When the harsh wood of the pencil gripped tightly in his hand scraped at the page and threatened to rip a hole in the delicate matter, Tazaro sat back and sighed in relief that his hours’ worth of work hadn’t been mercilessly destroyed. He relinquished the now warm utensil to the desk and brought his hand to his mouth to blow away the sweat pooled in the creases of his palm. As he tenderly rubbed the forming cramp in his aching hand, Tazaro scanned the page, pleased with how the blueprint looked from afar rather than as close up as he could get with his nose glued to the page.
The house blueprint stood three stories tall, with a shadow of a basement made full by an unfinished marker for a “secret room” to appeal to Sheeva’s desire for such a thing. Perhaps, it was simply a slice of home, but he had a nagging feeling that, since the outline of a winding tower rested to the side of the home’s foundation, the secret room was for mere kookiness. A curling smile broke onto his face as he began to imagine what kinds of tricks they could play on their friends or any future children.
Citrine eyes glowed with glee, and they traveled up the page towards the would-be hallway with three bedrooms, a spacious bathroom, and a master bedroom, thrilled with the countless possibilities in how they might decorate the place. Of course, Sheeva would spearhead any projects, considering how much more artistically inclined she was compared to him when it came to drawing.
A soft sound broke him from his thoughts, and Tazaro turned to Sheeva, pleased and ready to present his work.
However, he paused when he realized she was still asleep and with good timing, considering the copious amounts of alcohol she’d imbibed upon checking into the hotel they were staying in. He chuckled at himself. “Copious” merely meant an extra glass of sweet, white Pyuritan Wine, but in their empty stomachs, it was enough for Sheeva to swim in inebriated sludge as he carried her up the stairs to tuck her into bed; insistent that she’d had “plenty enough for the both of them.”
Another small sound crawled from the sheets, followed by a distressed, murmured “no,” snaring his attention towards unpleasant, and as he watched her legs kick hard beneath the covers, Tazaro stood from his chair to hasten to her side. He hesitated briefly in case his nerves were getting the better of him, but as her hands formed fists and a fierce, angered look crossed her face, he reached for her leg.
With a sharp shake and call of her name, he roused her, offering a concerned look when she didn’t stir. He shook her again, more firmly. She shot up with a second, more sternly blurted "no!" eyes wide and shaking with fear. Tazaro could see the sheen of sweat that had broken out on her brow, and as much as he wanted to reach out and wipe it away, he knew better than to immediately reach.
“Sheeva, Zvezdaya, it’s me,” Tazaro called cautiously, taking a step back to get out of range from a possible deadly strike. His hands raised, and as he caught a glimpse of his wedding band, he rubbed the thing with the pad of his thumb. A soothing breath and pool of energy spurred the searching spell they’d mastered.
Sheeva looked down at the bed as a gentle white light glowed from beneath the covers, then retrieved her hand to groggily examine the source. Beyond the puffiness of her eyeballs and the sludge of her drink-addled brain, she managed a hum of understanding. She sighed, sat back, and pawed at her face with a clammy hand.
No claw mark existed there, and as she took in a full breath, no heavy ache of water-filled lungs stung at her, either. She dragged a cool part of the sheet across her face to wick away the sweat threatening to sting her eyes, now droopy and showing her tiredness.
“You ok?” Tazaro’s voice tickled in her ears. She blinked at him for a moment, then grimaced as she swiveled her legs from beneath the sheets. The weight of her limbs only added to the spin of the room.
“Nightmare,” she answered, reaching for him as she fought to stand. Her legs cried to give in, but she stood fast, and as he enveloped her in a hug, she sighed in relief, leaning against his frame. He no longer smelled of smoke but rather a Vitex-bloom and Cedar Acacia mix, appearing to have bathed in the time she’d been asleep.
“About what?” He asked, returning her sudden gesture with a welcoming embrace.
The dream had seemed to dissipate into smoke, for which she was grateful, but what did remain came flooding back to make her frown and shiver. Sheeva tethered herself to how Tazaro’s hands pressed her into his chest and shuffled closer to bathe in his warmth and calming scent.
“Marina. I…had incurred my sibling’s wounds, and they had lived, instead.”
His chest rumbled with a gravelly, concerned “oh,” and he squeezed her tighter.
“It was only a dream. It’s mostly forgotten, now.” She murmured, pressing her cheek against his shoulder. Raising herself up on her toes, she pecked his cheek, then broke away to find the pants she'd drunkenly kicked off. She stumbled on her shoes, then groaned as the room spun.
"Have you eaten? I could use a good gut-buster." She asked, shaking her pants straight before shoving her legs into them. Tazaro chuckled, then shook his head.
"No, I put you to bed and then started sketching." He admitted, turning towards the book on the desk. Eager to show off, he scooped it up, carried it to her, sat at her side, and propped his leg over the other.
Sheeva paused mid-pull of her boot lace to look at the page, then raised her eyebrows in surprise at how extensive the blueprint was.
"Wow, I'm impressed. You've really outdone yourself." She complimented, reaching out to take the other side of the book.
He beamed with pride and gave a broad smile, then began to point out the various quirks and amenities, starting with the spacious attic designed for storage space.
"...And the second floor will have three regular bedrooms, a bathroom, and a master bedroom. I think the first floor will have a living room to the right, a dining area and kitchen to the left, and towards the back we could have a library, or a study, or something–whatever we want it to be, right?" He rambled excitedly, not careful about dragging the pad of his finger across the page as he otherwise would be. Clouds of graphite smudged on the page, but he didn't seem to mind, so Sheeva held her tongue.
Besides, how could she point such a trifle thing out when he was so pleased to show his work?
She focused on a broken sketch in what looked like a full basement with a dark room for a pantry, and her lips curled at the notion.
"Is this a secret room? For me?" She asked, glancing at him for the telling curl he would get in the corner of his mouth.
"What, this? No, no, it's uh–a mistake. Changed my mind. Might threaten the foundation." He grunted. "Unfortunately," he added.
Sheeva blinked, then frowned.
"Oh. Hmph. I was really looking forward to..." She grumbled, then sighed, for what else could she say? Tazaro was the architect, after all, and she knew nothing of building houses. The most she could construct was a decent lean-to, and even Tazaro had managed to sweep that from beneath her feet, having crafted one that trapped decent heat from a fire set just outside and shielded them from heavy rains. Mostly, it was thanks to the use of an entire, whole layer of bark he'd stripped effortlessly from a fallen tree and then covered with layers of peat moss, soil, and leaves, but never in a million years would she have come up with such a solution.
"Mm, yeah, I know. It certainly is a bummer." Tazaro muttered, feigning disappointment as he glanced at something in the opposite direction to hide his face. It was difficult to keep it straight, considering how adorable he found her to be when she pouted so.
"Ah, my apologies, I shouldn't be so…" She pursed her lips, then waved her hand at herself.
"Nah, don't worry about it." He assured, finally able to allow the grin to break free. "To make up for it," He circled the tower on the page with his finger to draw her attention to it, instead. "I figured you would appreciate the tower. Might even make it accessible from both the ground floor and the attic–what do you think?" He asked, hoping to distract her.
"So, a door in the attic too, hm?" She hummed, then smiled and chuckled mirthfully, amused at her brain's quick decision to mess with people's heads.
Oh, the fun they could have with that!
"That's a great idea, Tazaro." She grinned, finding that, stargazing tower aside, the potential for jokes made up for the loss of a secret room.
With gratitude, she leaned to plant a kiss on his cheek, then returned to tying her boots on, grunting from the effort and swallowing saliva from vertigo’s disorienting push-and-shove.
“Mm, right, food. I’m surprised you’re not nursing a–
–Oh, no, I am.” Sheeva interrupted with a chuckle at her past self. She paused, then sighed as she remembered what had driven her to drink in the first place. A harsh scoff flew past her throat, and she frowned at a spot on the floor.
Really, what’s the point in drinking something away if it just comes back to bite you anyway?
“Oye…zvezdayu?” She called, sitting up and turning to look at him. He’d stood and crossed the room to put his sketchbook away but gave a cheerful “hm?” in response to show he was listening.
Sheeva cleared her throat and tried again.
“Tazaro.” She stated sternly and by the surprised, minutely concerned look on her husband’s face, a little more harshly than she’d meant to. He turned back to her and leaned against the desk, waiting. She offered him an apologetic smile, then stood to cross the room and pull him into a hug.
“Don’t let me drink like that again. It’s…not worth it. Please.” She requested, burying her humility in his chest as she pressed her forehead against the soft fabric of his shirt. “There are better ways to deal with it. Healthier ways to deal with it.” She added, resolute and encouraged by her sudden decision.
Tazaro smiled and wrapped his arms around her frame to return her gentle squeeze.
“You got it.” He agreed.
Sheeva let go of a cheerful sigh and smiled, tilting her head to gaze at him lovingly. Her hand raised to cup his cheek and stroke his cheekbone with her thumb. Hoisting herself on the balls of her feet, she planted a kiss on his lips.
This innocent peck would have been followed by a sweet, slow kiss, but as Sheeva’s stomach growled loudly, she frowned at herself and stepped back. Tazaro’s smirk and giggle did not go unnoticed as she huffed and reached for her jacket.
“It seems my stomach has decided for us what to do with our spare time.” She grunted.
“Heh. Don’t worry–you’re not the only one that’s famished.” Tazaro assured, ruffling at his hair and working on pulling it back into a ponytail. He strode to the corner and retrieved Tyrj and Laerso from their lean against the wall, slinging them over his shoulder and tightening the strap before handing Sheeva Abraxas. He busied himself with slipping on his boots while she tied her weapon to her hip.
As is the standard, he thought to himself with a small smile.
Door firmly locked and sealed with a spell, they found they couldn’t quite relax enough to reach for the other’s hand, too concerned with the heightened guard presence. To get out of their looming presence, they beelined for the first tavern they came across, less wary of the shady shack–though Tazaro was certain he’d seen an innocent bystander being held at knifepoint in the alley between the tavern and another bayside inn.
“This is…” Tazaro paused as he scanned the heavily smoky room, lit by steel chandeliers dangling from the ceiling and sconces sticking out of the walls. They appeared to be made from the bones of some gargantuan fish, and as his eyes darted to the wall behind the bartender, a glimmering scimitar rested on showcase pegs.
“Neat!” He grinned excitedly, heading for the row of barstools to order a meal. Sheeva followed but lingered back just enough to catch wind of a conversation as they passed by a large group surrounding a poster board.
“Did you hear? There’s an arsonist in town.”
Sheeva snagged Tazaro’s sleeve and pulled him back, and when he turned to look at her, she tipped her head toward the crowd. Stopping to further eavesdrop, Sheeva boldly stepped closer, trying to peer over the shoulders of the person in front of her. She hoped there wasn’t a delightful caricature of either of their true faces on a wanted poster…though she’d prefer a Wanted: Alive declaration instead of a Wanted Dead or Alive post.
Annoyed with the fruitless effort of trying to look, she pushed her way through to the front, not caring whatsoever about the barks of “hey, what gives?” and “Vilg oui!”
She sighed in relief as she saw a rough sketch of two people, one male and one female, that didn’t look anything like herself or Tazaro. Their eyes were not brown, but instead, a deep dark amber that almost appeared brown. She wondered if perhaps the witness had been led to believe otherwise, surrounded by people that wouldn’t accept the wild idea of a Sferran with brown eyes.
She pushed herself back out of the crowd and to Tazaro, smiling at the worry on his face.
“It doesn’t even look similar.” She muttered under her breath as she slightly shook her head.
“Ah, good!” He blurted in relief. “I’d hate for you to have to blind any guards while we’re here.”
Sheeva gave a soft “Pfft!” and nodded in agreement, urging him to keep moving.
Stepping up to the counter, she trusted Tazaro to order while turning her back on the bar to eye the patrons in the room. Many were sailors, with rolls of smoldering tobacco tucked between their lips while they poured over their meals or drinks. It was a typical crowd, considering that Torde’s two winding and deep rivers allowed the inland capital city to slightly function as a coastal city. Eyeing a spot in the far corner of the room, she waited while Tazaro finished speaking with the bartender.
She tapped him when he turned around and pointed towards the secure nook she’d found.
They weaved through the sea of tables toward the red-cushioned booth, and Tazaro scanned the room for anything out of place. Particularly the tall, shaggy-black-haired visage Bartholomew would use to disguise himself. No such person was in the tavern from what he could see. A surprise, considering that the beast had an insatiable lust for salted fries and greasy steaks, noisily chowing down on the things as fast as he could.
“Something strange?” Sheeva asked, sitting forward in alarm and casting a skeptical glance at the room again, wondering if she’d missed something the first time.
Tazaro blinked and looked at her, then shook his head. He must have looked more intense than he’d realized.
“No, I was just looking for Bartholomew. You never know when he’ll pop up out of no–
–where?” A voice finished, startling the both of them as the lanky build Bartholomew had chosen for himself materialized between where Sheeva and Tazaro were sitting.
After letting out their initial gasps of surprise, Tazaro and Sheeva both backhanded his shoulders and scowled at him. Sheeva arched a curious eyebrow at the solid thud that had met her hand and caught her eyes with Tazaro. He appeared just as shocked as she.
How could someone looking so lanky be so sturdy?
“Hi, guys.” He greeted with a sneer, pleased with himself.
“You’re an ass, Bartholomew,” Sheeva growled, sitting back to lean against the cushion with a sigh as her tension left her aching back.
“Yeah, yeah,” he grunted, waving off the insult with a hand.
Silence broke over them as Bartholomew’s gaze dropped to the collection of salt, pepper, and listing of daily specials in the middle of the table. He reached for the salt, poured some on his palm, and licked it, thrilled with how his face puckered and the flavour wrecked his taste buds.
Tazaro, however, stared at the ta’hal as though he’d grown a third arm. As though that would be any stranger than his true form! He snorted to himself.
“What?” Bartholomew asked, sending Tazaro an offended pout. Tazaro raised his hands in surrender and raised a curved, judging eyebrow into his hairline.
“Nothing, nothing! Just didn’t think you needed a salt brick. You Sleipnir.”
Bartholomew’s sneer curled into his cheeks, and from the glint in his teal eyes, Tazaro knew he’d started something.
“Hey! Just because I’m hung like a Sleipnir doesn’t mean I am one.”
Sheeva’s eyes screwed shut, and she wrinkled her nose in distaste, barely overhearing Tazaro’s shocked: “Whoa, wow! Okay!” over Bartholomew’s more solid cackle. Apparently, the gravelliness of his voice was only present when he wasn’t disguised as a Sferran.
“Anyway…” Bartholomew paused to grab Tazaro’s canteen and sip from it, against Tazaro’s immediate protest. “Good to see you two. We’re at the home stretch now. I haven’t heard anything about Zakaraia since I got here, but trust me, I’d smell him the minute he stepped foot in this town.”
Sheeva hummed in response, then sat back as a waitress set a plate of food in front of her. She smiled at the contents: a vibrant green salad with walnuts, roasted grapes, and blood-red cherry tomatoes, with a savory grilled cluckatrice breast on the side, seasoned with thyme, rosemary, and peppercorns. Trading glances with Tazaro, she mouthed a “thank you” before grabbing her fork and stabbing it into the salad.
Bartholomew, to no one’s surprise, pulled a fry off of Tazaro’s plate and popped it in his mouth.
“Mm! Speaking of Zakaraia, I have something for you!” Bartholomew announced, reaching into the portal of his chest and rummaging around. Tazaro and Sheeva averted their gaze to not lose their appetite and shoveled their mouths full of food before whatever Bartholomew could reveal might cause them to.
He slapped something on the table heavy enough to rattle the wooden thing, and as they both jerked their heads back to look, they stared in confusion at a large stone…crown. It was slate in color, with eight prongs adorned with silver-crested sapphires in their middles. It would have been extravagant and regal if it hadn’t been made from chiseled limestone and instead forged from gold.
“Behold! A stone crown!” Bartholomew beamed with a grin, followed by a lowly muttered: “Fitting, for that jackass.”
“Ah. Yes. We’re supposed to swap them, right?” Tazaro asked, thankful that Sheeva had filled him in on what little she knew about their stone soul reservoirs shortly before they’d left the temple.
“I’ll take care of that. I’m the only one that can see them, anyway. He keeps his real one in his robes rather than on his head. Bastard tricked Belias and me the first time, but he’s not gonna get away with it again—I’ll stake one of my lives on it.”
Sheeva reached out and took hold of the weighty thing, finding she needed to put forth real effort in lifting it off the table. Bringing it closer for a better look, there was an inscription carved inside the band in a language she couldn’t read. Perhaps, it was the language of Ta’hal.
She frowned as she realized she would never have the chance to learn the intricate, curved, well-formed scrawls of the words. She was particularly drawn to how well they fit together, as though they were the interlocking prongs of a jigsaw puzzle. It seemed an efficient way to cram many words into a short space.
Maybe, they signified an elaborate curse that would leave Zakaraia even more vulnerable, and they wouldn’t need to resort to fighting him even more up close than they already needed to with the tail-blade knife’s limited reach. Or maybe, it would turn him into a stone statue, and disable the need for up-close combat altogether.
“Bartholomew, what does this mean?” She asked, hoping he would tell her.
Bartholomew’s lips curled into a grisly sneer, and she instantly regretted asking.
“T’rett Tenglith Ouidal. Loosely translated: Go fuck yourself.”
Tazaro bit his tongue so hard it threatened to bleed as he resisted the need to spit out his food from the sheer insult of the phrase, and made a mental note to remember the phrase for a later time, should he ever need it.
“Wow…and here I thought it was some type of lovely curse,” Sheeva murmured, mildly disappointed with the truth.
Bartholomew shrugged the matter off, then stole another fry off of Tazaro’s plate. Tazaro sighed heavily and pushed his plate closer to Bartholomew.
“This town has flourished since I was here last—except for the orphanage I burned down. It seems to have stayed that way, and for the better.”
“Hmph, something you and Sheeva both have an affinity for,” Tazaro pointed out through a mouthful of sandwich.
Bartholomew gave an impressed “huh!” and turned to her.
“That so? I heard something about it, but didn’t think it was you.” He murmured lowly, plucking a tomato off of Sheeva’s salad.
“Yes. It was. Marina’s house.” She affirmed, stabbing at him with the tongs of her fork. “Thought you hated tomatoes?”
“Turns out, they’re pretty tasty—suppose after a couple thousand years, taste buds change.”
He sighed heavily, a contemplative look on his unshaven face. Tsking at something, he scratched at his chin and cleared his throat.
“Have you seen her? Marina?” He asked.
Sheeva scowled at the cluckatrice she’d just begun to dig into. The bite she’d been enjoying turned sour, and the texture akin to something rubbery. She swallowed the food back with a forced drink of water.
“Sure! First thing I did after getting here and burning down my childhood home was to try to patch things up with mommy dearest—as if I’d want to!” She snapped, sending him a glare for bringing up the subject. She huffed and breathed away the spot of anger, then forced another bite of meat. If she was chewing, she wouldn’t have to talk about the subject.
Bartholomew silenced again, and Tazaro got the impression that there was something he wasn’t letting on. Bribing him with an offer of more fries with a shove of his plate toward the man, Tazaro avoided his wife’s hardening stare as he called their friend out on his silence.
“What do you know that you’re not telling us? There’s no time for secrets anymore, Bartholomew.”
Bartholomew sighed and sat back, sipping at Tazaro’s canteen again.
“Finish your food. We’re going to go somewhere after this.”
“I’d rather find Zakar—
--It’s for the better, Sheeva. Some closure for you.”
Sheeva’s fork clattered against the plate as she lowered her hand and glared at him.
“Closure? Closure? What--you want me to go see the woman that killed my siblings? That almost killed me?” She hissed. Tazaro was grateful the fierce scowl wasn’t directed at him, but he couldn’t be surprised at her reaction. As he noticed the pools of tears welling behind frightened eyes, it tugged at his heartstrings, and if Bartholomew weren’t sitting between them, he’d have offered his arm to tuck her face to his chest so she could weep if need be.
“As if she’d welcome me with open arms! She’d probably try to kill—
--She’s dying, Sheeva.”
The air in Sheeva’s chest grew heavy, and she caught herself in a surprised gasp, mildly taken aback. The heat of fury warmed her, and she hastily wiped her mouth with her napkin and threw it on the half-eaten plate of food.
“Good. Whatever’s killing her, I hope it’s fucking painful.” She spat, standing sharply and yanking Abraxas up from his lean against the table. Bartholomew crawled out of the booth as fast as he could, and Tazaro followed suit, giving chase as she headed out of the tavern’s front door.
They caught up with her halfway down the street, and Bartholomew grasped at her elbow to pull her back.
“Look. I know you hate her, and you have good reason t—
--You don’t even—
--Damnit, Sheeva, listen to me!” Bartholomew barked, roughly grabbing at her arm to turn her around and push her shoulder. It seemed to snap her to reality, and she stared at him, stunned.
“Listen…I think you should see Marina. See her, say your piece, then leave.” He urged. “You might not get another chance.”
Sheeva gaped at him for a moment, then turned to Tazaro, still stunned. Maybe, his input might give her some clarity.
“What do you think I should do?”
Tazaro remained silent for a moment, thinking. How readily available she had been when offering to support him in confronting his father seemed like something easy to return, but when he considered their pasts were nowhere near similar, it didn’t seem like he could ever adequately return her favor.
He drew in a long, clearing breath that stretched his lungs, then sighed at himself. He’d just have to do whatever it would take.
“Whatever you want to do.” He answered, shaking his head and crossing his arms. “Whatever you decide, I’ll be there. As you did with my father and me.” He assured.
Sheeva frowned again.
“That’s not…That woman didn’t just abandon me!” She hissed and hung her head. “This is different.” She countered with an offended pout.
“Yeah…” He replied slowly, feeling a flash of guilt. Yes, it is, considering my father never tried to kill me.
“Yeah, I’ll agree to that,” he repeated, shuffling out of the way as someone pushed past them. He tried to remember what he’d thought of that drove him to make his decision, then smiled as he remembered the simplicity of his mother’s advice. Tazaro stepped forward and reached for Sheeva’s hand to pull her into a tight hug.
“Look…it all boils down to this: what would you regret the most?” He asked, smiling in thanks for his mother’s wisdom; how useful it had become as of late!
Sheeva stilled, then sighed as she slumped against him, mumbling her reluctant answer against the strap across his chest holding his weapons in place.
If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
“I s’pose is b’tter t’say something an’get nothin’ than…Phlbbt…” She trailed off in a drawling sputter.
With another heavy sigh, she collected herself and stood back, arms crossed to shelter herself from the battery of embarrassment, discomfort, and worry that began to strangle her gut.
“Lead the way then, Bartholomew.” She demanded, gesturing to him with an open hand.
Bartholomew nodded, and they followed, Sheeva engrossed within herself while Tazaro kept a watchful eye at the rear. They passed through the streets of the capital, their boots clicking on the recently laid brick and cobblestone. Sheeva found peace in the growing, blooming, fragrant flowers soaking up the sun’s rays as their vines crawled up the stucco sides of buildings, but with each building they passed as they headed to the water’s edge, her nerves grew ever more rampant.
What did Marina look like? Would she still have nested, wiry-thin hair, and would her murderous red eyes still have their glimmer of maliciousness? Would Sheeva receive the same disdainful stare she’d often gotten as a child simply because of what she was? Even in her sickly state, would Marina harbor the strength she desired to attack? Would Sheeva hold her ground and strike indiscriminately, or would she flash back to her childhood and cower at the woman’s feet in terror?
Bartholomew stopped at the double doors of a large, windowed building that seemed to span the side of the water. The grounds themselves were well-maintained, the expansive field of green grass hosting the occasional tree surrounded by shrubs for support. The sidewalk she wasn’t aware they’d walked across was lined with summer spangles and poppies, an unusual flower choice for a bayside desert area.
“We’re here. C’mon. Inside.” He stated, leading them through the ornate, chiseled double doors.
A lady at the counter greeted them with a smile.
“Welcome back. I see you’ve brought guests, Mr. Lorovsky! Here to see Marina?”
Bartholomew cast a nervous glance behind him and fought a sheepish grin. Tazaro was the only one to give him a curious look, Sheeva being too absorbed in her thoughts with a dour look plastered on her face.
After getting the instructions to Marina’s room, Bartholomew led them away from the front counter and towards the right. A white hallway lined with paintings of flowers stretched on, and as they stopped at the third door on the right, Sheeva hesitated outside the door.
Sighing at herself, then drawing a deep, readying breath, she rested her hand on the handle and turned it, hoping neither of the other two would have anything to say about her shaking limbs.
The white room, decorated with as many paintings as would possibly be stuffed on the walls, was chilly. A bed rested in the middle of the room, neatly made and with a soft, red, cotton blanket to keep its occupant warm during Cruinia’s chilly nights. Seated by a window in front of a working canvas sat an old woman with salt-and-pepper hair, aged with time and likely, stress. The black paintbrush in her hands shook as she worked the cream-colored paint across the canvas with an unsteady hand, a passive, light smile on her face as she transferred whatever she imagined onto the page.
The woman paused in her painting to look at Sheeva frozen in the doorway, who dumbly stared back, involuntarily mute as she tried to think of what to say. An eerie, hair-raising tingle crawled across her shoulders, and Sheeva looked away as the red eyes stared back at her.
They weren’t at all what she’d been expecting; instead of the cold, hateful glint, a thousand-yard-stare seemed to pass through her being. Not being recognized in the slightest certainly wasn’t on her list of expectations, even if it had been over twenty years since they’d last met.
Tazaro stepped into the room, and after discerning that his wife wasn’t going to readily attack the older woman, allowed himself to examine the pictures on the wall. They were well painted, though they weren’t all of the same calibers; some were majestic paintings, and others were of less quality, the curvature something stick-like and straight as opposed to a gentle curve, evident of the fluid stroke of the brush. He scanned the paintings for dates and found the blocky, less-talented ones to be more recent. He cast a sympathetic frown towards the woman over Sheeva’s shoulder.
It quickly faded into something stern and spiteful as he realized that the signature tucked in these paintings was the same as the one in the house they’d burned down the previous day, and his stomach churned with discomfort. No wonder the young boy with the scar across his face seemed so angry in his painting, considering his abuser was also the one painting his portrait.
“Are you…Marina?” Sheeva asked, voice a bare whisper.
The older woman blinked, visibly confused as she thought about something.
“Marina? I know a Marina. Loved to dance. She could—Ha, the wild thing could dance all night.” She stated, returning to her painting with a fond smile as whatever memory she recalled tickled her brain.
Sheeva, stupefied, looked at the paintings on the wall again as if they could spring to life and offer to put words in her mouth. The few depicting a well-dressed gentleman seemed to dwindle in quality, becoming blurred and less descriptive as she jumped from picture to picture. Each picture almost seemed to be sketched in a desperate effort to remember a face long forgotten since there were small differences between each aside from the obvious degradation of quality.
“This is…what Belias—ah, Mathias—looked like,” Bartholomew stated solemnly as he stopped next to Sheeva to observe the better of the many pictures. “Wow, I’d…forgotten. It looks just like him.”
“Mathias? Do you know who that man is?”
Bartholomew, surprised, turned to Marina. He was grateful he was disguised, certain that his scales would have folded against each other so quickly that they would have twisted upon themselves.
“You…don’t remember who he is?” He asked.
“So I did know him?” She muttered to herself. She tsked her teeth at herself sorrowfully and sighed. “No, I guess I don’t know him.” She answered Bartholomew. “But, I remember I loved him very much.” She added with a wide smile that lit up her face.
Sheeva dropped her gaze to the floor, frustrated, as she couldn’t stand to see the gentle, cheerful light glazing across Marina’s eyes. The smile on Marina’s face was often one she’d have when smiling at Tazaro, and it sent her in a whirlwind. The idea that they even looked similar disgusted her, and she crossed her arms to wrap them around her middle in a self-comforting hug.
The idea that this woman—this cold-hearted woman who’d abandoned her—who’d committed filicide—could have also harbored such pure love and cheer was baffling. She crossed her arms yet again as the thought occurred to her that, as Marina had, so too had Sheeva also changed, previously believing herself to not deserve the pleasantries she currently had in life.
As it dawned on her that the paintings on the wall had neither her nor her siblings in them, she drew in a sharp, hasty breath of anger.
“What about your kids?” Sheeva snapped, snaring Tazaro’s attention from across the room, currently pulling back the cover of a painting shielded from view. He dropped the cover and looked at Sheeva, wondering what had transpired in the few minutes he’d been distracted.
“Did you forget them, too?” Sheeva accused haughtily, eyes narrowing to slits as she leered at the woman across the room.
Marina stared back at her for a few moments as she absorbed the statement.
“My children?” They watched as her eyes darted back and forth, thinking, then widened in morbid fear. There was no doubt in Tazaro’s mind that Marina finally recalled the horrid things she’d done, and as she took in a shaky breath and gaped with horror, Tazaro crossed to stand at Sheeva’s side. He hoped she wouldn’t spring on her mother and attack, blind to the remorse the older woman obviously showed.
“My children. My children! Oh, gods, my children!” She cried, bursting into tears as she began to wail, head in her hands. The paintbrush was still clutched in bony fingers, spreading creamy paint into her hair as she curled into a ball.
“Gods, what have I done? Oh, Ren!” She wailed, eyes darting back and forth as she grimaced.
“My dear Elle!” She pleaded, beginning to rock herself back and forth in her chair.
“Oh, my sweet Sheeva, forgive me!” She begged, bringing her hands out of her hair to stare at them in wretched terror.
“So, you do remember?” Sheeva hissed, standing tall. “Why, then?” She demanded.
She broke out of Tazaro’s grasp to stride to the mourning woman, grabbed the thin bony shoulders beneath her sweater, and shook, not mindful of the fierceness of her grasp.
“Tell me: Why? Why did you kill them—Ren and Elle? Why did you try to kill me?”
Marina silenced, then lifted her gaze to stare at Sheeva with cloudy red eyes.
“It’s you, Sheeva?” She whispered, then blinked, seeming grateful for something. “Are you…are you here to kill me?” She asked, the hope shining on her face as clear as day.
It struck Sheeva, and she stammered over her words, managing small squeaks of incoherence. She pushed the frail woman back in her chair and strode away and across the room, looking at anything and everything but the other occupants. Hot tears pooled and streamed down her cheeks, flush with vehemence and embarrassment, and she hugged herself tighter as her shoulders shook.
Now that she was here, she couldn’t bring herself to consider it.
Remembering he’d been wanting to see a covered canvas leaned against a dresser, Tazaro headed for it. He grabbed the picture and stared at it, stricken and confused by the man in the picture. For whatever reason, it was the same man he’d seen from the painting in the hallway, only much older, roughly his and Sheeva’s age.
“Hey, Sheeva, does this person look familiar to you?”
Sheeva turned to look at the painting and froze.
Though she’d only seen it once, the scar spanning the man’s face was unmistakable, and the thin lips stretched into a sneer filled her with rage. His smoldering red eyes seemed to pierce into the world, conveying an unspoken threat and insatiable thirst for chaos. She reached out a hand to steady the painting, failing as it made it shake worse.
“What the hell?” She blurted, looking to Bartholomew as though he could offer an explanation, who only gave her a quizzical look in return. “It’s Zakaraia!”
He blinked at his own surprise, then crossed the room to look at the painting as well.
The fury broke on Bartholomew’s face as he gripped the canvas so hard it tore.
From head to toe, the Ta’hal’s disguise fell. Short black hair shriveled and disappeared into the small patch of fur sticking up beneath his scaly skin, and as they flattened against his head, Sheeva watched his snout pull out from where his mouth had been. Sharp, grey claws formed from his fingertips, further widening the holes in the delicate canvas, and as his hands gripped at the frame, the wood shattered into splinters. His wings tucked against his back, and his tail stilled, his whole body stiff as he trembled with rage.
“This bastard? What, was he pulling strings even back then?” Bartholomew growled.
“Vilg!” He swore, pacing with portrait in hand. “Is there anything he hasn’t twisted for his own personal game?” Bartholomew barked as he threw the picture across the room. The square frame collided with the wall and shattered further, falling into a wasted heap on the floor. None of them reached for it, and while Tazaro felt bad, he felt that Marina could care less about her destroyed property as she stared at the pile, relieved.
“How do you know Zakaraia?” Sheeva demanded of Marina, brushing off Bartholomew’s seething stature as he turned his back on them and grumbled to himself to try to collect his demeanor. As much as she hated the manipulator, Bartholomew had had eons to loathe and she couldn’t blame him for his outburst. Rather, she was impressed, considering she had been far less graceful when confronting Llyud for the last time.
Marina silenced, still staring at the picture, but instead of being lost in thought, it appeared she’d become dazed and distant again. Irritated, Sheeva crossed the room again.
“This is no time for you to retreat! Tell us what happened!” Sheeva demanded.
“Sheeva, wait!” Tazaro butt in, stopping her before she could pass the bed. Braving his wife’s anger, he stood between the two. “I don’t think she’s, uh…”
He glanced behind to gather the woman’s state.
“…Here right now,” He finished with a sympathetic pout.
Sheeva arched her head to look behind him, a disbelieving glare on her face.
“What do you mean, ‘here’?” She spat, gesturing to her mother with an open hand. “She knows what happened! She knows who he is! We’ve got to—
Tazaro cupped the side of her face and forced her to look him in the eye, stroking her cheek with his thumb.
“She’s…She’s not…” He murmured, trying to figure out a way to put it delicately. He inwardly scoffed at himself; Sheeva would likely not give a damn if he were to put things bluntly.
“I think she’s literally lost her mind. She didn’t remember Belias. She didn’t remember about you or your brother and sister until you reminded her. I don’t…I don’t think we’ll get much out of her at this point.” He explained, hoping it would stick.
It apparently didn’t as her scowl deepened, and he should have known better than to think it even would.
“But, she—She’s—” She blubbered, brows furrowed with confusion. “Then let me remind her!”
“I really don’t think that will work, Zvezdaya.”
She scoffed and turned to look at Bartholomew.
“You can read her mind, right? Do that!” She commanded.
With a hopeful nod, the towering creature crossed over to them and held out a hand. An ethereal light shined from his palm as Marina stared into it, like a moth drawn to the candle inside a lamppost. Sheeva and Tazaro looked away, not eager to dissociate and be left vulnerable.
Tazaro hurried to the door and shut it while they waited in uncomfortable silence, the only noise being a gentle hum that he found soothing, and hoped Sheeva did, too.
A few minutes passed, and as Bartholomew lowered his hand with an exhausted “Pshew,” they looked at him hopefully. The disappointed curl on his jowls did not go unnoticed before he tried to hide away from them by staring at something out of the window, hands held behind his back in contemplation. They watched his tail flick back and forth as he thought, then curl around his calves as he crossed his arms in deeper thought.
He found he’d miss the tranquility of waves upon a shore, and drank in the scene as he collected himself. The setting sun cast the last of its warm rays on his scales, and as they warmed, he welcomed the purr beginning to rumble through his chest. With a carefully hidden, thankful smile, he took a deep whiff of the salty sea air and listened to the gentle splash of the waves on the beachfront.
“Well?” Sheeva grunted, trying to ignore the well of hopelessness strangling her gut.
Bartholomew opened his eyes and sighed, pulled out of his thoughts like the violent, unyielding undertow of the open ocean.
“Her memories are choppy. She doesn’t remember much. Even the freshly dead yield better results. It’s…as if her brain is melting.” He explained, still not turning to look at either of them.
Tazaro’s mouth formed a straight line and the worried, concerned look spanned his face as he began to wonder what the Ta’hal meant by “freshly dead,” then decided he was better off not knowing, disturbing as the images fluttering through his head were.
Sheeva, too, seemed to have been musing on the statement, and she shook her head to clear it.
“So-so we’re back to nothing?” She summed, crossing her arms and pouting at a vase of summer spangles on the dresser. The shimmering shellac, lined with golden trim, reflected Cruinia’s harsh sun rays as it gave the marbled vase an expensive look, though the thing was likely made with as cheap of resources as Torde could scrape for.
“Mm, not nothing,” Tazaro hummed, wanting to be optimistic. Still, he had to scrounge for a reason why they might have anything at all, and followed Sheeva’s gaze to the vase on the dresser.
“Now we know Zakaraia’s been at this for longer than we thought.”
Sheeva sighed and pressed a hand to her head, feeling mildly stupid.
“He’s always ahead of us! Even when we think we’re getting somewhere, he has to find a way to screw it all up!” She ranted.
“Young lady,” Marina called behind them, snaring Sheeva’s attention.
Sheeva looked, unaware that she’d been glaring at Marina until she felt the tension in her eyebrows and the terseness of her frown on her lips, then caught herself softening her gaze in pity. She looked away again, unwilling to put up with the whirlwind of emotions bombarding her aching chest.
“What do you want?” She asked scornfully. Her efforts to deflect weren’t working as she began to chide herself for being so rude…as if losing one’s memories overruled the fact that she’d done such terrible things!
“You seem to hate me,” She pointed out, “and–while I cannot remember why–I have to say, I still know that I feel…relieved that you’re here and what you intend to do. If you truly have come here to kill me, I would consider it a blessing.”
This broke Sheeva’s stern, stoic stare, and she whipped around in surprise.
“There are times when I’m lucid enough to know what I’ve done. They’re fleeting, but they’re still there, and I...” She hesitated, then raised her head to stare Sheeva down. “It’s time I’ve paid for my mistakes. Matter of fact, you’d be doing me a favor. I’m tired of knowing I’m missing time and cannot do anything to stop it when I’m finally with it to understand what’s going on. You don’t understand how—how maddening it is!” She whispered pleadingly, reaching for Sheeva’s hand.
Sheeva instinctively took a few steps back and withdrew her hand sharply as though Mildred had tried to bite her, stare hardening in dislike. The prickle of fear and adrenaline shot up her spine and caused her to tremble, and she tightened a hand around Abraxas’s handle. Still, she couldn’t bring herself to unsheathe the blade and strike.
Bartholomew broke away from the window and headed to the far corner of the room. With a wave of his hand, he summoned the stringy line of his infamously disturbing portals.
“Wait, where are you going?” Sheeva asked.
Bartholomew stopped, then turned to offer her a toothy-jowled smile that unnerved them both, considering the delicate pink flesh of his gums didn’t mesh well with the dark obsidian scales and blueish fur beneath them. It made Tazaro cringe, and he briefly wondered why he hadn’t noticed such a thing before.
Perhaps the lighting is just immensely better here, he told himself.
“I figured you two would want to be alone to discuss this.” He answered, then shrugged. “She’s still the ‘woman that birthed you,’ isn’t she? I have nothing to say, nor should I.”
He turned back around and left them standing there, in all their shared meekness and humility.
Tazaro stared at the space where Bartholomew disappeared for a few moments, finding he agreed with the Ta’hal’s decision. He looked at Sheeva, who was staring at the floor and blinking madly, likely to dam back the tears threatening to stream down her reddened cheeks. He then looked at Marina, who’d slouched back into her chair and was staring at the painting she was working on, the film of fond recognition in what she’d been working on glazed over her eyes.
“Sheeva, come here.” Marina requested, sitting forward and turning the easel towards both of them.
A colorful oil painting leaned against the support beam. In it, a golden field of wheat spanned the foreground as a sapphire-blue sky pierced the background. Two children ran through the fields with bright, broad smiles as a third flew the skies, and while they were older depictions, it was still obvious that they were none other than Sheeva and her siblings.
“I wish I had never done what I did to you, Elle, and Ren. He wouldn’t have wanted that, Mathias. I should have…” She trailed off, then picked at a spot on the canvas where the oil paint had clumped unattractively. “I loved him, but I never realized I should have loved my children more until it was too late.”
Sheeva gulped and stared at the painting, waves of guilt drowning her in speechlessness and ache.
“Zvezdaya,” Tazaro called to Sheeva, offering her his hand to take. She did so apprehensively, allowing him to guide her to the hallway just outside the door.
After he shut it and checked the hall for passersby, he took Sheeva’s other hand and squeezed it.
“I, I hate to say it, but I’m with Bartholomew on this. I have nothing to say except that I’ll support you—whatever you decide.” He murmured lowly, ducking his head closer to her ear as someone walked out of the room to their left. “It’s not my stone to throw.”
Sheeva bit her lip in somber thought, unable to look him in the eye.
“I, I know,” She mumbled, eyes downcast with her admittance.
She sighed and pulled him into a hug, back tense with drive.
“Go back to the hotel. Wait for me there.” She ordered, settling herself with a press of her head to his shoulder. The smell of smoke was faint amid the heady fragrance of Vitex-bloom and Cedar Acacia, and it cleared her senses like the jolt of smelling salts.
“I will…” She inhaled deeply and sighed. “I will do this deed myself. There’s no need for you to witness it.”
He pecked the top of her head and rubbed her back.
“Ok.” He agreed. “Just…don’t burn the place down. At least, not without me.” He joked.
This brought a smile to Sheeva’s face, and she almost choked on a sob threatening to squeak past her taut vocal chords. She lightly slapped his shoulder but didn’t look up at him. Instead, she turned back toward the closed door.
“That was too soon, Tazaro.” She grunted.
Keen to her tone, Tazaro bowed his head in humility.
“Yes, ma’am.” He acknowledged, watching her walk through the door before turning away to walk back to their hotel room.
Sheeva stared at the peephole in the wooden door, familiar with the dense cloud forming in her mind as she attempted to distance herself from the dark act she was considering. Still, she was caught by surprise as she felt that, somehow, Marina deserved better than a cold-hearted snuff. Her feet went cold, and she scoffed at herself beneath her breath.
She had to empathize with her abuser now?
As the last of the sun’s rays broke through the window and cast her shadow on the back of the door, Sheeva stared at it, then took a final breath before turning on her heel to face Marina.
Marina was back to painting, a carefree expression on her face as the aged face had when they’d first entered the room.
“Marina?” Sheeva found herself calling to the woman, unsure if she was still coherent to know who she was.
“Oh? Marina? Yes, I knew a Marina. Loved to paint, she did.” Marina said with a light, airy chuckle. “Oh. My, like how I am now. How wonderful!”
The frustration crossed Sheeva’s face once again, and she jerked her gaze towards the back of the room, half-attentive to the flowers in the vase. As her legs trembled, she paced the room to work out the energy she’d pent up, and as they began to feel like jelly, she collapsed on the bed.
“How nice of you to visit. I don’t believe we’ve met.” Marina’s voice called to Sheeva, pleased and happy as she chuckled mirthfully.
Shut up, Sheeva thought, then frowned with herself. She stood again and paced, warring her bottom lip between her teeth as her hand flew to her hair to twirl a lock betwixt and between her fingers. Her hair’s softness did not ease her discomfiture, even when the lock had twisted into a firm knot that she squeezed in her palm like a stress ball.
“Can I help you?” Marina asked. “Have you come for a painting? You look much like the someone I’m currently painting.” The woman continued.
Shut up! Sheeva thought again, shoving her fist into her pocket.
Sheeva swallowed back the sour bile of her nerves, and a knot remained in her throat despite her attempt to swallow it away. She felt dizzy as she realized her breath caught in her chest. Her heart pounded against her ribcage, and if it hadn’t been aching already, she was sure that the harsh thrashing against her bones would have hurt like hell. Her stomach tied itself in knots as she caught herself rationalizing how easy it would be to snuff out the woman’s life—like blowing out a candle. She stared at her hand as it began to tickle.
All she had to do was wrap her hand around Marina’s throat and squeeze–hard.
Still, the itch sent to her hand to carry out the woman’s wish made her even sicker, and she grasped her wrist with her other hand in an effort to keep herself from carrying the act out.
Her face flushed with horror at herself, finding she couldn’t quite gather the gumption to do it, especially when she knew that Marina wasn’t the same woman twenty years ago. As Bartholomew had said, she didn’t quite remember. Couldn’t quite recall.
She scoffed at herself and stared at the paintings on the wall. Amid the flowers, there were her and her siblings, and when she looked back at the painting that Marina currently worked on, Sheeva felt a wave of peace.
How free they seemed, running around in fields without a care in the world.
She blinked, suddenly recalling the strange announcement she’d made at Altea’s statue, and she stared at Marina for a moment. The woman stared back with a weathered smile on a pale face, with ruby-red eyes glimmering, likely just pleased to have company in the room, unaware of the potential threat to her life.
The sun had completely set now, and the darkening sky began to show its first signs of twinkling starlight.
Slowly, as she stared at the now simple-minded, pacified person who was probably tickled-pink just having a visitor, Sheeva understood that, perhaps, this peace was the same that she, herself, had felt when she’d “absolved” herself of her past and of the destructive relationship with her mother.
“No.” She blurted, blinking a few times.
“No, I-I can’t.” She babbled, shaking her head at herself.
“I won’t.” She decided.
“I will not become you.” She muttered to herself.
She huffed and dropped her gaze to the floor.
“I’ve worked far too hard on myself to do that.” She finished, finally raising her head to look at Marina. Who was she to deny and dismiss all the progress she’d made in her efforts to better her life and, most importantly, move on?
To kill the woman would bluntly point out that she hadn’t progressed at all and was only fooling herself.
“You look like the winged woman in my painting. Are you here to carry me away?” Marina asked, struggling to get to her feet. Step by unsteady step, Marina approached Sheeva with an outstretched hand, causing Sheeva to shirk back toward the doors in harsh judgment.
“Feh!” She huffed. She found the door handle, twisted it, and threw open the door.
“You want to die so badly, Marina? Do it yourself!” She demanded, hustling out of the door and slamming it shut. She hurried down the hall and out of the front door to the hospital building, then stormed down the pavement towards town.
Dissatisfied with the limited exertion of her frustration, Sheeva broke into a run and charged through a crowd as she returned to the hotel room that she and Tazaro shared. She ignored their protests, then barreled into the lobby. Taking the stairs two at a time, she climbed the flight of stairs, then slowed herself as she neared the door.
Tazaro looked up from his seat at the desk, sketchbook open as he dutifully worked on the blueprints for the house they desired to build, then stood as he saw her disheveled state. He’d barely gotten out a concerned “Are you alright?” before she pushed herself into his chest and threw her arms around his middle.
Face hidden in his shirt, Sheeva wept, and when her knees buckled from beneath her, Tazaro was quick to grab onto and hold her steady.
“I, I didn’t do it. I couldn’t. I, I promised I wouldn’t become her.” Sheeva babbled, then barked out a hysterical laugh. “It’s so fucking stupid!”
Tazaro bit back his own laughter at her hysteria and stroked her hair with a hand, pecking her sweaty temple.
“No…no, it’s not.” He assured, urging her to sit on the bed. He sat next to her and lay back, pulling her into his lap. “It’s not stupid at all. I’m proud of the progress you’ve made, my dear. It’s incredible, and I don’t think you should ever discount any of it.”
The moons were high in the jet-black sky, full and bright as they added their beams to the colorful, swirling clouds of stars. Though, Bartholomew was not gazing at the skies as he used to when he was Sferran. In spite of the cooling breeze that blew across the desert, the sands were still hot on the pads of Bartholomew’s feet as he scoured the horizon with a scathing, vigilant stare.
His ears jerked forward at a scratching noise and so did his head. His tail lashed out like a whip without mercy, and as he felt the blade briefly meet the bones of something before slicing through, he looked down to see what he’d blindly slaughtered.
A green-specked pygmy lizard, spliced cleanly in half, lay bleeding on the sands, limbs twitching. Three legs spasmed on one half while the other three spasmed on the other, and it let out an ungodly screech before it lay still.
He whipped back around as a shift of energy rippled behind him, tail stilled to a stance above his left shoulder and instinctive reach for the handle of his blade sticking out of his right. He directed as well of a glare as he could in his cosmic stature toward the condensed shadow of the figure he’d chased. Beyond the scope of Zakaraia’s lanky guise, the massive, six-hundred-foot tall outline of his real visage made his own seem puny, what with seven stretching wings as black as a moonless night, the tall stone crown that pierced further into the sky, and the long tail formed of rocks that he casually wrapped around his torso as though it were light as a feather.
Still, he wasn’t about to turn tails and flee.
“You’re still here,” Zakaraia commented as he sneered at the lower-tiered Ta’hal, surprised that the three twiggy tails that curled around his heels weren’t tucked between his legs in fear.
Bartholomew tried not to think about how Zakaraia literally looked down on his stature, a mere half the size of his opponent, and instead dropped his gaze to Zakaraia’s Sferran form. He wondered why Zakaraia would choose to keep the scar that Marina had graced him with, considering how much raging and swearing he’d seen while scouring the last of her scrambled memories.
Perhaps she’d impressed him with her bout of courage, and it was a small homage to the dying woman. Maybe, Zakaraia actually had the emotional range of a teaspoon and found himself stricken with a sick sense of love.
Whatever the reason, it was no excuse for his horrid manipulation.
“You’re a twisted bastard, you know?” Bartholomew commented, reaching into his chest for his stone wheel. As he slapped it on and it unraveled, it bolstered his sense of security. As his left gauntlet unfolded to wrap tightly around his forearm, he caught himself in fond recollection of the fight on the ship and all the sweeter moments that followed. How liberating it had been to show himself for how he was and be wholly accepted in return!
“Not only did you trick Marina into bearing your child, but you convinced her to sacrifice them with the promise that you’d free Belias.” Bartholomew accused, sickened by the chill that it sent along his spine.
Zakaraia let out an airy cackle that made Bartholomew’s jowls curl in distaste.
“Heh, and I still can’t believe I got that far. She gave me such a challenge, too! Hah!” He laughed, a malicious, madman’s gleam in his eyes.
“A challenge? This was all a game?” He grunted, sickened. “You never were content with leaving eternity well enough alone.”
“You say that as though you care about Sferrans, Bartholomew.” Zakaraia shot, his own disgusted look plastered on the thin lips that stretched across his face and his piercing, narrowed red eyes. “They’re…” He paused, waving his hand around in the air as though he could conjure the word he searched for. “They’re dogs. No–less than dogs! They’re wretched, murderous, hateful…just absolute scum.”
“I do care,” Bartholomew admitted, courage warming his chest at the pride he felt about it, considering many of the Ta’hal he’d met had seemed to become so warped by eons of time that they missed out on the bigger picture. “And no, they’re not--not all of them, anyway.”
Bartholomew drew his stone claymore and uttered the spell to transform it from stone to its regal metal, untouched and unweathered by time. It was still as sharp as the day he’d forged it, and as he shifted his feet in the sand to steady his stance, the weight of it reminded him of his convictions.
“You forget something, dick.” Bartholomew snickered.
Zakaraia rolled his eyes and flashed Bartholomew a cocky sneer.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, I'm a dick, whatever,” He grunted sarcastically. “But, what? You gonna tell me that some of them are ‘special,’ and ‘loving,’ and all that other useless crap?”
Bartholomew lunged forward and struck, pouring all of his efforts into crashing his heavy claymore down upon Zakaraia’s head. The blow was blocked last minute, and as Bartholomew witnessed Zakaraia’s lips widen ever so slightly in a startled gasp and the instant dilation of frightened eyes, it was Bartholomew’s turn to give a cocky sneer.
“No, you stupid fuck!” He grunted, then kicked at Zakaraia’s stomach, sending him flying back a few feet. Zakaraia skidded and left a dragging trail in the dusty sands before he lay still. The audible groan of pain was an orchestra to Bartholomew’s ears.
“We were Sferran once, too, you conniving bastard!” He barked, closing the distance to drive his tail-blade into Zakaraia’s torso.
A metallic zing rang out as Bartholomew’s tail blade slid across the steel of Zakaraia’s baselard he kept concealed in his robes and embedded itself into the sands at his enemy’s side. It was a costly move that left Bartholomew open, and ruthlessly, Zakaraia took the opportunity to shoot him with a fireball that caught him in the chest. It was enough to make him stagger backward and rub at his eyes with the back of his hand while Zakaraia got to his feet.
“Bartholomew…” Zakaraia grunted, baring his wings and unsheathing his stone falchion, dripping with black blood. He slashed at the air to flick the viscous liquid off, splattering the sands. With a flash, the stone blade was a vibrant metal. “Really–when will you get it in your head that they’re beneath us? Sferrans are only meant to be toyed with. They’re meant to be manipulated! It’s too easy! It’s like they’re born for it!” He crowed, jolting forward and slicing at Bartholomew’s head.
Bartholomew blocked the affront and gave a haughty scoff, offended on Sferran's behalves and mildly disappointed with Zakaraia’s arrogance. He backed off again as an explosion at their feet popped sand in his face, and cried out at the crud blinding his eyes.
How foolishly Bartholomew had hoped–since this was where it seemed he’d chosen to have a final confrontation with Sheeva–that Zakaraia would have not held back, nor continued to play his tricks. But, of course, he should have expected so, since this was Zakaraia the Undying Jester and not someone in their right mind. A man who saw everything as a pawn in a game, using any and all opportunities to gain the upper hand and maintain ultimate control. A man who’d orchestrated the death of the only friend he’d gained after death, and who’d witnessed and even shaped centuries of Sferran history. A man who’d entrapped him in crystal for eighteen years, seven months, three weeks, and eight-and-a-half days…The man who’d convinced a bereaved and grieving woman to commit filicide in hopes of false promises.
After clearing his bleary, sandy eyes, Bartholomew summoned his rage and dashed across the sand to pierce the bastard through.
