The bone-shivering chill of the undercroft below the barracks did not feel as particularly harsh as it usually did. Even the cloying dampness that clung to every wall did little to bother Juda's nose and throat as he made his way through the murky passageways, his thick woollen cloak pulled up around his head.
He was vaguely aware of the pain that cut across his chest from where his opponent's blade had slashed through the leather of his vest and into his skin, but the wound was surface only and the sting easy to ignore. The small jar of healing salve given to him by Commander Grim had gone unopened, left discarded by the basin, where Juda had spent twice as much time scrubbing the bloody smears from the bowl and the floor, as he had scrubbing it from his body.
For all the injuries sustained—and there were few, such had been his fortune—the only one that served as a constant reminder of the battle in the bloody square was the bruising that had swollen and split the skin over the knuckles of his right hand. It throbbed constantly and he wondered if he might have fractured something. It was certainly a possibility and if so, then he might find he needed more than a healing salve to fix it. After all, soon he would leave this place and take up his new position by the King's side, and his body needed to be intact and healed if he were to fulfil his duty.
Following the trail of muted lanterns that lined the route from the stairway leading up to the novice quarters to the exit doorway out onto the citadel streets, Juda's eyes soon adjusted to the gloom. The light was pitiful, diffused by shadow and by the black rock itself, which made Juda feel he were walking through the belly of some gigantic sea monster, the walls slick with moisture.
A memory flickered then, unbidden, unwanted, of damp walls glistening with dragon's gold. Of how the azure light rippled reflections of the water off the cavern roof, as the steady drip, drip, drip oozed into his ears like honey, thick and warm. Of how water droplets lingered upon smooth skin.
Raising his fist to his mouth, he slicked his tongue across his grazed knuckles and tasted the sharp tang of his own blood and then the memory was gone as if it had never existed, as if it belonged to someone else. Good, let it. He did not want it.
But what did he want? Strange that the idea of wanting should seem like some far-off point on the horizon now, when he had done nothing but want his entire life. Revenge. Pain. Suffering. Death. He had wanted to inflict all of that and more, as if a fire burned constantly under his skin and the only way to douse the flames was to get what he wanted. And yet now, it was as if he were adrift on the cold, black sea, with no sight of land, nothing but him and a stretch of water so vast he could not see the end of it.
Somewhere inside, Juda knew he should feel something, but the fact remained that he did not and what's more, he found he did not care that he didn't. It was easier not to feel. How many moons had he burned? For how long had he been tortured by the flames? Far better to be adrift. Besides, he could tread the waters alone. He always had done. Now need not be any different.
Juda's tread was soft as he moved through the dimly lit maze of the undercroft, but the silence in his head was softer still and it should have disturbed him—for he'd never lived in silence—and yet he welcomed it. Better not to think. Better not to listen. Better not to feel. It was all so much better.
Preoccupied with that nothingness, Juda almost passed through the passageway unheeded, and indeed, would have made it to the rear doorway of the undercroft if it wasn't for the sharp bitterness of vinegar and fireroot spice hitting his senses and stopping him in his tracks.
The strong scent stung his eyes, and he blinked a few times to clear the irritation. He wasn't going to enter the chamber. After all, what would be the point? Juda had done what needed to be done and that was all. Far better to wash it away, like smears of bloody prints on a basin. And yet, he found himself moving to the doorway carved into the rock, where the odour was strongest of all, and where the body of his slain opponent lay cold on the slab.
They never laid cloth over the bodies here as they did in the citadel morgue. The dead remained in the undercroft long enough for the families to pay their final respects and then they were cast into the Setalah to rot with the rest of the bones. Had the family of Juda's opponent visited already? He recalled there was...a mother, but that was all. Had she been to weep at the side of her dead son? To grip his cold hand in hers and rue the tide she had given him to The Order? If weeping and guilt was all she had left, then so be it. More fool the mothers who sent their weak sons to worship Ban-Keren. They deserved their grief and their shame, for they only thought of their own pride and not enough as to whether their son deserved his place next to Juda in the bloody square.
Juda approached the slab and walked around it slowly, studying his opponent, now stripped of his buckled leather vest, outer tunic, britches, and boots, and laid out in just his under-britches. Every mark inflicted from the battle was visible upon his bare skin, but it was at his head where Juda stopped, his gaze resting on his face. Curious to see him look so different. How it was possible to mould somebody's form into something else with just fist and force.
The flesh was stretched, swollen, and bruised around the eyes, the cheekbone, the mouth. There was a bump in the bridge of his nose that had not been there before. His lips were split in three places, the blood crusted there. He'd been barely cleaned up—after all, why bother wasting precious water on the dead? They would rot soon enough in the Setalah's clutches.
Juda studied the dead man—who looked more youth than man now the burdens of life and duty had been stripped from him—with a feeling that stretched between indifference and confusion. Something strange and unsettling nagged at him, something that he was meant to remember perhaps, but by Ban-Keren, he could not fathom what it might be. Frowning, he stepped back. He should not be here, that he did know. It was pointless to look upon the dead. What good were they to him? They meant nothing. He should walk away and not look back.
He reached the door when the silence was broken within him.
Look back, Juda.
The voice was so loud that it brought him to a juddering halt, as if someone had knocked the wind from his body. He braced one hand against the doorway and swallowed, taking in a gulp of foul, fetid air. He had to get out. It was this place. Infested with dead air and dead bodies. Who could breathe in a place like this?
But he barely took one step, when the voice tore into him once more.
Juda Rotharo Vikaris, don't you dare walk away.
No, no. Not her. Not now. Her voice, the one that had served to comfort him for so very long, had been a torture. He knew that now. Just a memory conjured up to encourage his weakness and if it was one thing Juda was not, it was weak. Weakness was for those who perished under his blade. Under his fist. Weakness was for those who bled their last into the dust and dirt where they belonged. And he was not one of them. He never would be.
Silencing the voice of his mother had been for the best. At first, it had felt strange to be without her, but soon he realised he was better for it. Stronger. And by Ban-Keren, he would prevail on his own. He didn't need Aleina, not anymore.
Exhaling, he took another step, but his legs almost buckled beneath him. Pushing his back against the rock, he tried to breathe but the noise crowded his mind, the voice relentless. Juda clutched at his head as the pain dug deeper still. He had to get out, he had to...
You look at what you did. Look at it now and by our blood, never forget it.
Sinking to the ground, he gagged, a wave of nausea surging up from his stomach. He fell forward onto his hands, the pressure inside his chest building, as if it sought to stretch open his rib cage and burst free. He gagged again, choking, watery liquid dribbling from his open mouth.
There was something in his throat.
He could feel it there, moving, blocking his airways. His chest heaved, as he bent over, face close to the black rock, eyes streaming as this thing, whatever it was, forced its way slowly upwards until he could feel it crawling onto the back of his tongue. It was moving still, squirming, wriggling, and Juda gagged violently then, his body convulsing as he vomited, spewing out thick, phlegmy globules of white mucus that hit the ground with a wet slap.
The creature that wriggled furiously in the mucus was a much smaller version of the borer-worm that he'd been forced to consume at the King's Trial, which, once it had done with Juda, had expelled itself from his throat and died instantly. Yet somehow Juda had never felt like it had left him, and now he knew why. This was what it had left behind. This had been living inside him. Growing. Feeding off him.
But not now.
With a cry of revulsion, Juda stumbled to his feet and smashed the heel of his boot down upon the larvae, again and again. It squelched under his foot, but still he did not stop, furiously stamping down and grinding it into the floor of the chamber and only when it was done, did he finally turn his stricken gaze back to Argo Demas.
Resting against the doorway, Juda wiped at his mouth with the back of his hand but did not wipe the tears that streamed from his eyes. He was no longer weeping because he couldn't breathe but weeping because of the shame that held his heart in its grip and squeezed until he could not bear the pain. He stumbled to where Argo lay, his hand trembling as he placed his palm on Argo's chest. It was so still and so empty that he could not stop the sound that came from him, a high-pitched keening noise like a wounded animal. He smoothed his fingertips down Argo's arm, bringing his hand to his mouth and pressed his lips against Argo's cold wrist.
His hands still wracked with tremors, he cupped Argo's face in his palms, brushing his thumbs tenderly over the swollen skin, as his tears fell onto the dead man's face.
Leaning down, he rested his forehead against Argo's. Blood encrusted the man's dark blonde lashes. He'd always had stupidly pretty lashes, this one. Finer even than Estella's. A face too beautiful for Grimefell and certainly too beautiful for The Order. Even the over-privileged noble-born cunts with all their pampering and preening, couldn't rival Argo's beauty, and they always fucking knew it.
And Juda had taken that beauty and smashed it into the ground, not with his boot but with his fist and a heart incapable of compassion and love.
Argo had held enough of both of those things in his heart for the two of them, but Juda had never asked him to. He'd never fucking wanted it, because it was one thing to encage your soul and kill when ordered to, but to kill that which looked at you in the way Argo had looked at him?
Juda had many skills, but to identify another man's weakness was the one that had kept him alive since the very tide he had walked through the black gates of the barracks, and by the dead gods, he'd seen Argo's weakness almost instantly. The way in which the other man's eyes had widened when they first met. The way in which his gaze touched Juda and raised the heat to his cheeks. Argo Demas had longed for Juda in the same way that Juda had longed for revenge. And Juda had twisted his love into a weakness and killed him for it.
"Forgive me, Argo," Juda whispered against the dead man's cheek. "Wherever you rest now, I beg you to forgive me."
His tears fell onto Argo's swollen mouth, and Juda pressed his lips to there, fire against ice.
"If I had been a different man," he said. "I would have loved you." He kissed him once again, tasting salt and blood upon his tongue. "I would have tried, Argo..."
Standing up, Juda wiped at his face with his cloak and sniffed, touching his thumb to Argo's mouth one final time even as his grief and shame continued to sting his eyes, far stronger than the vinegar and fireroot did.
"I am not lost, Aleina. I hear you still, and I am not lost. I swear on his soul that I am not."
Brushing one dark blonde curl free from Argo's forehead where it had matted to his skin under the dried blood, Juda smiled at his friend—maybe the only one he had ever had.
"Farewell, Argo," he whispered. "May the dead gods bring me to you again."
Then, pulling his hood up again around his face, Juda left the chamber and made his way towards the entrance to the citadel streets. Outside, the dark moon was obscured by heavy cloud and Juda was thankful for the gloom and for the cool moontide air that flooded his lungs. The breeze coming in over the Setalah was strong tonight and the sea salt dappling on his tongue reminded him of her.
He wasn't lost and neither was Elara because he was going to find her.
Tell him, I will see him again.
By his blood, by his heart, he would do anything to find her now.