The Beast

Chapter Twenty-Seven

She almost wished he hadn't bothered to save her. But her selfishness wouldn't let her. The loss of his life was only for saving her own, so she shouldn't let a sacrifice like that go in vain, right? But how was she supposed to be grateful for her life when it came at the expense of so many others? Lives she could have at least tried to save. But then again, wouldn't she have just perished with them, the sacrifice once more all for naught?

Hemorra was so conflicted. She was horrified, she was ashamed, she was grieved. She should have been glad to be alive, to have a second chance and put the events of the festival behind her. Her father would have. Her sister would have. But she couldn't. She felt she would never be able to move on. She would never forget the horrors she observed or for what her part was in the grand scheme of it all. She swore it was like she could still smell the smoke of those cursed torches.

She sniffled. Smoke. And it was too strong to simply be her imagination.

She wiped at her eyes quickly, glancing around frantically for the source of the smoke, her gaze inevitably drawn toward the great castle in the mountain, where at the entrance she could see the blazing fire and it's dark trail.

She wondered at it. A fire at the castle's entrance. No one had gone up, that she had seen. Then it could only have been made by those who swelled within the castle. A "monster".

Hope swelled within Hemorra's chest, lifting the burden of her guilt. The monsters lived yet, which meant he could still be alive as well. Or he could be laying amongst the many dead. She did not know. And she didn't want to find out for herself. It would be too painful to see him like that.

Hemorra clutched at the ruby in her hand. Perhaps for now, hope was enough.

When her mind finally wrapped around the idea of the castle dwellers not all being gone, it turned to darker thoughts of how the others of the city would take it. Would they be angry? Afraid? Whatever they would feel, she knew she would be alone in her sentiment of relief.

She knew this would not be the end, either. That fire was a signal to the whole of the city--a show that they had failed in their attempt to purge the castle of its supposed curse.

Hemorra slipped the pendant over her head once more, letting the ruby rest beneath her shirt and warm her chest. She was glad they had failed. She was glad to have hope. She had never had much of it in her life, but she was grateful for this bit. It felt so wonderful, more warm than the strange ruby ever could be, and more strengthening than hardening herself had ever been.

Maybe her sister and father had been wrong all these years. Maybe having sentiment was better than not. Maybe dreaming helped going through reality. Maybe hope lent strength in desperation.

~*~

Hemorra had been correct in thinking that the fire would not be the end. The people of Tigo Bay were indeed angry and afraid. Many found themselves looking over their shoulders, and in the darker shadows of the night. That is, if they hadn't been before.

As the winter made way for spring, Hemorra set to work on her small garden, whispering to them as she did before. Some days she would see a few small groups approach the castle still. She was unsure of their intentions most times. She never knew for certain whether it was in some twisted form of vengeance, foolhardy curiosity, or perhaps something entirely different. She usually didn't pay it much mind beyond remarking it to her vegetables, telling them her thoughts and how she believed the people would never truly rid themselves of monsters, even if they killed all those who lived in the castle.

She was still unsure whether or not he lived. She was still unsure that she wanted to truly know. She found that to be the only precarious thing about hope. It helped her to continue her days with gratitude, but she knew if she found it to be for naught, she would never be quite the same again.

But one thing she did know was that when people did go to the castle, they always returned, always changed in one way or another. She heard the rumors of how the monsters twisted any trespassers into one of their own. It sickened Hemorra to think of any such thing happening. She had never seen evidence of it herself, but she could not help but think of how awful it would be to become so changed in such a manner. But then again, would it truly be so tragic? Only their skin changed, didn't it? Would they not still be the same people? Were they still capable of the same things as before? But then she would remember reality. Though she herself took most stock in what was past the skin, she knew all too well that most people, if not all, did not.

The other rumors were more strange. Those who went and returned often spoke of a great monstrosity more horrid than the rest. A living shadow with haunting eyes that pierced to your very soul should you meet them, and a voice like cold steel and grating headstones--a voice of death. Sometimes they even said it was the manifestation of the curse itself. Most wrote it off as madness of some sort, but it still served its purpose in discouraging others from going, including Hemorra.

Hemorra's hope rested on other things aside from her savior still being alive, like her garden. It thrived just as it had before throughout the spring, and she eventually found she no longer had to hope--she had confidence in herself and her ability. It was something she had never had before.

She was still a terrible thief, while Raela only seemed to get ever better. She no longer bothered her sister with half-baked schemes of thievery, but she still wished that her sister and their father would have some confidence in herself. She could never shake the feeling she was more or less unwanted.

When her crop was ripe, she picked and cleaned it. She also went to some lengths to clean herself, as well. She remembered how she had been sneered at the previous time, and as much as she hated to admit it, perhaps if she was more up to standard herself, she would actually be looked twice at.

To her pleasant surprise she was. She was looked more than twice at. Before she knew it, she was out of vegetables to sell, having sold them all to pleasant-smiling women and strange boys that seemed to have trouble keeping their mouths closed.

When she shared her earnings with her family with excited pride, she told them they no longer had to steal--she could provide for them. Their only response was to tell her that her earnings were not nearly enough for that, that the garden would not always be fruitful, but rich pockets would be. They told her to continue her garden for herself, and they would steal for themselves, no longer sharing their earnings with her as they had before. Feeling scorned, Hemorra resolved she would do just that.

Though she no longer shared her earnings with her family, she felt bad keeping something meant to be shared to herself. How they would lecture her if they knew how she still wanted to share. In secret, she found herself dropping the spare coins into beggars cups, placing gold pieces into orphans pockets. She almost laughed at the irony of how well she was able to pickpocket in reverse.

Soon the seasons changed again, and Hemorra planted her seeds accordingly. She found herself steadily spending less time with her family and more gardening. She loved her father and sister dearly, but she found herself drained empty of all energy if she spent too much time with them. But with more time in her garden came more knowledge, steadily growing with the plants themselves. And as they blossomed, so did she.

And with every season that passed, Hemorra became more and more of interest to Tigo Bay and its inhabitants, word spreading of the red-haired beauty that spent her days selling the fruits of her labor.

Once again, Hemorra found herself the center of unwanted attention in the city.