The Price to be Paid
Rhythmic, plodding hoofbeats on dirt, steady as a heartbeat. Insects chirping in the brush. A dog baying somewhere to the southwest. The jangle of buckles and gentle swishing of cloth and leather. The warmth of the afternoon sun at his back. The sound and feel of the calm before a storm. All was well.
He opened his eyes to behold a well-trodden dirt path, with deep wheel ruts running its length. It sloped gently downward towards a shallow riverbed, which was dry this time of year. The trail angled northeast, across the river towards a forest only visible now as a greenish smudge below the horizon. Above the trees stood a dark mass, a columnar silhouette, like a giant looming over its garden.
Still some miles off yet. The Hunter thought, looking back to where the sun still shone on the opposite horizon. It cast the landscape into shades of bright gold, prompting him to adjust the brim of his hat to shield his eyes.
And it’s getting late... He wondered about setting up camp for tonight, about pushing this off until the morning. When he cast his eyes forward again, his gaze again found the smoke. No, this couldn’t wait...
He urged his mount forward, willing his eyes to close again. The horse was uncannily intelligent, and needed little direction from his rider. And so on they went, trotting toward the wildfire.
It occurred to the Hunter that he hadn’t seen anyone traveling these roads since the morning. Those he had seen were riding in the opposite direction. None had stopped to speak with him, as they had probably already guessed his intent. A lone rider, casually sauntering towards Hell? They made no conversation, but he had heard the mumblings of prayers. The sorts of prayers reserved for the dead or the damned. A fine line, he knew. One he rode, and one he’d already ridden.
He was a hunter, but not one of the traditional sort. He ran his hand from his lap to his hip where a holster sat. The weight of the revolver it held felt far heavier than it should have this evening. His fingers found the hammer and grip with familiar ease, and he suddenly found himself wishing he’d never picked it up in the first place. Because tonight, his mark was personal. Kin, of a sort.
The trail wound eastward along the dried-up stream until he and his horse came upon a pond; little more than the dregs of the river that had settled in a deeper recess. It sat just off a bend in the trail, with the green fringe of the forest down a shallow hill.
The Hunter rode his horse up to the water and dismounted, not bothering to tie up the beast. One look in the dark gelding’s eyes revealed a depth that belied its otherwise mundane appearance. A dark gleam, an understanding between the man and his horse. He’d stay put, unless given good reason not to.
The horse snorted, and the man read discontent in those eyes.
“Don’t give me that,” the Hunter cooed, patting the creature on the cheek. “You know how I am. I need to finish this on my own two feet.”
He was answered by a flick of the ear, apparently unconvinced.
“If I’m not back by midnight, you can come after me. Deal?”
The horse leaned forward to press its massive nose against the man’s shoulder. A consoling gesture, perhaps? He frowned, pushing the thoughts that rose aside.
“Don’t pity me, boy,” he said, but not harshly. “I knew what I was getting into from the start. We both did.”
The Hunter checked his belt, making sure each bullet was in place. Silver, engraved with fine religious iconography. Christian, Pagan, and others he knew by sight, if not by name. Crosses, pentacles, and runes, inscribed on every surface of the bullet, and not a few on the brass casing, too. These days, they’d take help from any source they could.
He sat on a smooth stone jutting from the riverbed and began to load the revolver. Eight cartridges into nine chambers. ‘Leave the last one empty until you know you’ll need it,’ his master had always told him, ‘The last thing you need is something bumping the hammer and sending a bullet into your leg.’
He was procrastinating, he knew, by allowing himself to reminisce. With a sigh, he undid a clasp around the revolver’s second, lower barrel to allow it to rotate outward. This one’s bore was larger, meant for more... unusual cartridges. He pulled open his satchel at his hip and plucked out a dull, off-white shell and loaded it into the larger chamber, then closed and secured the barrel in place.
When the Hunter finally rose, the sun had descended below the western horizon, shading the sky with hues of purple and fading embers of orange. He faced the dark titan in the northeast, inhaling deeply. The taste of smoke was heavy on the wind already, even this far off.
“If you can’t find me when the time comes, go back to the Watchers,” he said, not looking at his companion.
A snort was the horse’s only reply, but he figured that was enough. He stepped forward, descending the hill towards the forest. He imagined he could see the glow already, smoldering like a glowing coal within the trees.
The Hunter strode through the woods, gliding along the ground with a smooth and noiseless gait. The forest was silent, now, its denizens having either fled or hid as a result of the crimson glow he could see ahead. A new scent wafted over him. Pungent and sour: the smell of sulphur.
Ash had begun to fall like snow around him as he walked, dusting the ground gray. He grimaced, pulling up a bandanna over his mouth and nose as memory raked claws across his brain. Wind whipping through trees as flakes of ice bit at his face like razors. A dead weight in his hand as he trudged through knee-high snow drifts... He let the memory linger, festering in his mind until a cold grew in his chest and in the palm of his gloved left hand.
He arrived at the edge of the flames. Soot choked the air, cutting off the frail moonlight. The Hunter imagined the desolation before him as a madman’s grand entry hall. A carpet of burning foliage. Pillars made out of charred trees, extending upward into a high ceiling made of smoke. The flames were hotter than they should be, and burned a deep crimson like freshly-spilled blood. Hellfire, it was said, could burn the soul itself. Best not to give it the chance.
With slow and deliberate movements, the Hunter pulled off his left-hand glove. A familiar reluctance gnawed at him, followed by just as familiar dread as he saw the ashen gray skin beneath, radiating out from a brand at the center of his palm.
The Leviathan Cross was raised from his skin like an embossing - the alchemical symbol for sulphur, and a sign often associated with Hell. The brand was old. Over a decade old, now; a decade older than most who had borne the sign. And it had long ago taught him that Hell was more than just fire and brimstone.
The chill grew in his heart and in his palm as he let the memory of that fateful day become a backdrop in his mind...
The forest howled, sending whipping winds across his face. The leaden axe weighed heavily in his numb fingers while his still arms burned like fire. He couldn’t think beyond trudging through the loose powder ahead, his chest heaving and heart thundering with each laborious step.
The Hunter stepped forward, and as his boot hit the charred soil, a cold air swept out from his footstep. A bone-chilling radiance that suffocated flames and quickly condensed and froze the little moisture left in the air. An incongruous frost grew in a ring around him, despite the intense heat.
The Hunter continued into the inferno, sidestepping lumps of charred fur and the occasional falling branch and collapsing tree. He carved a path of snuffed Hellfire for many long minutes. Where he trod, ice overtook, defiant of reality. Neither the laws of nature or the laws of man had any purchase here, in this place where Hell overcome Earth.
He walked for miles, never stopping nor slowing his pace. And as he walked, he began to feel a pulsing in his hand. A phantom heartbeat, resonating with something. He was close, now. He scanned the shadowed landscape, his eyes settling on a nearby hill.
A grim resolve drove him forward as reality finally began to settle in his mind. Until now, he could disconnect himself from what he had to do. He’d been given his quarry, now he had to pursue it.
It. He cursed himself. She. Her. Track her, put her down. Like a rabid dog.
The Hunter gritted his teeth as he climbed, clenching his hands into fists.
You knew the risks. The implications. If one of us goes too far, if one of us succumbs before they can stop it...
He was the one who had to clean up the mess.
Even if that mess was once a friend.
He crested the hill, and confronted both.
Down the hill, in the center of a shallow crater stood a figure. As far away as she was, the Hunter could only pick her out as a dark silhouette against the glowing cracks in the ground around her.
He loosed a held breath, and tried to accept this reality. He drew his revolver and loaded the final round. Then, with a hand that he willed to stop trembling, he cocked the hammer, flicked a lever, then raised the firearm overhead.
Ka-rack!
Smoke trailed from the lower barrel, attached like a fishing line to a projectile that pierced the sooty clouds. It disappeared among them before resolving into a burning white flare, bathing the landscape with its radiance. The light cut through smoke and flame, turning the night into a painting of contrast. Trees cast sharp shadows, and the crimson Hellfire now looked wan.
The figure down in the crater cringed beneath that light, then looked up - straight at the Hunter. With eyes like burning coals, it tore up the slope at a frightening speed.
Inhumanly quick, the Hunter whipped his revolver down and fired a shot down the incline. The silver bullet sang as it rocketed through the air.
It dodged, eyes trailing lines of red as it nimbly sidestepped the projectile. It streaked up the hill, a scream escaped its lips, and the voice it used was heartbreakingly familiar.
He could see it - her - now. She was close enough that he could make out her features. The contours of her cheeks, the set of her jaw, the slope of her nose. They had all gone completely ashen.
The creature slashed out with a hand wreathed in crimson flames. The heat of it barely touched the Hunter as he ducked away from the savage attack, swinging his revolver down to plant a bullet in its foot as he moved.
A shriek split the night as the silver seared its ashen flesh. Painful, but not enough. The Hunter gave up his footing atop the hill, dashing down the slope while it - the demon that had taken residence in her body - recovered. That distinction, he decided, would make this easier.
A fireball crashed into the ground nearby, and in an instant, the heat of the flames melted into the warmth of an afternoon sun. Birds chirped all around, and a breeze ruffled her black hair to brush his cheek. He laid with his back against a tree, one arm around her shoulder.
The Hunter shoved away from the tree as claws of flame scored its blackened bark. He backpedaled, cracking off another round. Its clarion call was cut short as it sank into flesh. Light boiled from the demon’s shoulder, sizzling beneath the skin, beneath the baroque embroidered vest she always wore.
Something raw tore up the man’s throat, and a ragged cry escaped him as he fired again. Defiance and agony mingled in the air as he remembered the time he’d spent with her, the years he’d had with her. Intermittent, often brief moments, but all the sweeter for it.
He cursed, rivulets of frost cutting down his cheeks as he raised an arm. In an instant, thick ice coated the arm of his jacket, dampening the impact of another screeching fireball. He deflected the flames, sending them tumbling further downhill.
It was upon him again in a second, raking white-hot claws across his side as she dashed past and around him. The Hunter scrambled forward, holding a hand to the wound as he whirled around. Having a demon at your back was a death sentence. He leveled his sights at the creature, only to find that it wasn’t there.
The man cursed again. His eyes stung, both from smoke and from his frozen tears. He whipped his revolver one way, then the other, scanning the trees for any sign of it. Up above, the light was flashing fitfully - the flare’s fuel was almost spent. As the light died, he caught a flicker of movement down the hill, before they were again plunged into the smoky darkness.
The Hunter kept his barrel pointed towards that spot, swiveling his head back and forth as he descended the hill, reaching the rim of the crater the demon had been standing in. Yet he saw nothing. It had vanished into the night and smoke. Almost, he would have been relieved at that idea: Pushing this confrontation off just a bit longer, allowing himself to remember her as she was, and not the thing she had become for just one more night.
Grieve later... He thought to himself, just as branding claws dug into his back.
He was rolling down a hill with her now, the gentle caress of long grass tickling his neck and face as they tumbled. Young and lovesick, he found himself lost in those dark eyes, staring back at him with a look that made his heart skip a beat. They slowed as the slope evened out, and he was left on his back looking up. That broad smile, that laugh, it was enough to warm his very soul, he thought.
He reached up, caressing her cheek one last time... And grabbed the demon by its throat. A disconcerting sizzling sounded as his frozen fingers met its searing skin, but he didn’t even feel the pain anymore.
The wretched thing thrashed, scoring gouges in his face, his shoulder, his neck, but the Hunter persevered, planting the muzzle of his revolver right under its chin. In a blinding flash, it was over.
The Hunter laid there for quite some time, with her body atop his. His ears rang, and his eyes stung even more fiercely than before. With a shuddering breath, he gently pushed her off of him. Her limp corpse gave no resistance, and he sat up. He felt cold. Hollow.
As he stood on shaking legs, he looked down at the woman. What cruel fate had led them both here? She laid broken at his feet, her soul forever damned simply because she didn’t have the decency to die before she slipped over the edge. This was the Price. The price for failure - for cowardice, he told himself. The platitude felt just as hollow as he did.
The tears came again, and this time he didn't bother to choke them down. He fell to his knees, and let out a trembling howl, that the night might know his anguish.
