No masters or kings when the ritual begins
Content Warning for gore
~)(~
I don't know if I was breathing—if I was even thinking—or just existing. This kind of feeling, this power, it wasn't normal, wasn't familiar. I wanted it gone, wanted to burn it from my system like acid. It coursed through my bloodstream too fast, too hot.
As soon as I realized where I was, it all just hit me like a million bolts of lightning. I did this. I caused this disaster.
With magic I had no control over, spilling out of a well so full it burst like a cracked dam. Magic so raw and broken it was nothing but fire, spilling across all I touched and turning it to ashes. Like thunder bellowing and echoing in my mind, a band tightly wound around my eyes. Blind to the horror of my rage, my pain.
I had killed people. I had held necks in my grasp and burned skin from muscle, muscle from bone. Watched as that light left the eyes of so many now unrecognizable on the battlefield. All for the path to this place—this deserted camp.
I killed heartlessly, ruthlessly. With no sense of compassion, no feeling of guilt. I only wished to flood this power from my bones and kill those who chained me to a cliff-side and let the waves beat and bruise me.
My hands shook as magic pooled beneath my fingertips. Yes, I used this power to destroy everything I could—didn't I? And yet... I couldn't kill the people that I wanted to. I was too slow, too distracted. And now it was done, and I was sitting in the rubble wondering why I even did it if I couldn't kill them.
It felt like dry cracks skidded up my hands, making them shake harder. This stinging pain made it hard to think of anything other than where it could come from, and how to stop it. I lifted my hands and stared at them, searching for anything amiss.
I couldn't immediately see anything, but the closer I looked, the more I could make out these tiny sparks beneath the skin. As if they could see me, they shined brighter. Marks were left behind, riddling my skin with twisting lines akin to lightning strikes.
My heart dropped. There was so much magic beneath the surface of my skin that it was burning me. My skin was burning from the inside.
I could feel every ripple of burning through my veins. From the inside out, a raging fire threatened to destroy me. At first, it was only light, a dim light like the roots of trees deep within the muscles, within the nerves traveling all through my arms. Then it was fire—actual fire.
I lifted my hands and watched as my nails caught fire. Ten tiny candle flames lit, and the smell of cooking flesh followed the smoke. As they burned, my palms turned red and bubbled from blisters that tore with an almost audible feeling of paper ripping. Blood oozed and evaporated, steaming and filling my nose with that unforgettable metallic oxidization.
Bubbling flesh ripped and pulsed dark red. The sound of sizzling blood, of boiling fat, the steam and smoke of it all. Within it, that light. That painful, bright light belonging to the grey clouds of a thunderstorm. It spilled from my arms, from my palms. Released itself and dissipated as soon as the air touched it.
Where there should've been a pulsing ache and pain, there was instead a relief. The magic left my system, tired and used to the last drop, wishing to rest and recover before starting the process all over again.
A twig snapped from behind me, making me turn around. Just as fast as my heart started racing, it calmed again. Azriel stood there, his face painted with soot and blood that darkened his leathers further. Crimson slowly dripped from the tip of the sword he held a tight grip on.
He stared at me with wide eyes of gold. There was fear in his gaze, and he stood prepared to react. As if I was a wild beast, a rabid animal who could only see red.
Tears clouded my vision and fell free as I blinked them away. My eyes stung, and my nose itched as waves of feeling rushed through me. I was flooded with it. The dam broke days—weeks—months ago, and yet only now was the water finally reaching me. The boiling water only brought with it pain and devastation because this happened. All of this happened and it was my fault.
My fault.
I couldn't breathe without choking. I sobbed and cried openly for the first time in months. It was so raw, so real now. I felt exposed, with an open wound on my back just begging for something to pounce. My body shivered as the wind picked up and the rain came down harder, mixing with my tears to make them disappear within the soak of my clothes bleeding red.
I looked up at him and tried so hard to calm myself. But it was impossible. It felt like, just by looking at him and knowing he could see me in this state, it just got worse. He glanced down at my hands—what was left of them. The blood slowly oozing from my open-faced palms and the clogging of open wounds as my body fought desperately to heal whatever it could.
I wanted to hide my hands from him. I wanted to take that look off his face. That devastation, that guilt, and knowing that made him subconsciously hide his own scarred hands. No one should know the pain he did. And yet there I sat, with hands that boiled from within, soaked in blood and darkened by the burning of muscles into charred meat.
But he did something I never expected. He embraced me and held me so close and tightly that all I could hear—all I could feel was the pounding warmth of his heart. The beating that told me this was real, I was alive, people were dead.
I was so tired, so desperate for it all to be over, for the world to turn black and never reveal color again. It just... hurt. There was no better, no simpler word to describe how I felt. Pain was too physical a feeling, sadness barely scratched the surface.
"What did I do?" I sobbed into his shoulder, praying that he'd hold me and keep me from drowning.
"What you had to," he whispered, brushing hair out of my face.
My body shook. I couldn't believe his words or the truth I knew was in them. Everything was burning, ripping through my veins and nerves, lighting every inch of my body on fire. It made it hard to think, hard to breathe. It made me want to scream, to shut it all off and go numb.
I pulled away from him as my hands started shaking again, alight from the inside with branches of white trying to push through my healing fingertips. Blood slipped through tears at the tips of my fingers, blisters formed over already-healed skin.
"Make it stop—please just make it stop." I wasn't sure if he could hear me through the sobbing and shuddering of my breath.
Azriel took my hands in his, and I could feel through that touch just how hot my skin was. How his own palms sizzled when pressed against mine, and how his face twitched with a flash of pain as he held tighter. As he fought through the horror it brought to feel fire against his hands just so he could hold mine.
"Look at me, Rowena. Breathe—look, it's going to be okay, just breathe."
"I can't—it hurts," I sobbed, shaking my head as I tried to pry my hands from his. "Just make it stop."
He wouldn't let me go, wouldn't let me save him from this pain. Instead, he held onto my wrists and let his palms turn bright red, let them paint with my blood and smoke from my burning. I tried punching and screaming and all the things I could do, but he wouldn't let go.
"Okay—it'll go away. I promise you, it'll all go away. Just breathe," he said, a hand brushing through my hair as he gently shushed.
I felt lightheaded. The pain was so constant and intense that it was numb now, a dull ache at the back of my mind. I was frightened, terribly frightened. Would this pain remain forever? Was I doomed to feel this until I died? I would rather die than live with this. This purgatory I didn't deserve.
I didn't notice another person there until I felt their cold fingers dig into my temples from behind. I could sense him—feel his power. The power of a High Lord's son. But I couldn't get a word out before my mind was forced to darken, forced to sink away into my body, leaving it weightless and numb.
~)(~
Everything felt weighed by a thick sheet of armor covering my body. My eyes peeled open and stung as light filtered in. The candles popped and flickered, casting shadows on the stone walls. Like waves—waves of seagrass.
The first thing that hit me was the dryness of my mouth and throat. Air burned through my nose, passing a sore tongue as my lungs wheezed a breath. My lips unglued themselves, ripping a thin layer of skin from cracked lips.
As the daze of my eyes lifted and I could see clearly, I shot up into a sitting position. Where was I? What happened to me? It all suddenly came back in a crashing wave against rocks. I lifted my hands as my stomach dropped.
Splotches of red bled through the wrappings. The pale bandages covered down to my elbows, covering my fingers like mittens. Thick and tightly bound to keep everything inside. A slight pulse from the pressure was all I had to tell me I still had my hands.
But there was no more pain, no more bright light. It was just this pulsing feeling. Strange and uncomfortable, making my skin itch and giving me the urge to rip through the bandages.
The door opened with a creak of the wood, and a figure stood still in the frame. They stared at me, a little surprised that I was awake. I recognized him only when I noticed the glint of violet in his eyes. Had it really been that long since I last saw Rhysand?
"You're awake—good. My father will be glad to hear it," he said as he walked into the room.
The darkness of his clothes sucked out the light of the candles. I watched him as he poured a glass of water and brought it over to me. I snatched it from him and gulped it down. The immediate rush of hydration hit my mouth, loosening everything inside and cooling my stomach.
"He'll want answers," I said, voice gravelly.
Rhysand nodded. "And he got them. Besides... I think we all owe you our gratitude."
I looked up with knit brows. "I ruined the plan. How could that be—"
"The Loyalists have fled. They just... left. We won, because of you."
Because Nalia died. The sentence urged to be spoken. But I couldn't do it. I couldn't bring myself to say it out loud. Saying it out loud to the surrounding air was admitting the truth of it all. That she was dead. Really—truly dead.
"How long was I..." I trailed off, taking another large gulp of a refiled glass, holding it like a mug in winter.
"Three days. You have quite the fans—all hellbent on seeing you."
I rubbed my eyes. "Myriam's probably worried herself into an early grave at this point." I tried laughing, but it didn't feel right. Didn't feel real.
"And don't get me started on Jurian. Gods, get him worried, and his ranting alone could send a whole militia home." Rhys laughed at the thought and studied me with a knowing look. "I heard about Na—"
"Don't do that," I cut him off, looking away. "The last thing I want is people's pity."
His gaze hardened, and he sat down beside me on the bed. "I'm not just vaguely sympathizing with you. I've—the number of friends I've lost... and I never got to say goodbye—I know what it feels like to think you've cheated war, only for it to take what's closest to you."
Tears formed in my eyes so intense that it blurred my vision. "She was my only—" I broke down then. Needed and overflowing tears streamed down my face as I sobbed and cried.
Rhysand reached over and pulled me into his arms, his hands gently rubbing my back and arms as I shuddered a breath. It felt like my heart just opened, bursting with too much pressure. Everything bottled up over the centuries finally released like a tsunami—just waiting to crash and destroy me. And I hated it—I truly hated it.
Rhysand squeezed my arm and said, "That's not true, Rowena. You're not alone. You have me—right here and now. You have Myriam gnawing at the door trying to comfort you, and Jurian pacing with worry. And you... you have Azriel, who has been by your side through it all."
I shook my head and said in a muffled sound from his jacket, "Then why do I feel so alone?"
He sighed and pulled back, his hands going to my face to make me look at him as he sat us up straight. "Being alone is all we ever really feel. As life goes on, things come and go, making it harder to fill the void inside. You can put a bandaid on and try to forget it, but it's always there. And nothing will truly fit into that hole again. But that is something good. It means you're living—and gaining all the pieces to make a hell of a story for the afterlife."
"But it hurts so much."
"The pain means you're alive," he said, squeezing my shoulder.
But if being alive meant feeling constant fire in my blood, and the weight of grief and hate heavy on my back, was it worth it? Was it worth all that pain to live another day—another year—another lifetime?
At this point all I was doing was climbing an uphill path with no sign of an end, no sign of a reward for all I went through. What was the point of moving forward if there wasn't anything I was moving towards?
People. It was always people. We move towards each other, constantly changing our path to find a new person to run to.
It was exhausting, painfully repetitive, and impossible to predict. But it was life. It was the complexity of existence, the strange allure of it that drove our curiosity to keep fighting—keep running.
But, Mother above, why did it have to be so difficult? Why did the reward feel like a punishment after all the pain it took to get there?
Perhaps I was just blind. After all, I barely got to experience life, and at the first sign of struggle, I broke down. I spent half my life trapped between four walls unable to see anything but what I was allowed. And now that I was free, I was just living through the pain like the rest of them.
I was just like them—the people I was told were below me. I was on their level now, standing at the bottom of that mountain with them, no shoes on my feet, a path of needles ahead. All for the chance to see sunlight and feel it against my skin. Just for the simple hope that someday—one day—I may wake up and not fear the future.
Rhys looked at me closely, his gaze softening as he likely saw my internal war. He sighed and sat up again. "Well, this is good timing—it's time to change the bandages."
I felt my stomach drop with a sudden fear. I didn't want to see it. The damage that was done by my own emotions. The reminder of what happened and what I did. If I looked at the branding, it would be a poison to me, a blatant eye of judgment staring and forcing me to feel guilt and shame. So much shame for the existence of it—of what I did.
Rhys stopped and noticed the look on my face. He recognized it—of course he did. It was a look I'm sure he saw on Azriel many times. The fear of what may happen if such horrors are exposed to light. That it could stain and bring harm to those who touch it. Like a parasite, a virus.
"Rowena, it's alright. If—we don't have to do this right now. I can get Myriam—or Az—"
"No, I'm fine," I blurted, not wanting to even think about that possibility. I could process the damage done by my hands—but him? I couldn't bear to think about his reaction.
I extended my bandaged arms and let Rhys cut through the fabric. Like a cast, each layer peeled away to reveal more bloodied fabric. Until it was fully removed, and I was left to stare at my hands.
It wasn't... my hands didn't look the same anymore.
Scars covered them in rippling tendrils, like lightning. I softly rubbed the raised skin and hissed. The healing wasn't finished yet, and though there was no more bleeding, the skin of my hands was as red as a blistering sunburn, tingling at the feeling of moving air.
I held my breath as Rhysand carefully and quickly applied a balm to the reddened areas. At first, it stung and grew more red with inflammation, but as I breathed deeply, the pain subsided into a cool feeling that was almost enjoyable.
It made the process of re-bandaging much easier. This time, thankfully, I was free from mittens. Though there was such a thick layering of fabric that I could barely rotate my wrist, let alone move my fingers. But it was easier—a step in the better direction.
Rhys smiled at his work and said, "You're actually healing very well—considering what happened. I wouldn't know though—just regurgitate whatever Myriam rants when given enough time. She likes to go on tangents."
I spoke before I could catch myself, "How... how are they?"
Rhys paused for a moment, his brow raised. "We're all just recovering. It was a difficult fight for you guys and a long trip for me. If it weren't for the last-minute... thing you did, we would've lost. Even with the reinforcements I brought."
"Am I supposed to be grateful that I survived?"
"Yes, Rowena, because you lived. Because there needs to be someone left alive to remember all that died. You lived. We lived—do you think I'm not riddled with guilt? Because I'm the one who told those men to go out there and risk their lives."
I felt tears brim again, threatening to break me all over again. "How do you live? How do you move on from that?"
Rhys leaned back in the chair with a sigh, a weighed look on his face as he glanced at the candle on the side table. "Time. It takes time."
Why was I not disappointed with his answer? Why did I expect it? I wasn't angry or hopeless. I was just... there. Just breathing and still living. So I was just supposed to move on, to continue walking past the dead bodies and pretend I didn't see them.
Bloody, morbid, endless. As much a purgatory as waking up from dreamless sleep.
-Authors Note-
so i wrote this at like 4am very sleep deprived and hungry. is it wonky? yes. is it emotionally a rollercoaster? absolutely. do i think it's sad? no comment...
hi... so you can yell at me. i was supposed to finish act one before the end of the year but... as you can see that didn't happen—not even close. am i surprised? not one bit. i got busy with New Years and travel plans that i didn't know about till LAST MINUTE—it was chaos 😭
i've also been obsessing with digital art after i figured out how to animate in procreate! i've been working on lots of projects and character designs so i'm very excited to post that stuff to my instagram. i've gotten to a point in writing where i want to find a deep dark cave and just sit in there for a day writing so no one has to know what i'm doing. pray for me.
at this point i just need to put in the fine print that my mom is a god because i once again sat her down to talk about body horror for a good thirty minutes. i'm fighting for my life trying to be anatomically correct FBI please don't come after me 😭
anyway, i hope you enjoyed this chapter and let me know your thoughts! i'm forcing myself to get chapter 26 done as soon as possible so i can post it tomorrow cause i'm sorry i was gone! have a great rest of your day/week though and i'll see you later!!!