No Shelter from Grief

After the fight was over I layed unconscious
for hours

I didn’t dream.

There was only blackness.

A void that swallowed pain, memory, and sound. My body had nothing left—no strength, no will, no blood. Only silence.

And then… warmth.

Soft. Familiar. Human.

My eyes cracked open, vision blurred like smoke over shattered glass. The first thing I saw wasn’t the sky, or the broken world… it was her.

Annya.

I was lying in her lap.

Her dress was stained with dried blood, yet her hands—those hands that had pulled me from the abyss—gently brushed the hair from my face.

I tried to sit up. My body disagreed.

It collapsed again, like a ruined puppet with its strings cut.

“You’re awake,” she whispered. Her voice trembled—but not from fear. From relief.

She wasn’t scared of me.

But I was.

I turned my face away from her, shame rotting in my gut. The weight of what I had done—the blood, the limbs, the silence after the screams—pressed against my lungs like stone.

“I didn’t mean to,” I murmured.

She said nothing, only listened.

“I didn’t want to kill them,” I whispered, voice cracked, trembling like brittle glass. “The guards, the villagers… the maids… even Jonathan. They were all soaked in blood. Torn limb from limb. Some were burnt. Others had their heads… cut and hung on trees like decorations in hell.”

I swallowed the bile clawing up my throat.

“My mind broke,” I said. “And then… I heard it. A voice. Inside. So convincing… so full of rage. It told me to kill. To end them. And I—”

My voice shattered.

Tears slipped from my eyes, warm and silent.

“I didn’t want to be that. I didn’t want to be—this.”

For a moment, the world stopped spinning.

And then, her arms.

Soft. Steady. Real.

She leaned forward and pulled me into an embrace, my head pressing against her chest, right above her heart. It beat gently, like a lullaby in the storm.

Her voice was the first light in my ruined sky.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “It’s okay. I’m with you.”

It broke me.

Not in despair—but in release.

Tears poured like a river uncorked, shaking my entire body. I couldn’t hold them in anymore. The agony I buried behind teeth and pride burst free, and in that fragile moment—she held me like I wasn’t a monster.

Like I was someone worth saving.

That night, we stayed close to the ruins of the palace. We found shattered stone and fabric to pitch a crude tent, shielding ourselves from the cold.

But there was no shelter from grief.

When Annya finally drifted to sleep, I snuck out. The wind howled like mourning ghosts, and the ash still rained from the sky.

I went to find him.

Jonathan.

Some foolish hope clung to my chest, praying I’d find him barely breathing, somehow alive, waiting.

But when I found him—

Gods.

His body was barely recognizable.

Limbs ripped and scattered like meat for wolves. His guts—once steady, strong—were yanked out, tangled like ropes across the ground. His head…

His head was hung on a tree branch, half-burnt, eyes melted and sagging from the sockets.

He had died fighting. Died for us.

I fell to my knees.

My vision blurred—not from tears this time, but from something deeper.

Emptiness.

I dug a grave with my hands.

No magic. No sword. Just my bloodied fingers tearing into the earth. I buried him gently, wrapped in what was left of his cloak. And when I said my final prayer, my voice was barely audible through the shaking.

“I’m sorry.”

Then I rose and began digging again—for the villagers. The servants. The guards.

One grave at a time.

I couldn’t save them.

But I could give them peace.

The morning sun rose like a curse.

We walked toward the nearest village, hoping to find rest. Supplies. Answers.

But what we found was rejection.

The moment we stepped into the village square, eyes turned—cold, sharp, accusing.

They pierced my skin like spears, made it hard to breathe.

Whispers behind windows. Children pulled inside homes. Doors slammed shut.

Some stared at Annya’s royal emblem and spat in the dirt.

Others saw me—and their gaze changed.

From suspicion to fear.

As if they could smell the blood on me.

I felt their hate. Their judgment. Their silent screams.

Not one dared to say a word out loud.

But they didn’t need to.

We walked through that graveyard of silence like ghosts. I tried not to look anyone in the eye. My stomach churned with each step. Even the air tasted like scorn.

I wanted to scream—You weren’t there! You didn’t see!

But I didn’t.

We left before dusk.

That village wasn’t a place for the broken.

That night, we found shelter in a rundown inn miles away. The walls were moldy. The lights flickered. The stench of alcohol and blood lingered in the hallways.

It reeked of secrets and shady business.

But it didn’t matter.

It was a roof. It was isolation.

It was silence.

Neither of us touched the food we bought. Not because we couldn’t afford it… but because our stomachs had been filled with too many horrors already.

I sat alone in my room.

The shadows on the wall felt louder than thoughts.

Then—a gentle knock.

I turned. “Come in.”

The door creaked open.

Annya stepped in, clutching a worn blanket around her shoulders. Her eyes were tired—not just from the day, but from the years she had carried something no one else could see.

She sat beside me, not meeting my gaze.

Then, she whispered:

“Yesterday… the people who attacked us…”

I stayed silent, letting her speak.

“They were part of a group called the Devil Banishers.”

The name twisted something in my chest.

“They hunt the cursed. Anyone born with signs, or who shows strange power—they’re hunted. Executed. Erased. I’ve been a target since I was six.”

Her voice cracked.

“This all started… because of that day. The day I should’ve died with everyone else in the palace.”

I turned to her sharply. She was trembling.

“If I had just burned like the rest of them—none of this would’ve happened. Jonathan would still be alive. My people wouldn’t have died. It’s my fault. I’m the cursed one. I—”

Her voice broke.

“I don’t deserve to live.”

And then, for the first time since I’d met her—

Annya cried.

Not tears of fear. Not noble grief.

But raw, aching despair.

The curse above her stirred. It shimmered faintly—sensing her weakness, threatening to spiral.

But something inside me moved.

Not fear.

Not instinct.

Something deeper.

Without thinking, I reached out and took her hand—pressing it gently against my chest.

Right above my heart.

“I’m cursed too,” I said softly.

She looked at me, eyes wide, vulnerable.

“And I still want to live.”

She didn’t respond.

Didn’t need to.

The room was silent… but it wasn’t empty.

In that space between us, where pain met understanding, something fragile bloomed.

Not love.

Not forgiveness.

But recognition.

We were both broken.

We were both bleeding.

But we were still here.

Together.