Errant

Innocence

That night, I dream that Morran is in a ball of light. The ball shrinks steadily until his haggard face is pressed against the walls. I watch the life leave his eyes as his body disintegrates. His body turns corpse-like, leaving only a bag of bones and skin, rattling to the ground within the sphere. The sphere shatters, and I am left staring at the dust that was once Morran's body.Then my perspective shifts, and I see myself, my hands poised in the air, my body coiled like a spring. My eyes are hollow. Dead. I killed him, without a second thought. I killed him, and it was so easy.

Murder should never be this easy.

I jolt awake to the sound of shouting and general commotion. Lamps flood the room and I squint from my hammock, trying to make sense of the bouncing candlelight and shadows of footsteps. But before my vision clears, Mara appears beside my hammock and dumps me promptly onto the ground, without comment.

"What was that for?" I demand, wincing as I pick myself up from the stones.

"You'll thank me later. Up. Arlette's not happy."

I drag myself to a standing position, tossing on a pair of jeans over the shorts I already wear. Arlette slams into the room as soon as my tennis shoes are in hand.

"Out," she says. Her voice is low and dangerous. A screaming Arlette I can handle, but an Arlette who carefully controls her words is far worse. "Now," she says. A nasty tinge has crept into her voice, and I flinch, using the motion to propel my body forward. Awkwardly, I stuff my feet into my shoes as I follow the group out, my heart thumping so hard against my chest that I can scarcely breathe.

Nothing good can come from this late-night visit. I follow Claire's tousled hair as we merge with the boys, and descend flight after flight of stairs. At some point Quinn shoots me a quizzical look, but I can only shrug.

Arlette takes us past all of the room levels— past the kitchens, the cafeteria, the training rooms, until we are so deep in the resistance that I don't recognize anything anymore. The peach colored light still floods the hallways, but the hallways are more sinister and in complete disrepair.

I catch a few snatches of people yawning in the side of my vision, but I don't join them. I catch the sharp tinge of formaldehyde, and another cloying smell in the mix that I refuse to confirm. My stomach lurches and it is all I can do to remain upright as we trudge down the hallway, an unhappy procession.

The smell worsens. My palms are damp, and each breath is a reminder searing into my lungs. There is no ignoring something that assaults every sense.

I am in a morgue. My feet freeze, and Quinn thuds into my back, but even the momentum won't move me. Quinn doesn't even have to shove me forward, because we have already arrived at our destination. Arlette stands in front of the iron door, her hands clasped behind her carefully.

"Some of you think that what's going on above ground doesn't affect you." She pauses and for some reason I feel like my heartbeat is going to jump out of my throat. She continues. "You're wrong."

She slams open the iron door with a clang, saying, "Inside." We follow mutely. Inside, the smell of decay and death is strong. Instinctively I cover my nose and mouth as Arlette crosses over to the curtain that divides the room. A metallic, almost rusty scent hits my nose. My stomach lurches again.

Blood.

She places her hand on the edge of the curtain and pulls it back sharply. Behind me, someone retches.

Broken, mutilated bodies, beyond recognition. The marks of the Errant spells still circle around the lost limbs, a flicker in the macabre image. My hands begin to shake so violently that I stuff them in my pockets in an effort to stay under control.

"This is what the Errant do," Arlette says, her voice still strong. The gore of the scene before her has no effect on her voice. I find myself wondering how much death she has taken part in to become so immune to it all. "This is what you need to be prepared for," she finishes.

She lets go of the curtain and walks towards the lot of us, her eyes burning. And suddenly I realize that Arlette does care. More than any of us can ever know. Her eyes are red-rimmed, and beneath her fury, I see the grief that draws at her cheekbones. How many friends, family members, soldiers, has she lost to the Errant?

"So next time you think this is some kind of game, think again," she says. "The Errant don't care if you choose to die. They certainly didn't care when they murdered them," she says, gesturing to the remainder of the men on the tables. "It's your choice."

She walks out, slamming the door shut on any minute innocence I might have had left.