IV — Fate

The night slowed like time itself had calmed the haze outside, despite its prevailing prevalence. The outside breeze challenged the density the haze had clamped altogether, trying to establish dominance amongst all gaseous particles. The haze wasn’t going to let it dominate, its particles hanging onto each other like they were being coursed through a giant storm with no rain.

For some, the penetrating motion of the breeze meeting haze spelled something incoming. Those that had more extraneous senses rushing through their systems, may it be mana-induced, mana-created, or natural instincts, often held that motion as a sign of danger. Not brewing in a pot to explode from afar, but closer, either inching or accelerating. This danger-sense made people in the refugee town more aware of their surroundings, and thus, more prepared for when something goes wrong.

For Sam, the breeze reminded him of something more.

The penetrating motion, followed by consequent surges of howling from wind clashing against wind: haze against breeze, gusts against gusts from all directions, reminded him of something other than having to prepare.

It reminded him of a scene.

A scene he could never forget. A scene that, no matter what kind of perpetuating intensities of any gale wind—be it man-made or natural—would be the one event etched inside his soul. A scene that reminded him he had a choice.

And this choice haunted him.

He could still remember, after being covered in soot and grime himself, the grime that he had seen that day…

The rain cried loudly as the gale winds tore apart each other in constant howling noises, reverberating outside in some form of chaotic opera. Inside a hall that had muted the sound, likening its muted colors that normally were a radiant blend of blue and yellow, two figures stood in front of each other, both standing perfectly still like statues that gained sentience yet refused to move. The whole scenario was set as if it was a backdrop of a tragic play.

A tragic play, they both committed.

One of the figures came into full view as the faint light shone upon it. A young lad, with an expression that seemed like he had seen the happiest moments of his life played out in front of him all at the same time, was shaking and panting. His motions were not of normal exhaustions due to physical or mental exhaustion, but it was exhaustion that carried an air of relief.

He was smiling, but his eyes were wide like a mana crystal addict.

He looked like he had gone through something dark and happy all at once.

The second figure did not look like it took kindly to what it saw in front.

As the chaotic opera crescendos outside, they played a fortississimo of thunder and lightning that would have scared off a child. It sounded like a flash was about to hunt them down for staring at each other very intently. The flash also sparked the second figure into full view, and there and then the contrast was easy to distinguish. A young man, who looked to be slightly older than the lad, was standing there in front of the lad.

Unlike the young lad, he carried an air of worry and shock that expressed in his face as a mix of confusion and anger. However, the man’s expressions seem to be controlled, perhaps it was due to his upbringing, or something else he had gained along the way.

Whatever it had been, it wasn’t enough to fully suppress what his retinal cortex showed him: an image that he could never forget.

Shaking, the lad nodded towards the figure slowly. His face was disheveled.

“I… I did it, Sammy…”

His voice was coarse. Through further flashes of light from lightning, the lad’s full portrait came into a much fuller view than the faint light could expose.

Crimson.

He carried a blunt blade that possibly was the standard dagger someone would carry for self-defense. It would have had the color of such dagger, silver just like how its blacksmith would have forged it.

However, that night, it was drenched crimson.

“Byleck…”

Sam could only muster that. Byleck’s name.

He looked at the blade on Byleck’s hand. It was still dripping in crimson. Deep crimson. The streaks of crimson formed a faint gradient of red that led up to his torso. He didn’t know how deep he cut, but he knew it had been a severe one, severing an artery that proved vital for survival.

Byleck had undone that in a flash.

Just like the lightning strikes that threatened to burst the area they were standing on.

“Hey,” Byleck started. “Say something, Sammy… aren’t you proud of me?”

Sam could not say anything.

It wasn’t because he saw the drops of deep crimson bleeding through his blade. It wasn’t because he was shocked like he got struck by the lightning decimating the outside skies. It wasn’t because Byleck killed someone.

No.

It was because he had allowed him to.

Even if the mission they had was about neutralizing someone who had threatened the empire’s security, he didn’t realize that they would be doing this. He had taught Byleck all about moving slow and steady, which was the same thing Diana had taught him while practicing his archery. He had many chances to use his prowess for good and good he thought he did.

That was such until he saw the crimson seeping against flashes of light, themselves becoming mute to him, and the only thing he can feel are his heartbeat and Byleck’s. In the corner of both their peripheries, a heart had descended to its final beat, and all Sam could hear—he was not as sure if Byleck also had heard it—were the cries of a girl, muted from the sound of the halls and the closed door behind Byleck. She sounded like she was no younger than a child, perhaps terrified of what she had seen or something else; Sam couldn’t tell.

What he could tell at that moment as the thunderstorm raged on, time slowing down as if the world had paused between him and Byleck: is that Byleck had slayed someone.

He had killed them.

Murder.

In cold blood.

Worse, it seemed like Byleck enjoyed it. Sam had been suspending every disbelief he could muster by that time, however he could not suspend this disbelief.

Maybe he could have been influenced.

But there was one thing he knew then…

Byleck was beyond saving.

As they got more missions, Sam became fed up in recoiling in disgust and instead kept watch at a vantage point. He could have stopped Byleck at any point, but he felt trapped: chains that kept him tethered and a voice that told him to keep going. Perhaps he heard a voice telling him to go back and return to becoming the kind, meek archer that he once was.

Byleck became more bloodthirsty.

Sam became more bitter.

And in the clashing gale winds that occurred from the outside, the showdown between the cold breeze and the nightly haze would become a backdrop to a more vicious and bloody clash between an archer whose heart beats to nowhere, and someone who had embraced the darkness after forcing several hearts to lose their beats.

The memory came back to Sam, but instead of catching him by surprise, he looked calm. He had to look calm, as he held the hand of a small girl who was sleeping by his side. It was vivid enough to trigger many as a feverish nightmare, but Sam had too many close calls to feverish nightmares that it was starting to blur his concept of what a nightmare even was. The abundance of it all nearly numbed Sam, and he was ready to sweep it all under the rug, as the Lantern Children had shown him how they still persevere even when everyone else got in the way.

But this was not a nightmare.

It was real.

Kat opened her eyes to see Sam still sitting in a hunched position. Sam had been waiting for signs of an ambush, and was ready with his bow laid down and resting near him. Kat rubbed her eyes to make clear what she had seen, and tugged Sam’s sleeve, hoping to jolt him back to reality, or so she assumed.

“Big Bro Sam,” said Kat, worried. “I’m scared.”

Sam didn’t have to know that Kat was scared. She had been trembling since she fell asleep. She must have had a terrible nightmare, possibly dressed in rose petals: the thorns seeping up until she could no longer escape to another dream, if that was even possible. He thought of her praying to the Great Mother, a scene he had caught her doing in a small tent somewhere in the refugee town. He hadn’t marked her the religious type, but she seemed too earnest enough to be one. In fact, he had thought Kat would solve anyone’s problems.

He realized after though, she was just a kid.

She prayed to the Great Mother as she spoke about perhaps because she saw her as a lifeline. She was perhaps carrying mana in her vessel that overflowed like the priestesses and mages in the court, as Sam would recall. She might even have a close affinity to nature and was just a human messenger for it.

But either way, it was overwhelming for her.

Kat had told Sam that he was “carrying something”; Sam had become awfully careful about who knew his past and burdens he carried. The closest he had come to revealing something about himself was with Ellen, while watching the clearing. He wanted to make right and nearly spilled everything that had happened to him to this one woman who he had recently become acquainted with and befriended. He didn’t know if Kat was someone he could say something to, or be more vulnerable to.

It’s not as if he didn’t want his secrets to be shared.

He just didn’t want the burden of a twelve-something to be increased further by worrying about him.

Clearly, it seemed he had failed in that regard as Kat tugged his sleeve tighter.

Sam leaned forward, himself unsure of his own gestures, and pulled Kat up into a hug. Kat felt the warmth of Sam’s body and returned the hug, herself relieved that she had a lifeline to cling to. Slowly, Kat’s body had ceased to tremble as she tightened her hug around Sam; Sam wasn’t going to let her fall alone by herself.

After all, he knew the feeling.