She had come to expect the sting of his blades. He had killed her three times, after all. Death delivered by his hand served as the only constant on this accursed plane. It was no match for her count of nine fells against him. She was determined not to let the kyth even the score, not when he was the reason she had fallen in the first place. The reason she now bore this wretched form.
What the Wanderer had not expected was feeling the fight dripping from her like ichor from a gaping wound, leaving nothing behind but despondence.
He had not yet quenched his thirst for retribution.
He may Wither her entirely.
It seemed an inevitability.
The next time her opponent engaged her, the Wanderer did not draw her weapon. Not a parry, flinch, or counter. There was no point, not anymore. She stepped aside in a simple dodge once, twice, thrice.
“Why are you not you fighting?” he seethed through clenched teeth, sweat causing the long waves of black hair to cling to his panting form. He, too, was a phantom of his former self. She stripped of her light, he of his color. The magic of their home planes torn away from them like flesh from bone. Despite their differences, they both became uniform. Became dull. Yet he had already been used to a physical form, to walking on two feet. It had not taken him nearly as long to adjust to being fallen than it had for her.
He ought to feel grateful. He could thrive while Fallen. She had nothing. Without the element of surprise, he was rarely able to beat her. The tallies proved it. But now, with her broken will?
He would even their score with ease.
“Draw!” His blade arced towards her. Reckless. It would have been so easy to retaliate, if there had been a point.
The Wanderer stepped back once more, the whoosh of his blade shearing a few of her pallid locks. The strands spun to the ground to meet their doom as she had the fateful night she had fallen.
With a frustrated roar, the fallen kyth dashed forward, and this time she did not avoid him. He drove his offhand blade up and through her abdomen. It was a well placed strike. Lethal. It cut up through her stomach, pierced the bottom of her lung, and exited through her ribs in the back.
They stood impossibly close as she choked on her own ichor. The grayed liquid spilled from her wound, coating his hilt and hand in the prize of his vengeance. He clung to it, unmoving. His breath hit her cheeks in ragged pants. His brows furrowed, then parted, then furrowed again.
He had killed her for the fourth time on this plane, but as he watched the life leave her eyes, his own reflected the weight of dawning sorrow.
The next time they had crossed paths, there were no swords drawn. A single nod was shared between them before their steps bright them past each other to continue on their way. With each step her chest tightened. It somehow felt a worse defeat than not fighting at all. Was this really what they had become? Reduced to no more than their namesake-Wanderers.
“I saw a psyra a few days ago,” the Wanderer’s voice sounded before she could stop herself, raw and cracking from misuse. “Heading east in search of a Link.”
The fallen kyth paused. He nodded. Just as she turned to resume walking, he spoke. “Do not Wither, Aethe.”
Aethennál Namouren Niiváraan-Maurán Ricaellencüvealen.
Aethe.
That had been her name.
A short one today. If you saw me edit this three times and then republish because I forgot to edit a chunk I copied from the original doc… no you didn’t.
After working on Rodica’s Rest, I’ve had the Maledictum Chao story on my mind. This is the first thing I wrote for the book nearly a year and a half ago. Originally, it was supposed to be the prologue, but has since been cut from the draft. I may still use it in part, but wanted to share it with you all (especially since the story itself is still ages away). I hope you enjoyed it (:
Thanks for reading!!
Until next time,
M.K. Moretti