tears. Torchlight cast his tall shadow on the ground, where Fenris could see the black, quivering arms raise the heavy longsword. In his eyes, Fenris saw two shadows; it must’ve been the tears again, how they manipulated the light.

But only one of the shadows was raising a sword. Fenris’ dug his hands into the dirt, trying to unleash himself. For once, not holding back, but encouraging. If it weren’t for the concoction, he would’ve turned; but now he only felt frozen daggers stab each time his heart beat.

“In the name of Afimer, Father of the Moon-elves, I sentence you—Fenris of Crowshead—to death by this sword, for your acts against Netherway, and all of her people.”

The second shadow was poised, crouched like a spider. Stout, elvish ears stuck out from the silhouette’s head. In one of its hands, a curved blade. It leapt upon the High Priest just as he brought down his sword.

There was a sound of ripped cloth and flesh, and then the High Priest was frozen in painful astonishment. But the shadow did not stop. The dagger came out, and back in again. This time blood spilled onto the ground, splashed Fenris’ face. Just inches from his neck, the longsword landed into the dirt, half of the blade buried. The Priest himself fell, gasping, clutching the wound, staring at Fenris, or rather, Death in his eyes.

A flurry of unsheathed daggers cut the silence into ribbons.

Then the heaviest raindrops Fenris had ever heard. Screams. In fact, they were arrows, hitting their mark with the accuracy of an elite bowman with years of practice empowering his hands.

The shadow rushed to Fenris and cut his bindings with a swipe of the dagger, still wet with the Priest’s blood. “Run!” the familiar voice commanded, as he felt the handle of a dirk slip into his hand. Fenris staggered away, not daring to waste a single moment looking back at who saved him. The congregation split in half; most pursuing the elusive shadow that assassinated their leader.

“You won’t escape this time, you demon!” Fenris heard an elf cry out behind him. He ran with all the might in his legs, but it wasn’t enough, and there was still some shock in his muscles from the elixir. The assassin dove, caught Fenris’ ankle with a cold grip. Fenris fell face-first, catching a mouthful of dirt and curses.

The assassin’s face was contorted with a murderous grin as he pinned Fenris’ chest down with his legs. His dagger was raised above his head, poised toward his heart. “I’ll avenge you, Priest!”

Blood spat out onto Fenris with the tongue of an arrow splitting through the cultist’s chest. Beyond the shocked face of the follower, Fenris could see Vidarr’s crouched silhouette on the roof of the dormitories. Another arrow was already sailing toward them, but this time it thudded into his skull.

Fenris got up, snatched the dirk from the ground, along with the fallen followers’ blade, and ran.

“Fenris!”

He jumped backwards. The dagger nicked his neck, but missed the artery. Fenris saw a flash scarlet eyes, and punched the cheek with the hilt in his left hand, stabbing the assassin’s stomach with the blade in his right. He turned to run again.

“My bindings! Fenris!” Ashara was running alongside him, holding out her wrists. He gave them a cut, lent her the spare dagger. They sprinted faster, not turning their heads to watch Vidarr’s precise shots topple the other followers chasing after them.

Someone started to scream a threat at the two of them, but his voice was cut off; one of Vidarr’s arrows had found his throat, too.

Fenris could hardly feel his bones. Adrenaline had replaced his reasoning and consciousness. Only when Ashara and he stopped at the end of that long road, did he have a chance to catch his breath and watch the exhalations hang briefly like small clouds in the air.

“Gods, Fenris your leg,” Ashara panted.

It was bleeding again. For once, he was thankful for the elixir. It had taken away most of the pain.

Ashara took off her mask and used it as a bandage to tie up the wound.

There was a stillness in the air; the rain had lessened into a downpour of swirling, negligible bits of snow dust. The road had narrowed and the Duskenwoods were closing in on either sides.

He felt the familiar fire kindling itself in his heart; the demon of his curse pining for another opportunity to overcome him. The urge was doused by a sudden, sharp sensation from the concoction that the Priest had poured over him. It was an agonizing pain to halt his transformation—the true effect of the elixir.

“Are … are you all right? Did I tie it too tightly?” Ashara put a hand on his back.

He felt like falling over, it was so overwhelming. He shook his head and forced himself to breathe. “It’s that damned potion,” he grumbled. “But at least we’re alive.” When the pain ceased, he looked at his surroundings. The wind was drifting through his fingers, and there wasn’t an assassin in sight, not even a pang of worry that they were being stalked. They had run too far, too quickly, and Vidarr’s arrows were too swift while the shadow had distracted the others.

He looked down at the blade the shadow had lent him. The silver embroidery.

It was Ash’s dagger.

Fenris’ face broke with a smile larger than he’d ever felt before. He embraced Ashara, held her tighter than she had in the cage.

She buried her face into his neck and kept it there while they held each other in the silence. Having a warm body to cradle in that moment was more fulfilling to either of them than anything else they’d ever experienced.

“… Vidarr,” Fenris started. “And the other elf. I know him.”

“You knew him?”

“A Sun-elf. His name is Ash.”

“A Sun-elf … here? Fenris, I think you lost too much blood.”

He laughed. “No, I’m sure of it. This is his dagger.” The blood on the short blade glinted in the moonlight. “Thank you for saving my neck,” he added, as he touched the cut there. “If it was a moment later …”

Ashara waved it away. “I owed it to you. If they hadn’t hated you so much, or wanted to see your head taken off before mine, then perhaps Vidarr wouldn’t have gotten to the roof in time. Or, the Sun-elf, if it really was one in these parts, he might’ve not been there soon enough, either.”

Fenris eyes turned dark. “They risked their lives for us. For …” He shook his head. “I met Ash on a road like this one, after my first transformation, he helped me. Gods have mercy, I have to go back! That damned fool is going to get himself killed for someone like me.” Fenris started back, but Ashara clutched his arm.

“That’s not wise, Fenris. We’re blessed enough to be alive at all. Do you want to waste the opportunity they’ve given us and fall back into the hands of Death? Look at yourself; you’re wounded, limping, pale as a corpse. You can’t even shift if you needed to save yourself. If you thought you saw the Crimson Hand’s fury tonight, gods should have mercy on you, you’ll be seeing a vengeance soon enough that you never thought imaginable. Tonight, you saw the mercy beyond gods. Don’t squander it.”

Fenris bit his lip, and looked pensively at her. A boyish throbbing in his heart made him want to run away with her, far away, to never think of what happened. “And Vidarr? You’d abandon him so easily/”

“You’ve seen what they are willing to do. We didn’t tell either of them to do that for us. We were ready to die; we accepted it. I saw it in your eyes, Fenris. But they intervened and now we’re here. It’s unlikely that Vidarr thought he was going to be aided by that highborn of yours. You didn’t see the Sun-elf roaming the grounds before the execution, did you?”

“I wasn’t completely awake. I hardly remember anything.”

“Well, I wouldn’t bet half a coin on that chance, then. Point is, Vidarr has more help than he reckoned for, and if Ash is like any of the other highborns I’ve come across, he knows how to handle a blade better than the average villager, and the Hands won’t expect that. As for Vidarr, he’s a gifted archer.”

“Are you suggesting they will take on a whole camp of cultists by themselves?”

“I’m not suggesting anything, Fenris. I’m just hoping, just like they did when they decided to help us. Now come on; we have a long road ahead of us.”

“Where are we heading?”

“If there’s any chance of meeting Vidarr, if he survives, it’s in Gods’ Rest. There’s no hope replaceing him just wandering the Duskenwoods. If we stay the night there, we’ll be food for something that likes the taste of elf and human, and does not discriminate, I can assure you.”

Fenris thought of Crowshead, its villagers. “That’s madness. I don’t want to hurt anyone; I won’t. I can’t go into a city, it’s too dangerous.”

“We’ll only stay for a day or two, that’s it. If Vidarr was able to outrun the Hands, that’s where he’ll be. We owe it to him to try and replace him. Any longer than two days, and … we can assume they got to him first. Besides, I was trained to kill your kind, remember? If there’s any problems, I’ll knock you out before you can lay a hand—or claw—on anyone.”

They had been traveling for hours now, and behind them a lighter shade of indigo was leaking into the sky. The moon was shining down, dipping beneath the trees, making the two travelers look like specters wandering the woods.

Fenris could not help but relive the moments immediately before and after what would’ve been his death—his execution—the way the stars nearly reached down and picked him up just then; how the sword was arching down in a flash of steel.

The way I sighed, thinking to myself, that it would be my least breath.

When they’d stopped to rest, Ashara had to nudge his cheek just to get him to look into her eyes, past the fresh memories he was reliving. “Now is not the time to think over what happened. I can’t promise there will be time for that soon, but for now you should be on your guard. Mind your dagger,” she reminded him.

Fenris nodded. He let his hand rest on its hilt.

“Gods, you look like you’re already dead,” she couldn’t help herself from saying.

Despite the dark rings under his eyes, a bloodless face, he laughed heartily. “Is it that bad?”

She chuckled, but there was worry written all over her features. Without another word, she slipped her hand in his. He looked up in surprise at her, gripped it lightly. “We need to replace someplace to rest. I’d rather we just continue, but I’m afraid I’ll have to carry you the rest of the way if we do.” Fenris was already swooning. The mossy boulder he sat on was beginning to feel like a very tiny mattress.

She helped him to his feet, secretly grateful for the excuse to put her arm around him, to be so close as to feel his weight dependent on her own.

Sounds of a brook lead Ashara to a grove with a pond of water trickling into another creek. “Divines bless us!” Ashara stooped down, cupped some of the freezing water in her hand and drank it, feeling the frozen roots of it branch down into her stomach. She sighed, drank more.

Fenris was too exhausted. He went to the respite of a tree, and collapsed with his bank against it.

“Fenris?”

He murmured unintelligibly. She went to his side. “You should drink some, at least, before you fall asleep.”

The circles under his eyes had become darker, and larger. “Rest for a bit,” he managed to say. He couldn’t even keep his eyes open.

Ashara went to the brook herself and managed to trickle some water that hadn’t spilled out from her hands, into his mouth.

“T—thank you.” Through half-shut eyelids, he looked at her once more. Then his head slouched, and he appeared to be asleep.

For awhile, Ashara was simply crouched there, restless from the previous night’s events. It seemed the adrenaline had not worn off entirely, either that or the shock of the events was keeping her awake. Ashara was left staring at the brook, the water that flowed through it, the leaves that trembled in the cold wind.

More than anything, she wished for her traveling cloak. At least the sun was rising up; soon the light would be shining down directly on them.

Fenris stirred. She was surprised he was conscious at all.

“C—cold,” he mumbled.

“You’re cold?”

“Y—yes.” He was shivering, half asleep.

The blood loss, she thought. Ashara inched closer to him, nudged him gently in the ribs to wake him more. She helped him wrap his sleepy arms around her, clumsily, until they were knotted together, and she was resting against his chest. She lifted his wounded leg over hers to relieve the pressure.

“Better?” she asked.

“Mmm.”

She nestled her head closer to his chest, and listened to his heartbeat while she fell asleep, praying that it would not stop soon.

Even as his head drooped and his strength left him entirely, there was a small grin

spread on his lips.

Ashara awoke with a jolt. Night was in full swing. She had slept much longer than she intended too. When she tried to move her arm to sit up, she realized her hand was locked with Fenris’, in fact, her whole body was wrapped in his. She didn’t dare move; he needed his rest, and warmth was a vital part of that. Even now, the tips of his fingers were ice cold. She warmed them in her palms.

Something gnawed on Ashara’s mind, as she sat there silently, listening to Fenris’ breath—the slow, deep rhythm of it—how it brushed past her neck each time, and felt the rise and fall of his chest on her back.

What had caused me to wake up? It’s true, I would awoken a long while ago, normally, but I had stayed up through the night and my body was—no, is—exhausted.

The fear was overcoming her; it was the intuition that awoke her. The instinct that alerted her.

Night has fallen. By now the Crimson Hand … they’ve regrouped after the High Priest’s death, surely. Perhaps Dalibor has sent them to comb the forests, to search for us. But I led Fenris in a twisted route. It would take dozens of them and a lucky stroke to replace us.

For a moment, the thoughts did well to ease her. She pricked her ears up, tried to ignore Fenris’ breathing and listen to the sounds around her: the bubbling of the creek water, the wind whispering between the trees, how it sounded like the footsteps of phantoms sifting over leaves.

It was oddly beautiful in its eeriness.

Until voices came through the darkness.

“It’s been hours since I’ve last eaten.”

“Wait, quiet. I hear sounds of water.”

“Water? I said I haven’t eaten. Don’t care much for water at the moment.”

Ashara recognized the dialect—her dialect—of Moon-elven speech. The voices were echoing in the trees, getting closer. She tensed, slid her hand to the handle of her dagger. Not that she could do much, wrapped in Fenris the way she was.

“I’m going to the stream.”

“Do what you like. I’ll keep moving. But don’t be too long, wouldn’t want to get lost in these woods.”

“Lost? As if it matters. At this rate, the two of them have probably found refuge somewhere. Don’t be moronic, we should be searching for the two that sabotaged us; this search is a waste of our time. The fact they got away is sacrilege.”

“Then why were you telling me to be quiet, to ‘concentrate on my surroundings’?”

The elf laughed. “Well, I had to get you to shut your mouth somehow, didn’t I?”

There was a long silence. “Go get your damned water, then,” the hurt voice responded.

The elf laughed again, then the silence continued, until Ashara could hear footsteps. She could hear the soles brushing against leaves, kicking away a stone.

His figure came from the right of the clearing, such that his hood blocked the sight of the two resting against the tree. There was a bow slung on his back and a quiver of arrows hanging from his hip, a dagger, as well.

Ashara doubted he would see them even if he checked his surroundings. They were clad entirely in black; the moonlight was blocked by the canopies of trees. Or, at least, she was hoping he wouldn’t see them.

Her grip on the dagger was sweaty. If there are more of them to follow these two, this one’s body will only alert others that they are on the right trail. His companion will come looking as well.

The figure was stooped over the water. He cupped some, drank it, and wiped his hand on his trousers. Then he stood up, and looked around him. Ashara’s stomach knotted as his eyes passed over where they were. She could see the gleam of his red eyes in a patch of moonlight. They passed over the area where she and Fenris were sitting, briefly, before continuing to the other end of the grove.

After adjusting his bow, he walked over the stream and back to where his partner was, disappearing behind trees.

A minute passed. Or rather, an hour that felt like one. Even the wind had been holding its breath. Ashara sighed.

“That was close,” Fenris whispered.

She almost jumped. “You’re awake?”

“Of course. Your heart was beating against my chest like a drum, even through your back.”

“So, what should we do now?”

“Sit like statues. If we move around right now, we risk being caught, or worsening your condition. By morning, the assassins searching these forests will be asleep.”

“Did you think about killing him?”

“I considered it. You?”

“I don’t want to kill anyone, ever again.”

“That’s not an answer,” she noted gently.

“I’m too weak right now. But the truth is, Ashara, it’s hard not to feel hatred for them. For what they did to you, and Vidarr. What they still want to do. Even if I wasn’t one of the Cursed, I would’ve still thought about killing him.”

“But Fenris, you wouldn’t know me, or Vidarr, if you weren’t one of the Cursed.”

For awhile, the only thing that spoke were the chirping of insects and croaking toads around the pond. Despite everything, this shared moment he had with Ashara—the intimacy, the warm feelings—was one of his best. Even though his leg throbbed from pain, and his mind was influenced by the Curse’s murderous whispers, he still was holding someone close to his chest. Someone who cared.

“May I try something?”

“Try what?”

“You’ll see.”

Ashara snickered. “Tell me what it is before you try it!”

Fenris chuckled. He put his hand over Ashara’s, and guided it to his cheek, where he kept it there. “That’s all I wanted.”

She remained silent.

When he put his hand down, hers remained on his cheek. Her fingers found the indention of his scar, and started going over it slowly. “Your skin is cold, Fenris.”

“It won’t be, if you keep your hand there.”

“How long?”

“Just until I fall asleep.”

She could feel the grin spread on his lips. She stroked the side of his head for awhile, and even after he fell asleep, she kept her hand there, covering up his scar so even the trees, the stars, and the darkness surrounding them could not see it.