Vol. IV Chapter VI: From Death, Make Life

Snow, ice, and rock tore past her, swirling around her, tugging at her limbs, ripping the breath from her lungs.

The cold bit into her skin, and every breath burned until she tasted nothing but blood.

Something cracked in her chest, a dull pain, then a hard blow against her left horn, and with a sharp snap it broke off just above the base, as if it were nothing but a brittle twig.

Then consciousness left her, while the avalanche pushed her deeper and deeper, until it spat her out again on the far side of the mountain range, into a hollow of scree at the foot of the peaks.

Melissa lay motionless, her remaining horn half-buried in the snow.

Only the power that Hermes’ wine had granted her kept the last spark of life within her, and slowly, that power was fading.

Her body began to change back, from beast to satyr.

Her claws retracted, the muscles thinned, and the red glow in her eyes turned back to a golden amber.

She forced her eyelids open, the sky above her swimming in her vision.

Drawing one knee beneath her, she felt the will to rise flicker… then fade again.

Collapsing, she drifted halfway between life and death, yet somewhere deep inside, a stubborn, unyielding instinct to survive stirred.

Suddenly, she heard several footsteps in the snow, quick and agitated.

Blurry shapes emerged from the mist, the tallest of them barely reaching her chest.

They wore rattling scale armor, and their round helmets glowed with pale circles where eyes should have been, bright as small moons.

Harsh, scratching sounds she could not understand spilled from their lips as they closed in, grasping at her arms, her cloak and her body.

“H-hey… S…stop it…”

Her voice was only a hoarse croak, and she had no strength to resist.

Someone yanked at her satchel, another looped a rope around her ankles, yet another leaned in to sniff at her like an animal.

Then they dragged her, half hauling, half jostling her in a makeshift litter, toward the plains, away from the mountains, deeper inland.

Back to Yashar.

She didn’t know how long they traveled, hours, perhaps days.

The rocky outcroppings gradually gave way to brown, muddy soil, where thin grasses and wind-battered shrubs clung to the gaps between stones.

Drifting in and out of consciousness, she watched the mountains shrink to jagged teeth on the horizon.

At times there was only the wind; at others, the clatter of scale armor as one of the creatures rifled through her belongings.

At some point, they stopped abruptly, their  voices became tangled and agitated, hissing in their language, making threatening gestures.

Melissa blinked and saw a lone figure standing before the group, wrapped in a tattered fur cloak, a long, knotted staff in its hands.

Then everything happened at once.

The staff spun around, smashing into one of them hard enough to send him stumbling to the ground while another took a blow to the head and tumbled away into the dust.

The rest shrieked in high, piercing tones, scattering in a panic and dropping Melissa to the ground.

A shadow loomed over her, warm breath brushing her face as the figure bent close. 

She tried to speak, but her body wouldnt allow it, her limbs felt heavy, her chest pained, and the world began to tilt.

Then she faded out again.

When awareness returned, she was lying on soft furs, the air heavy with the scent of smoke and animal hide, beneath tent walls stitched from sewn skins.

The large figure sat at the entrance. 

Without the cloak, it looked even more alien, lean and sinewy, its body covered in short, sand-colored fur that lightened along the arms and legs. 

Two oversized, delicate ears rose high, so fine that candlelight glowed faintly through them, and its deep, glossy black eyes filled almost a third of its face.

She tried to rise, but a searing pain lanced through her chest, forcing her back down, a cough tearing free and bringing with it dark blood that spattered the furs.

The figure was beside her in an instant, a cool hand pressing to her forehead, its strange features drawn tight with concern.

“Shamp lor id dajan…” it murmured, then turned his head and called out for help.

“Irdiash fal´el ban cha!” At once, two more figures rushed inside toward her.

But her heartbeat faltered, each thud slower, less certain, until the world began to dissolve at the edges. 

Sounds grew distant, muffled, as if she were sinking beneath deep water. 

A strange weightlessness crept into her limbs, pulling her away from the pain, from the cold.

So this is what it feels like… to die.

Lucius’ face bloomed in the darkness before her eyes: the night they danced, the rare curve of his smile, the warmth of their first kiss. 

A sharp ache pressed at her chest, not from the wounds, but from knowing she would never see him again.

I’m sorry, my little wizard…

Her breath shuddered out of her, slow and final, while the world let go of her.

She was dead.

Yet no blackness claimed her, Instead, a searing white light engulfed her, wrapping every part of her in a deep, gentle warmth. 

It pulled her onward, as though she were soaring through a place beyond time and space, where each heartbeat, or whatever it was now, felt like both a second and an aeon. 

Her body was gone, her pain was gone; she was nothing but light, and for a moment she belonged to it entirely, until, without warning, the light shuddered and splintered, and a violent force yanked her backward. 

The warmth tore away, replaced by a crushing weight in her lungs and a stabbing cold in her veins, as air slammed into her chest and her eyes snapped open to the sound of frantic voices. 

She gasped sharply, choking and coughing as if someone had forced her soul back into her body, while two more beings with painted faces leaned over her, their oil-stained hands pressing against her chest.

Between their palms and Melissa’s body shimmered a bluish light, fluid and alive, sinking into her as if drawn by her very heartbeat. 

With each pulse of its glow, warmth spread through her veins, tingling in her fingers and toes. 

The chant around her rose and fell in a strange, ritual rhythm, weaving with the magic until she felt life spilling back into her limbs.

As the final notes faded, her large rescuer stood behind the healers, eyes fixed firmly on her.

“You… dead,” he said, his voice a strange mix of gravity and relief. 

“But you strong.”

Then, after a pause: 

“Now… live.”

Melissa blinked, her voice fragile.

“Where… am I?”

He opened the tent flap and gestured outside.

“Refalesh.”

“And… you are?”

He pointed to himself. 

“Eucho.”

The chanting healers stepped back, and Melissa pushed herself upright with effort. 

“Thank you, Eucho.” 

She turned to the healers and inclined her head. 

“But... why did you save me?”

Eucho regarded her as if the question were strange. 

“Dead. From dead, make life. Good. Life good.”

She understood, at least enough.

Some time later, when the weakness in her limbs had ebbed enough, Eucho offered her an arm and guided her toward the tent’s opening. 

The hide walls rustled faintly in the wind, which carried the scent of cold earth and fluttered through her sweat-damp hair.

Outside, the land stretched in a strange in-between, neither snowy foothills nor desert. 

Gray-brown earth shimmered with meltwater that ran in silver threads through cracks in the rock, while tufts of yellow grass clung to the wind-scoured ground. 

Refalesh lay cradled in a hollow ringed by steep cliffs, an oasis of life in the barren sweep.

Between the hide-and-wood tents, furred beings like Eucho moved with quiet purpose and small herds of long-legged, shaggy animals with spiral horns picked their way among troughs of meltwater, their breath misting in the cool air. 

Children darted between low, wind-shaped trees, their laughter mingling with the soft bleating of the animals and the rhythmic clatter of wooden wind-chimes.

Eyes followed her, some curious, others wary, as if no one here had ever seen anything like her before. 

Murmurs rippled through the growing crowd, though no one came too close. 

Only a few children dared to dart in, tugging playfully at the fur along her satyr legs or brushing curious fingers against the length of her tail. 

But Eucho gave a sharp word and a wave of his hand, sending them scattering with startled laughter.

Her bones ached with every step, and more than once she had to catch herself against Eucho’s arm, steadying her breath as the villagers continued to gather.

Yet, for the first time since the avalanche, a slow, gentle warmth seeped into her bones, chasing out the chill that had clung to her. 

She was still alive.

                                                                    Note from the Author:

Are you relieved that Melissa is still alive, or would you have preferred a darker, more Game of Thrones-style twist here? And can you guess why I chose the name Eucho? ;)

Let me know! :)