Bereft: Foretold

39 | A First Kill

I slept before the dawn and entered the crumbling dungeons of my mind, intruding upon the recesses where the darkest of my memories resided. 

I wandered to those dreaded depths without intent, and though I cursed every recognizable stone and wished for this deplorable place to be eaten by time's ennui, I understood its permanence. This was the foundation of my being, of who I was. These gray cinder-blocks and bloodied flagstones were the beginnings of the Sin of Pride, and I could no more wish them away than I could banish my soul, my anger, or my arrogance. 

My feet strode where they willed, and I entered one of the looming portals, coming upon a forest of burning oranges and reds.

Seven young Sins stood in a secluded glen ringed by hulking trees colored in the hues of autumn. The verdant grass rustled against their high-kneed boots and the low slant of the sun bloodied their doublets and foreign tunics. Chains of gold were woven about their wrists and fingers, connected to bands at their arms. Ribbons of various colors were braided into their long hair in such a way as to reveal their thin, pointed ears. 

I was there, of course. Little older than a child-Sin, headstrong and willful, my carmine hair was bound at the nape of my neck by a cut bit of cloth and my features mirrored the slimmer, more delicate aspects of the Dreaming Children. My eyes—blue as the fire of the Pit—were locked upon the young man bound, tethered, gagged, and kneeling in the dirt at my feet.

No. Not this memory. I do not wish to see this. Not again.

A sword was braced in my trembling fist, the naked blade gleaming in the sunset. 

Six other Children knelt in the dirt before one of the Original Sins. All were male, some stoic and others pleading for their lives, vivid eyes wide and streaked with tears. The pallid color of their hair and eyes marked them as Craginaughts or Stormlians—I never ascertained which—and my uneasy brethren kept them in place. 

"I cannot do this," Balthazar breathed as his hands shook worse than mine and his voice rose to a terrible pitch. "I cannot do this!"

Our hosts agreed with him and pleaded further for their lives through their gags.

We were boys, and we'd only been in Dreaming Isle for less than a year at the time. Before, we'd lived in the Pit under the care of the Baal, and from him we'd received the energy needed to survive, but our Dark Father couldn't sustain creatures like us indefinitely. We'd been sent out to be hunters, to fend for ourselves and exist in his name as agents of the Pit's will.

None of us had ever bloodied our hands, as far as we'd known. We'd never killed before—and we were starving. We'd done the bidding of our foolish hosts for a year, and they'd never believed it would come to this, that we'd actually demand their souls as payment—but the day had come when we couldn't wait any longer. 

Staring at myself through transparent eyes, I thought of what a clumsy, fumbling, greedy fool I'd been in the beginning. In the eons that had passed since this event, I'd come to know what true hunger felt like. I'd survived decades without sustenance. A year was nothing. Child's play.

"Do it," Tehgrair urged with authority, but he hadn't stepped forward. His juniper eyes were closed and his head bowed. "Do it, Darius." 

I said nothing. I only looked down at the boy who would become my first kill. I never learned his name, because I'd known this would be his end, and knowing his name would have only made it more difficult for the both of us. 

"I will return to the Pit. I cannot do this!" Balthazar continued to rage and Kaimeial—good, patient Kaimeial—held his arm to keep Envy in place.