Chapter 4: Monster

Owen felt the Light-eater die. When Jeran began the siphon he felt its essence fade like a breath being dragged out of his own chest. He stayed on his feet and held firm, but the constant sigh of the light-eater’s essence into the void pulled something of himself with it. Owen felt himself stretch, then a tearing sensation as a part of his soul began to tear. It was a pain like crushing sadness or grief that overwhelms to the point of despair. A part of him was dying.

You can’t die here Owen.

The memory slid into place so easily Owen almost didn’t realize it. A hand on his shoulder, strong and familiar and… This won’t go well for us. You need to leave, now!

It was his father’s voice. His father’s voice. He had a father. The memory ended. The siphon cut off. Owen felt a different, hollow pain that nearly made his knees buckle. “He’s right there.” He felt like he was going to cry. Or scream. He remembered his father’s voice. The memory was right there, he could taste it.

Why?

Jeran’s hands were on him, shaking. Owen blinked and saw the command in his face. He couldn’t hear him. He couldn’t hear anything really. It was all so far away.

Why can’t I remember?

Jeran threw Owen over his shoulder, it wasn’t comfortable. That was about all Owen registered of the experience. The barn was on fire, Owen could somehow tell the blaze wasn’t catastrophic yet. The structure would survive if they put the fire out. He could remember that, but not his own father’s face?

His mind dragged the image of the crumpled figure clutching a hammer. Drowning in blood. That figure was familiar now. Surrounded by smoke and fire and screaming. His father was dead. It was his fault. The memory didn’t matter.

A black feeling uncoiled from its nest in Owen’s chest and slithered around his throat. Its head rested on his shoulder and whispered truth.

He’d had a family. At some point that family had been taken from him, and then he’d been turned into a monster. Where had the inquisition been? How long ago had it all started? Was there anyone left alive who knew the answers? Meaningless questions. Because no one who knew, would ever give him the answers.

Jeran dumped Owen on the ground and started heaving breaths. Owen realized that his lungs felt fine. He hadn’t struggled at all inside the burning building. Had they known that? Was that why they sent him in first?

“Owen, you alright?” Jeran was over him, face streaked with ash and something resembling… guilt.

The viper hissed. The light in Owen’s chest flared in response. He stopped thinking.

                                                                                    ***

The light in Owen’s chest had never truly reached his eyes before. That was what Jeran would later decide triggered his danger instinct. The apprentices had withdrawn towards the farm house, Zedra was still lying on her back, but from the way Zaid and the other one were hovering she seemed fine. Victor was organizing a fire brigade with the onlooking farmhands. Jeran sighed, tension leaving his body before a bout of sharp coughs had him nearly double over. Smoke was not for breathing, good to remember.

Owen lay on the ground staring up at him. Tear tracks were visible through the soot on his face. And his eyes were glowing. Not the flickering light that sometimes reached them, a pulsing red light that obscured his irises completely.

Jeran shouted an alarm. The sound surprised him even as he swung his cloak into a shielding position. He hadn’t seen anything other than those eyes, but something told him to brace. A second later and he wouldn’t have lived to regret it.

A tangle of glowing fists shot from beneath Owen. Launching him into the air and swinging towards Jeran in a smooth arc. Jeran had just reinforced his cloak when the first blow hit. Owen had never struck with a fraction of the force that hit him now. Jeran was lifted from his feet and tossed head over boots. The world spun, and his arm hurt. Broken stars but his arm hurt like it had just been struck with an iron rod. That was through the reinforcement.

“Get Zedra and those farmers back, now!” Jeran shouted it over his shoulder, eyes focused on Owen. No time to see if he’d shouted the right way. He ran forward. Owen reacted to him, burning hands approached from the side and above, seeking to crush Jeran. Jeran released the clasp holding the cloak to his shoulder and slid. The fabric ballooned over him and he slapped his hands up, locking it in place with a quick reinforcement. His improvised bubble blocked Owen’s attack for a crucial second. The cloak fell to the ground behind Jeran who came up from his slide fist clenched, black leather glove already glowing with white lines, solid and ready to strike.

“Sorry kid.” Jeran said, fist colliding with Owen’s forehead. A sick crack sounded and Owen’s head whipped back. Taking the rest of his body down with him. The glow in his chest faded and the conjured arms all retraced into his back. Jeran stood over him, panting with anticipation, hands raised in a boxing stance. His reinforced glove was flecked with Owen’s blood. Jeran looked from his fist, down at Owen. The kid’s forehead had already started glowing, melting and reshaping itself to heal the damage to his skull. Jeran knew he’d be fine, on an instinctual level he had known that the strike wouldn’t do any lasting harm. Jeran looked around, Victor was watching from a distance, sword out and watching the two of them. Zaid and the other two apprentices were back a safe distance, eyes wide with amazement.

Jeran turned his back towards them, suddenly queasy. He knelt, picked up his cloak, and packed it under Owen’s head. He was still arranging Own into a more dignified and comfortable posture when he heard victor’s boots on the grass behind him.

“So this is the aberrant boy the High Inquisitor adopted?” The question was void of any malice, but Jeran’s nerves tightened anyway. He stood and rolled his shoulders before turning to face the younger man. Victor had the same pale skin as Jeran did, marking them both as from farther north. Victor’s hair was darker, and he carried himself like a soldier. Like they all did.

“He isn’t dangerous while in control.” Jeran answered, putting on his captain's voice. “He won’t be a problem when he wakes up.”

Victor opened his mouth but Jeran held up a hand, “Were they able to contain the fire?”

Victor worked his jaw, but nodded, “They aren’t happy we burned down their barn, but they’re grateful not to have a monstrous spirit to worry about.”

Jeran nodded, “How are your apprentices? I know one was injured.”

Victor grimaced, “Ethan is unharmed, but Zedra will require a few days of treatment. The burn looks nasty, but the medics at Blackreach should be sufficient for it. She won’t suffer any lingering effects besides potentially a scar.”

Jeran nodded again, “Then once you’re ready, we’ll make the return.” He turned to leave.

“Captain, why is he still here?”

The question locked his feet in place. “I don’t know what the High Inquisitor is planning if that’s what you mean.”

Victor crossed his arms, “Captain, you understand that she is violating our mission. I was sent-”

Jeran spun on his heel and locked eyes with Victor. The man stopped talking. “You were sent to deliver a message, and to observe our operations.” Jeran said cooly, “Unless I misunderstand, you have not been impeded in either respect. Am I mistaken, Agent?”

After a moment Victor looked away. “No sir.”

Jeran nodded, “Get us ready to go, I will watch over Owen.”

Victor eyed Jeran before saluting, right fist to his left shoulder, and walking towards the apprentices. Jeran watched him go, letting his shoulders sag and the air deflate from his posture. If there was one thing he missed from the shoreguard; it was the lack of internal politics. Being constantly on the edge of dying built unity. He sat by Owen and pulled off his gloves. What a mess.