Lightblessed

In the tinker town

Dies a failed crown,

Its majesty thrown away.

Where does it go?

There is nothing to show

How the Light led it astray.

Now covered in dust,

Forlorn, its betrayed trust

Caused its luster to turn gray. - Folklore

***

Trynneia watched Ditan’s blood slip down her wrist to her forearm, entranced by the way it trailed down between the fine hairs in an unpredictable path. She could just almost make out the wave front that pulsed out more with every beat of his heart. Copper with a mixture of excrement pungently filled the air as other fluids discharged themselves. Horrified at what she’d just done, Trynneia trembled, avoiding looking at Ditan’s face.

Sensing her hesitation, Modius reached around and grasped her hand, leaning close again to her. His body heat blazed against her skin, and her own blood ran cold. “Do I need to help you with this?” Ripping through with a slow sawing motion, Modius guided her hand in and out, widening the hole in Ditan’s stomach. She vomited and let go, heaving what remained of her mediocre dinner into the mess that accumulated below her friend.

Tearing the dagger free, Modius sliced deep into Trynneia’s left shoulder. It quickly went numb. “Answer me!” He yelled, furious. “This,” he stabbed Ditan, punctuating each word with repeated staccato attacks. “Is.Your. Punishment. Not his,” he emphasized. Over and over he struck, not caring as blood flew everywhere, spattering across the walls and ceiling, covering the three of them as Ditan rapidly faded. He threw the dagger at her knees.

“Heal him. Before he dies.” His demand burned her ears, and she could not see through her own tears of pain and betrayal. Already she felt so tired. “Then you’ll begin again.”

Reaching for Ditan’s feet, she touched them, clasping them between her palms. She tried to find his aura but it had vanished. Modius grabbed the club and smashed it into her left shoulder, tearing a flap of muscle and skin away where the dagger had damaged her. Trynneia felt bone crunch. Her own injuries made it even harder to focus.

You deserve this, Trynneia. You are weak. This is your punishment. But you can’t heal him if you’re dead. Keep him alive. Hurt him to help him. The dark encouragement made her shudder through the trembling of her fear and blood loss. Find a way, she thought.

Ditan’s aura had vanished and she could not perceive it. Each colored speck of light that streaked by him ran those same routes through his body as before, so she grasped at those instead. Tunneling her focus, the shifting hues carried her consciousness into him, repairing damage while pulling heat from her body. As a side effect, her own pain dimmed as her body grew cold and numb.

The savage perforations through his torso knit together imperfectly, a sign that she was already flagging in her powers through healing him twice tonight. She’d worry about the aura later, feeding him life through herself. Trynneia’s vision grew blurry, and even following the hues became difficult, making following them near impossible, but she did what she could. I will not let you down, Ditan, she thought as darkness took her, and she fainted.

Knocking crates rumbled next to Trynneia, waking her. The caravan traveled onward once more. Searing heat filled her wagon and she lay under her blanket. A crude bandage had been wrapped around her left shoulder, and she touched it gingerly. The rest of her arm was bound to her chest to restrict motion, but otherwise she was unrestrained. She wondered about that.

Each of the ten crates around her radiated their familiar auras, and it comforted her to realize that she’d just been weak when healing Ditan. Her efforts had gone as well as she could have expected, but she felt horrible. How could she have acquiesced to such punishment for them both? She knew better. Logic dictated her actions were insanity personified. The truth was that her terror controlled her now.

How long had this gone on? One month? Two? How far away was Praxoenn? How could the villagers have expected them to make this journey alone, literally stripped naked with no supplies? Had she been so naive to think it wasn’t an insurmountable challenge, or that the punishment was to give them a goal to work towards, not knowing it would only result in their deaths? Then the magistrate would have achieved his justice, and no remorse needed to be spared on the part of two more villagers amongst the many that had already been lost.

Trynneia hated herself for what she’d done to Ditan, but she’d survived. He’d survived. She hoped. One small strike was all she’d managed, but it proved she could do what was necessary. That Modius did not kill her outright meant she’d done well enough. She felt relieved, whether she’d accomplished his desires or not.

She deserved his retribution, she understood now. Modius did not suffer hesitation lightly, and the lesson buried itself in her mind. But her inaction cost Ditan more pain, and she reflected on the cold savagery Modius had assailed upon the goblin. Was that where she’d gone wrong? Had she tried to spare her friend Ditan, or had she caused Modius to attack an inhuman goblin? Where was the line here? What path should she walk?

Trynneia knew Modius saw the goblin to be beneath them, something not worth sparing. Yet he kept Ditan alive for some extrinsic worth he held, most likely his value as a shaman. She did not understand why this mattered, only that it did. How could she distance herself enough to suffer this punishment and keep her humanity?

She couldn’t, and she knew it. Thinking of the tenets of the Light and the few things she felt she understood, Trynneia had to accept she’d abandoned Light’s path. In her mind she saw again her hand holding that wretched dagger, compelled to act to preserve her life at the cost of her soul. Closing her eyes against the warm shafts of light illuminating her wagon through the many tears in the canvas, she felt the lifeblood of Ditan spilling over her hand once more. The way it had tickled and seeped, his agony must have been excruciating, but all he’d let out was a grunt.

Avoiding his face had made it easier to assuage her guilt. She couldn’t bring herself to observe however he’d acknowledged her betrayal. Don’t feel bad, Trynneia. He’s just a goblin. Don’t think of him as a friend. He is your enemy. He will kill you if you let him loose. Keep him just this side of death until we reach Praxoenn. Words in her head, spoken as if by Modius himself, attempted to comfort her, or at least mollify her.

Peeking under her bandage, she saw the small runes on her arm had been slashed through, and were caked with bloody scabs. What worried her was the blackness they had, quite obvious on her pale gray skin. Normally they were almost imperceptible until their power shone through. The ones on her legs appeared the same, and she expected the ones on her torso and face did as well.

Despite the heat, she shivered, and pulled the blanket close. The pit of her stomach growled, and her lips remained chapped. It had been far too long since she’d had a decent drink, and after healing Ditan and sleeping her recovery away, her limbs remained weak and trembling besides.

The sound of the wheels changed, and she climbed upon some crates to look outside. Each wagon of the caravan had turned onto a road, the first sign of civilization she’d seen in ages. It remained dirt and sand, but now had flat rocks to line the sides, and the path appeared packed down and well traveled. The lane was wide enough that the wagons spread out two abreast. Trynneia wanted to let Ditan know that maybe they were close to Praxoenn after all, but sorrow tempered her momentary joy. When next she saw him, she would bring him only pain.

Shortly after turning onto the road, Modius appeared around the back of her wagon, and clambered inside. He wore a kerchief around his neck, dotted with blood. Its use alternated between blocking out dust and catching the violence of his coughs. A wariness lit his eyes, like a cat eyeing prey that might overmatch it. Trynneia noted for the first time how thin he’d also become through this journey.

Disappointment layered his vigilance while he sat down, looking up at her on the crates while pulling his knees up to his chest. He pulled a waterskin and a roll of bread from his satchel, and slid them across the floor, where they settled at her feet.

“I was not satisfied by your efforts the other night,” he began, eying her while she picked up the meager rations. “Do not fail me again, or both of you will be placed under Eilic’s care.”

“You need us alive,” she said, immediately regretting her statement. Modius stood up and punched her shoulder, knocking her off the crates and onto the wagon floor. She screamed. Her roll bounced free of her hand and he stomped it, grinding it to crumbs.

“I think you misunderstand your worth, and that of the goblin. Think on it,” he growled. “We’re on the Wellspring path, and if we keep our current pace I expect we’ll reach Praxoenn in a week, maybe sooner.” He sat next to her as she clutched her arm, and he took several long pulls from the waterskin before tossing it to the ground where it slowly drained out.

Trynneia struggled to push herself up with her good hand, and Modius leaned down into her face, searching it while she glared at him. Sniffing, he coughed bloody spittle into his hand, the fit wracking his body. A trickle of it dripped down from each nostril.

“How did it feel, Trynneia?” he prompted.

“What?”

“Holding that thing’s life in your hands? To have that power over someone…” Modius trailed off, wistful.

“I didn’t-”

“Shhh, I know it’s confusing. I can help you with that,” he said, smiling. “Simple really. It’s like cutting up pig for a roast. The pig doesn’t care.”

“Pigs are usually dead, and Ditan isn’t one,” she snarled back. Modius dug his thumb deep into the slash of her shoulder, breaking the wound open and causing her to yell once more. He squeezed tighter.

“Enough with this fucking attitude, Trynneia. It does you no good. You will break when you realize the gob is just another beast, struggling against nature. You’ll see,” he promised. Trynneia doubted.

Her arm grew numb as he dug in, and the pain faded to be replaced with a chill against the ebb of her energy. It stressed to her his cruelty, and the agony she knew Ditan had felt at his hands. She sobbed at the memory, and Modius smirked, confusing her remorse with pain. She had to keep him away from Ditan. Trynneia had to spare him this barbarous pain.

“It’s a few hours from camp, Trynneia. You had better have made a choice by then. I will not have you keep me waiting tonight.” Coughing once more, he hopped out the back and disappeared.

Trynneia retrieved the waterskin, sucking down a few meager drops, and picked at the crumbs on the floor, knowing in her heart what she could not avoid. She pondered healing her shoulder, but did not, hoping to save what little strength she could to face Ditan and betray him again.