[melkupo]

I know you. Teary-eyed and shudder-breathed, you grasp at the void and find only me. Your ritual components are laid out before you. You expected this to be harder. I can tell because your eyes widened as I clawed my way into your world. I can hear your breath catch. Perhaps you're afraid. Maybe the image of my exposed sinew, pulsing and grey, startled you. It might have frightened you when I smiled- wide and uncanny. I have so many of mankind's teeth. You do not call me beautiful when you compose yourself. Not like the flatterers who ask me for pacts to cure their puppy's plugged nostrils or bring back their lost child or whatever vain, flimsy things men lean on to pretend their ambitions are different than ours.

You ask me my name, and I give it. I am Marettia. You, I already know, are Mel. I have been watching since you breathed your resolve in the frigid Sharlayan air. You would kill Lakoth, you decided. Your cheeks were flush with the chill, lips pouting and quivering like a frightened child. You'd kill him for what he did to you, to your love. It's not fair that it's fallen to you.

You breathe out a chuckle as you scramble to fetch your reagents. An athame wet with your own blood, a crystal that glints black in the purple candlelight. The candles smell like small, bunchy purple flowers whose name I've long forgotten. There are no pretty purple flowers that grow in home's enduring darkness. Your room is bright to me, even in its shadowiest parts, and warm like the sun. I barely remember the sun.

"I'm Mel," you tell me, and I can hear your inexperience. That's not how these conversations start, little one. It makes me think, for a moment, how lucky you are that I have use for you. You don't know I know.

"I know," I say. And now you do. Your grey eyes squint behind your spectacles. I had spectacles once. "I've been watching."

"Watching? Why?" Oh, you're so dull.

"Lakoth," I hiss. His name is odiously sour in my mouth. My tongue revolts at the prospect of speaking his name. But I must, I must. And I do. You wince when I lean forward. I'm looming over you. I'm as powerful as three of you.

"I'll kill him," you tell me. You're kneeling on the ground in your sleeping clothes. Pink little catlike creatures dot your white cotton shirt. Your bare knees are red on your wooden floor. You look so small, but your eyes are steely. Your face sets with anger, and you work your jaw. I could -feast- on the aether your hatred could pull out of you. I can see your rage. Your balled fists and stiff shoulders. To drink deep of your aetheric wellspring would be so sweet. So sweet. So sweet. But I cannot taste. If I taste, then the deal is done. There is nothing special about you. But I see the rage in your face, and I do not doubt you when you say you will kill him.

"I will too," I tell you. And I will, I will. For all he has stripped from me. For all he has stripped from us. We will kill him. I can taste his flesh already. I ache to rip him apart. I yearn to feel his flesh split beneath my teeth like leather pulled taut beneath a blade's point. I will drip the aether from the marrow of his bones and let him watch me grow with his stolen power. I will devour him. He will fight me for control, and I will subjugate him. I will hear him beg. The thought waters my mouth.

"What do you want from me in return for your aid?" You ask. I frown.

"Rend and tear the bodies of him and his disciples. Let me taste the blood of the sycophant and the flesh of their master. Let me destroy him. And then we will be done."

And you understand that. You know me. And I know you. You look upon my face, and you smile. You see my suffering as I can see yours. Revenge-maddened, livid, and yearning for blood between our claws and teeth. We will find peace only in the aftermath of the slaughter.

Lakoth will die.

Lakoth will die.

Lakoth will die.

[melkupo]

The Treachery of the Father

I got the story from a man at home. As his voice rasped and his blood stained the winter snows the same crimson as the Garlean’s did. It was all the same, to me, for blood taints the snow no matter who sheds it. He wrapped his shaking hands around mine, the one whose arrow pierced his heart, and whispered to me. He told a story, breath so close to my ear that it tickled like the cloying whispers of a new lover. And then he died. He slipped into the Mist between my fingers. But I remembered the story. Ten years have passed, and I remember the story.

When I saw her, it shook me how much more he looked like her. Thick brown hair and soft green eyes. Round cheeks that tapered into a soft point of a chin… It was hard to believe that this woman had been born to a mother, as there was little trace of her in the woman’s features. But the freckles that spattered her cheeks, those were all hers. Perhaps her mother’s. I wouldn’t know.

I know that when I told her the story, she believed me. Perhaps it was naivety, perhaps it was hope. Lonely hearts make easy prey, I knew then. I know it now, too. She’s built me a life. Taught me a new language, brought me into her home. Fed me. Sheltered me. Because I am her father. Three hundred years old, I say. You look young for your age, she replies. I worry soon she’ll discover that the story isn’t mine. That the man she believes me to be was fed to the animals of the Skatay Range ten summers past. He was picked clean by wolves and vultures and the weakened scavengers amongst the straggling wanderers that our weapons had failed to pick off.

She stands in my doorway after a long night, nose reddened and eyes bleary with tears. She has suffered a loss that shook her very being, and I don’t know what to tell her. I tell her that her lover will be hers again, and she protests. I tell her all will be fine, and she cries out for comfort.

“Papa,” she whispers as I wrap my arms around her. She doesn’t mind that I’ve settled too well into the life she’s given me. She doesn’t mind that I smell now like smoke and vice. My hair is up in fixtures to curl it, a cigar hangs from my lips. “I’m hurt.”

And if she were mine, perhaps I would have comfort for her. Perhaps something that stirred within me would let me soothe my aching child with the right words, the right embraces. But mine are the comforts of an imposter. A charlatan who has pretended his way into parenthood. Because of a story I heard.

Her father’s words sometimes cross my mind.

“Fifteen years I’ve searched for her,” He whispered. “And I’ve found her upon an isle of kidnappers. Stolen by scholars to research upon. Someone must save my daughter, bring her home. To Kisne. For Kisne.”

Kisne will not take her. Not their village. Too close to the border. Too close to risk infiltration. Even if I were inclined to, I could never take her back. And why would I, with all she’s provided for me? That was why I sought her out. His daughter was on an isle of scholars, I needed somewhere to stay. I searched for her. I found her. I got what I wanted. Yet I feel no satisfaction for my treachery. I feel only the uncertain agony of endless guilt, knowing that it’ll never be a good time to tell her. It’ll never be alright. What began as a scheme to secure myself a safe future has ended in regret that turns my stomach.

Her lover patrols the deck endlessly. Skulking in the dark as we’re trained to do. Perhaps, when he was at home, he was good at what he did. Perhaps this man, unlike who he used to be, is good at resisting Mel’s warmth. But she’s like the springtime sun, melting away ice and thawing the frozen ground that the same Warders who find their way to her are taught to trod upon always. She’s stirred my heart to regret, she brought Atvir to love. We’ll see what the future holds for Sul, when he steps into her warmth.

Perhaps that’s how I’ll gauge his worth, one day. As her father, that’s my job, isn’t it? I’ll tell him, one day, of my big lie. Of the fact that Mel was born from another. Of how I betrayed her. And if he tells her the truth, and relieves me of my burden, perhaps I could find it deep in my wretched soul to give my blessing. For as much as such a thing matters.

-Fedya.

[melkupo]

Call and Response.

14th Sun of the Fourth Umbral Moon.

Would that there were gods of mercy in the heavens above, and that Menphina heard the agonized cries of my wounded heart and took pity on me. Would that the stars could be moved to compassion the way a softened heart can be moved to love. If the gods could feel a tenth the agony that wraps frozen fingers around my throat, would they let me suffer so? And that is how I know that the Twelve are not merciful, and how I know that any higher power is as cold and as uncaring as the edge of a sharpened blade.

You only ever promised me that you would remember. Not wanting to make promises you couldn’t keep, you never promised me what I wanted you to. You never took any oath that I wouldn’t lose you young. You never promised we could stay where we belonged, side-by-side. Only that you would remember. That was the one indomitable promise. No matter what happened, you could remember me. And now what? Now a stranger sits in your flesh, and you’re gone.

There’s nothing to bury, Atvir. I begged you not to force me to bury you. Now I wish you had, because I am going to bed alone all the same, but I will never get a proper goodbye. Dagasi says it’s just like you to leave without a goodbye. I don’t care about that, I just want you to remember me.

You don’t have to love me anymore. You don’t have to like me. I failed you. I promised I’d help you. I promised I’d fix this with you, and that I’d devote every second of myself to freeing you. And I almost did. Until the final two nights. I stopped. You asked me to stop. To just rest. Atvir, I shouldn’t have rested. I should have kept searching, maybe I could have stopped it. Maybe I could have saved you.

Maybe if I hadn’t struck the voidsent you summoned with the orb so soon. Maybe if I’d managed to drag you away when you fell to the sand. If I had just done better, tried harder, been smarter and stronger, I could have saved you. It couldn’t have been hopeless. If I were worth more, I could have saved you. Please come back, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry.

We found your journal, the stranger and I. He was merciful enough to let me read your final entry. Your last words. You have always, alway, deserved my kindness and more. I’ve never loved anything better than I love you. I never will. I have another three hundred years left, and not one of them will be shared with a love as potent as mine for you.

But you don’t have to love me back anymore. Not if you remember how I failed you. I just want you back. I just want to say goodbye, please. Let me say goodbye.

-Mel.

The paper ignited at the edges, fire crackling as it devoured the parchment, carrying wisps of smoke to the unfeeling, heartless heavens above. A tapestry of stars covered the land in the shroud of night. Mel’s hand retreated back into the sleeve of the midnight blue sweater. Its scent was already fading and being replaced by her own, but she clung desperately to what was left. And she found almost nothing to cling to. For nothing remained.

@atviera