When she sleeps, Ridhima dreams of blood.
It is thick and dark like a velvet curtain, and it falls, falls, falls — it falls until it drowns her mind and spirit and body, and all that is left is the beating of that damned heart. It is tireless and unbroken but irregular; stricken with fear, it wavers ever so slightly, the rhythm never quite right, never quite at peace: tu-dumh, tu-duhm tu-duhm, tu-duhm.
Still, it continues on, because somewhere deep and lonely it knows the tears sliding down its shaking face will never be the answer.
It is vast like the ocean, immeasurable like the sky, the sun, the stars — and it is boiling. The blood bubbles like broth on the flames, silent save for the painful beating of its heart. It burns but cannot scream, hurts but cannot stop, betrayed but cannot forget. And so the ocean rages. With every heartbeat the waves break its surface and she is forced to see it all. The fire under the midnight sky, consuming their homes and herds like some starving beast; the screams of the men, the women, the children, slaughtered under the mounted blades; the indignity of fear, of pain, of escape — the shame of survival. Her Their burden to bear.
Every time her watch ends, the others urge her to rest, in spite of the steppe and what it may still herald, to lay down her bones and live to die another day. And every time the blood comes flooding back, its feverish rage consuming her whole, breaking her under its endless weight, and—
And then she opens her eyes, woken up by the distant crackling of fire. She is herself again: laying under the leather roof of her tent, her only home, the breath out of her lungs and blood out of her heart. She is Ridhima, daughter to Suri, mother to none and leader to many, and amidst what little remains of her people, she is thoroughly and utterly alone.
Under the night sky the distant pyres waver ever so slightly, the fire shaken by the wind, and it takes all of her strength not to break down in tears.
Leagues away, a husk of a man stumbles throught the steppe.
A sea of grass, smoke in the air, a hundred hooves pummeling the earth. The world is a blur. They close their eyes against it. An empire, a court, a Queen. Green and gray and black. We must have justice. We must have closure. Carry out your duty. They squint their eyes open, pushing the visions away. Endless grass beneath clear skies, not a living spirit in sight. A mountain in the distance. They are alone. Why are they here? They are scared. Where is here? They are so tired. Who are they?
They do not remember.
Something pierces the veil of their mind — the pleasant gurgle of a stream. They tilt their straw hat against the sun, grip their walking stick tighter and begin to walk towards it. It is a goal, something to focus on. They have a waterskin, and it is empty. Don't humans they need to drink? Maybe it could help clear their mind. They keep their eyes squinted as they follow the sound.
There. Crystal clear water, cold and soothing to the touch. They bend down, cupping their hands and drinking deeply. It slakes no thirst, but it feels right. They blink twice, and realize someone is looking right back at them: reflected in the stream is a haggard man in tattered robes and even more tattered long hair, all faded grays and browns. They do not recognize it. It cannot be them. They shut their eyes, trying to forget again. Cities burning in emerald flames. Her downfall, but incomplete. Hunt her, find her—
They stagger back, eyes open to an empty world. They must continue, if only to keep the voice and its visions away. Perhaps finding some weapon — a blade — something to cut the disgusting, webbed mass that clings to their head and face. That could be a goal, for now.
And so Nobody walks, alone on a path to nowhere.
Eventually, dawn breaks, and Ridhima is returned.
There is still a heavy burden deep in her heart, but she knows it well, carrying it since the day they had fled. She takes a deep breath, ties back her hair, and leaves the tent, ready to fight one more day.
The sun is already high in the sky when they break camp, what few tents they can still call home tied atop their tired, groggy horses. It is just them, the sun above, and the steppe behind. There are maybe two dozen of them left, tired widows cradling the crying babes of shepherds never given the dignity of eternal rest.
It is better than surrender.
This is why they picked her as their leader, Ridhima reckons, after the slaughter. Blessed with strength enough to make up for the lost height, she is a sturdy and persistent creature. Born with no particular wit, she not an inspiration or a commanding presence — but her people do not need a lion, they need a mule. They need somebody with the lasting strength to tell them there is still a horizon to reach, day after day. It puts a destination to their survival, some rational goal to an irrational feeling.
Lest they all be lost in the great sea of grass.
Ridhima is grateful none of her sisters have questioned the destination she has set. Were they to ask, she'd say that it will hide them from any would-be pursuers, and save their legacy from total annihilation. But that isn't the whole truth, for with each passing day she feels something gently nudging her along, beyond the Steppe and deeper into those sands. When that terrible ocean of blood breaks apart for just a second, its waves turn into dunes, warm and endless and gold, beckoning her closer. They shift just like the scarlet waves.
Were she her mother, she would have taken it as an admonition, a bad omen sent by the stars — but after what she has seen and survived, she knows no providence resides above her. And whatever this is — whatever, if anything, slumbers inside those calm sands — it feels like it knows her, judging by those gentle invitations forward.
It, too, is tired of being afraid.
They barely notice the storm raging around them. They only stop once they come across a ruin.
It is not tall, and certainly not grand. A couple of fallen stones against weather-worn, burnt wood. Something that used to be a home. They skew their head, and for a moment, the stones are no longer stones, blue flames eating away at the palaces of long-gone eternity. The body of a slaughtered godling, once a servant and now a victim, thrown over the pavement, makeshift stone daggers deep in its back. Furred hands grasping a blade in desperation.
Their body shaking, they close their eyes. When they breathe again, they are alone once more, a gaunt figure against the wind and rain.
Closer, they come closer; there is no door to open nor a host to greet, so they walk through, right into the vestibule. They remember a fort. They remember a castle. You will not find peace here, fool, comes an echo of an echo, a memory of a different lifetime. Then a mocking laugh, hollow and sharp like the wind that screams through the doorway. You cannot win with what remains of Her.
They sit down with their back against the cold wall, letting their walking stick clatter to the ground. The voice grows dimmer, then silent. Instinctively, they find their hand around a sharp stone. Its end rests against their skin, and they are bleeding.
They remember they are alive.
With sudden clarity they stand back up, and cut and slice and clean. They only stop once they look twice as young, the dirty, grey strands fallen at their bruised feet. The wind blows through the broken doorway, cold and harsh against their raw skin but it is real. Nobody takes off their cloak, then their rags, grasping the stone again. Their head feels lighter, vision clearer, but there is still more work to be done. Cut, slice, clean. Thick clumps of hair are cast by the wind into the dark corners of the ruin. It feels like freedom, bare skin against the freezing air, rainwater splashing through the cracked ceiling. Their ragged breaths take in the storm, and they close their eyes—
There will be no freedom until the Tyrant is dead. Go.
The stone falls out of their hand. Their body tenses. They put their rags back on, as if by reflex, then stop.
"I don't want to go!"
Their voice is crushed rocks cascading down a mountain. They don't know what language they speak. They look down at their hands and they are furred and bloodied as they bring down a massive blade on yet another godling of the Queen's shattered court—
And they are shaking, afraid to grasp a weapon again.
We cannot ignore it. We were made for this.
It is true. They have been hollowed out for this purpose, this calling that flares to life inside them like muscle memory. It is vile and destructive and all-consuming but they must follow the path it leads them on. Out of this ruined haven, out of the endless grass sea — lest they wish to drown as they have been drowning for so long.
They take a deep breath.
They were made for this.
On their way out, they pick up the stone and their walking stick, and march on.
Deep into the desert, beneath the scorching sun, the dreams do not cease — but they do change.
The red ocean is calmer, now, its bubbling surface almost reassuring; there is a familiarity to it that she can't place, and its silent rage comforts her. She can breathe again, floating atop those waters, and for the first time in years, Ridhima is understoo— no, "understood" isn't the right word, the right feeling; she is recognized.
She is recognized by both the sands and the ocean for all that she is, for all that she suffers, its bloody surface almost warm to her heart. Whatever it is that swims in its depths now, the great old thing, whatever shape she can feel waking up beneath the surface of her pain, she welcomes it, and it welcomes her. It is a massive shadow in the deep, circling her slowly, ever so closer, and she can feel that they are alike.
She touches its ragged, scarred body, and she asks it to show her.
Calmly — inevitably — the leviathan's tail breaks the surface, and the water coalesces into shapes: first of servitude, then of rage, then of betrayal. Of humiliation, of ropes around necks, and of bones, bones, bones. Of the satisfaction of revenge and the indignity of terror, of the terrible creeping dread of treachery, of the wound in the back where a heart should be and now resides a knife; of the grand past, its last witnesses either slaughtered under the blades of change or long since gone under the wind and the sun and the stars; of the future, yet to be written but eager for an author, eager for closure, eager for change; and—
And then she wakes up again, and for the first time since she can remember, her breath is calm. For the first time in a lifetime, she is not tired. With a lightness in her heart she has not felt in a decade she leaves her tent, her long hair unbound and falling right behind her, and she welcomes the night — for they travel by night, surrounded by the warm sands — with the comfort of a clear path set before her.
She tells the rest to ready the horses with a hand firmer and surer than ever, and she leads them further; deeper into the sands beneath a starry sky. And they notice her resolve, her spirit returning — the contours of hope coming back to their husk of a tribe.
It is almost enough to push away the fear.
Day after day, the steppe grows greener, until the grass gives way to thorned bushes, then hills, then a forest on the horizon.
But they remember those trees, comes a sudden whisper. They have seen them before, those windy crowns and that sharp bark. They put their hand against the wood, and when they take it away, they again find it bleeding. Blurry images flood their mind. They cannot place the memory, but they are sure they have been here before. When have they been here? How many times?
Have they forgotten?
They close their eyes, and try to walk down the path of fractured memories.
They remember the wind, and they remember the rain. They remember the water beating against their face, somewhere amidst tall grass and winding roads. They look deeper, through the mist and through the strain — and from the mist shapes emerge, shapes that form impressions of impressions. The face of a smiling woman, right above their own, her expression soon turned to fear; tall, furred things, always looking from far beyond in the Night, but never coming close; burning trees, their ashen leaves falling to the smoldering ground; and—
"No!"
Like a silver needle, a headache splits their temples. They grab their head with a jolt. "No, no…" They have never been there, but oh we have. The line between vision and true memory blurs and melts like tree sap.
This path was a mistake. A stupid, naïve and deadly mistake. It will consume what little remains of their own identity until they and the voice will be one and the same. They cannot allow this.
To continue is to die, to go back is to drown. They ball their bloodied hand into a fist. What if they stay here and then there's crowds, cheering to yet another godhead, yet another man who thinks he can become something more; and then the towers are falling, the rivers are flooding. Erikesh, they called it, they suddenly remember. Its name was Erikesh and it is burning, another empire turned to dust, its people shattered and scattered, forced to run from the ruins to the deserts, plains, and forests, and—
And it was home. Very slowly, they exhale. For a moment, the visions stop. The voice is silent. They look around them, at the forest and the hills. How far are they from home? They have no idea where they are. Is there anything left to return to? Are there people there still, sheltering in its ruins, waiting for them to come back?
We know better than that. The voice is harsh as always, but Nobody senses a hint of sadness behind the words.
"No, there has to be—"
We saw it burn.
"Please, let me go. I beg you."
No. There is work to be done.
Nobody screams and slams the rock into the tree, then again and again. Splinters fly. They tear into it like a wild animal until the heartwood is exposed, oozing viscous blood that soaks the soil. Their walking stick falls from their hand.
"What work?! What work could I possibly do?! I am nothing. You made me into nothing!"
There is no you or I. Not anymore.
The voice that whispers in their head is their own.
"I— I don't understand." Their anger falters like a dying torch.
Time is running out.
"But I don't know what to—"
Of course we do. We always did.
They look around like some lost babe, and suddenly they know where they are. They remember, all those years of wandering the wasteland, broken by the visions, broken by the memories; broken by the weight of a duty they could not quite articulate that at once comes at their shoulders, heavier with each new old memory.
They are whole.
When they breathe again, there is a clarity to the action, a clear intent to their future. They can walk, now, and they can live. They pick up their staff from the bloody ground and grip it tightly. They know what must be done.
The Queen must die the true death, starting with the last remnant of her wretched court.
In time, the great sand buries the horizon. The warmth of the dunes reminds Ridhima of home.
She and her kin have always been of the road, of the steppe and of the horse — blessed with persistence enough to need nought but each other. They have been a nomadic people, always scurrying somewhere else that wasn't here and now. But here, so close to the heart of the desert, she feels right. She feels in her place, the sensation somewhere between the fading memory of her mother and the passionate kiss of a lover; it feels as if she could stay here, forever, and never again know fear.
Even in her dreams, for the first time in a lifetime, she is reunited with peace. She no longer sees the fire and the blood; now, there is only the desert, only the stars, only her and her people walking through the endless expanse of eternity to the beating of a crimson heart right at its center. Some nights, visions still find her — but they are not her own. They no longer fall heavy upon her shoulders, no longer stab her soul and leave her to bleed a teary mess. Though they are not calm, it is a burden that does not belong to her; it is a burden she can choose to ignore.
But she never does. She wants to see.
She needs to see.
They are all blurry, fleeting like the recollections of a child, but in their dreamy logic they do form a whole: they show her palaces taller than the stars, the splendor of their god-queens but a long-forgotten secret; they show her courts filled with things that no longer have Names, all bowing to Two Above and their endless excesses; they speak of ancient gods and echo of empires older than the sun, older than the world Ridhima now walks.
They show her the price of it all, weighing down on the shape of a fool, bloody tears falling down his scarred, beaten face; his carcass, eager for closure, eager for revenge, twitching away amidst a sand-filled wasteland.
Yet when she wakes, when the visions stop and she is returned, Ridhima never feels fear, her breath never for a second rapid and weary; she is but sad. Sad for the wounded beast that has invited her closer, sad for the fate both of them have shared.
But now, now that they have found each other, so close to being reunited in the heart of the sands, it is a burden they bear together.
They walk and they walk, until the forest grows sparse once more and the hills greet them with open arms. The rain and wind cease, and there is again silence, broken only by their own steps against the hardening ground. Duhm, duhm, duhm. Their pace is rhythmical, almost like a beating heart. Duhm, duhm, duhm.
In the distance, hundreds of leagues away, right where the sky meets the ground, is a desert. They do not notice it at first, the promise of warm sand, but they know even before they see: it is where their path ends. It is where all paths end, all possible ways out of the steppe. Like a woven thread in the tapestry of their fate, it tugs them ever so closer, as if on instinct.
It calls, and we must answer in kind.
The fractures of their mind close up slowly, memories of two lives merging into one as they walk towards the desert. They remember the terrain, they remember the rhythm, and they remember their body. They remember how it feels to move, and they remember how it feels to fight. The adrenaline comes like disposition, and they know. They know.
Eventually, even the voice fades into the background, leaving only a firm hand to guide their own. They remember languages no longer spoken by anyone but themselves, the imprint of their words still engraved inside their skull, the only record of their existence. They remember the sweat and the blood, both reminders that they are here and that they are alive. And they remember the way a weapon feels against their fingers, the deadly intent with which it is wielded a harsh promise of finality.
Nobody does not notice the faint runes that start to glow at the end of their staff, but they do not need to — they know. They already know.
Inevitably, they find their way to the end of their road.
At first, Ridhima does not see it — the stretch of land is no different than the tens of leagues she and her people have crossed on their journey here, no different than the wasteland stretching as far as their eyes can see. She only feels it once she takes her rest and communes with her guide, reunited in the cold night.
As always, the visions come, but now there is a life to them, a color; the red of fury returns burrying the dunes and diming the stars, but it is not fury turned against Ridhima. It is a rightous anger, a hidden anger; the resurfaced anger of prey against its own hunter. It is not a threat, but a promise of what will happen — of what must happen — for both of them to rest.
For the first time in many months, Ridhima again knows rage. Before, each time they have communed together, she has remained calm; assured that she was not alone in her struggle, she has learned to breathe and live once more. But now — now that she is so close, now that the crimson wound in the heart of the desert is within a hand's reach — now she feels it all once more. She feels what they have done to her and her people. She feels the terror that they have fled from into this wasteland — the terror that would still threaten them, if they were to leave. And she feels the indingity of her helplesness, the terrible weight in her heart that will not go away for as long as she remains weak, for as long as she remains herself.
But it must not be so. No, the scarlet scar tells her: together, they can change the fate of their suffering. They can seal the wound with the needles of revenge, sewn with the flesh and bone of those who wronged them; they can have their dues and die with a debt repaid.
Yes, they can; they can and they will.
And so, when the night is darkest, Ridhima silently stands up, as if in a trance. She does not check if anyone sees her — and nobody does, for this deep into the desert, they no longer force their own to look out of a danger that could never come — and instead just opens her way out into the world, into the cool starry night.
Barefoot and with nothing but a promise of justice on her mind, she deeply breathes the midnight air, and walks out into the night.
Nobody is here.
They know what they will see over the next dune. The final name on their list, the Scarlet Fool, tortured jester of Queen Mab's court. They reminisce on the dozens of godlings they had hunted and killed, in another body and weapon, but not in a different lifetime. Power courses eagerly through their veins and the runes on the staff, and never have they felt such a strong sense of purpose. And yet…
A part of them is still terrified of what they have become. The same part that did not recognize its own reflection in the water. Nobody tries to comfort it, in the way they calmly move through the sand and the way they grip their walking stick. But it isn't a stick anymore, is it, and neither are they human. It and them are one and the same, a weapon with power enough to kill gods.
We had no choice, Nobody says, we were chosen to bear the mantle the moment we were born. It had taken away every other option, left them only one road to walk. We know this to be true.
But what if the mantle lied?
It did not, because the mantle is us and we are the mantle, Nobody says. We will strike down the Fool, slay the Queen once and for all, and then we will be free. The world will be free. We will be okay.
We will be okay.
They find each other in valley amidst the sands, all three of them.
Standing on ground far firmer than in the rest of the desert, they do not speak, but no words are needed; looking at each other, they all know what must be done. Nobody knows Ridhima must reunite with the corpse, must commune with her dead chance at salvation to live a live bereft of shame; Ridhima knows Nobody must rid the world of the last stain of the old order, must cut down what little remains of the Queens' fallout to fulfill their mission.
For a moment that, under the moon-lit sky, feels like an eternity, neither as much as moves. The two figures just stand there, the tired daughter of a shepherdess and the gaunt specter of a man eyeing each other both. But then they both turn away, towards their promised prize, laying on the stretch of land separating them.
The corpse is half-buried by the surrounding sand. It was not given the dignity of a proper funeral. It is twitching, its hatred and fear and unpaid dues chaining it to this world still. Its lanky, scarred limbs jerk in irregular spasms, like a spider that has already died but whose body has not yet departed, not yet accepted the fact that its soul and agency are no longer its own; like an old fool not yet willing to part ways with its own anger.
Ridhima and Nobody look up one more time, and exchange glances.
There is nothing more to be said. They know this. There is no compromise they can come to.
Ridhima furrows her brows and cracks her knuckles. She can feel the blood running through her veins now, the adrenaline of determination making her head spin; she has fled once before, and she will never make this mistake again. She is here and now, and she will do anything needed to protect those she cares for — anything needed to finally get closure.
With a heavy sigh, Nobody plants their staff more firmly in the ground, and covers their face with the straw hat, shielding their regret from the moonlight. For the first time in a lifetime, the voices are quiet, and their path is crystal clear: the shape of their destiny comes like an instinct. They close their eyes, feel the call of the Hunt inside them, the memory more intuition than conscious choice, and at once, their heart is steady. It must be done.
A strong breeze flies past, moving Ridhima and Nobody's long hair.
The world stops for an infinitely long second, and it is on.
With a feverish strength Ridhima launges forward, closer towards the corpse, in hopes of touching it first before Nobody's might can reach her, but she is too slow; the first attack comes instantly. Nobody moves their staff and the ground shakes, a brilliant blue light erupting from above. Glyphs older than time form in the ground, burning with the exact same might.
Suddenly fearful and almost blinded by the intensity, Ridhima looks at Nobody, and for a split second she can swear the light coalesces into a halo right around their head.
But then the moment is over, and Ridhima jumps once more, knowing she will never have another chance, extending her hand towards the twitching fool before Nobody can finish their spell. Their eyes lock, the corpse's twitching face looking right at her, and she hears: Do it. Do it, and take what you are owed.
And she reaches so far she can feel her muscles snap and bones ache, and her fingertip is right before the exposed ribcage, and—
—and before they can touch, she feels the ground abandon her feet as a force stronger than her hatred brings her higher, higher. To the sounds of Nobody whispering in a language thrice-forgotten Ridhima screams, unable to break herself free, unable to move, unable to fullfill her destiny. She screams with rightous fury, clawing away at a barrier she could not possibly feel; clawing away for her dignity and life.
And then Nobody's staff falls again, and the firmament becomes undone.
From the midnight sky the constellations fall, turning into points brighter than life, coming right at her — points she knows will reach her if she does not do anything, reach her and break her like an arrow breaks a deer, and at once she is terrified again, her heart pounding with the same rythm as it did all those years ago, and she—
Do not give it the satisfaction of victory, the voice hisses in her head again, Do not let it win.
At once, her heart starts beating again, this time with twice the might, twice the anger. Its rage is echoed by another, one far older than hers, and blood flows back to her lungs, her brain, her fingertips; and from those fingertips comes power. It is immediate and natural. The bright red light that suddenly engulfs her hands forms long, broken ethereal nails where her own should. It is unlike anything Ridhima has ever felt, but at once it feels like a memory she has relived a million times, as if the arcane has always been a hidden part of her, only now aided tenfold by the resurgent rage of her scarlet patron. She knows what she has to do, even without asking.
She smiles a wide grin, and slashes the air with the new strength that has always been hers, and the world answers.
Before she can slash again, Nobody suddenly falls, grabbing at their stomach, thick blood falling from in-between their shaking fingertips. Their hold on their spell breaks, and Ridhima falls too, falls to the ground, and she looks at her prey, at the mighty demi-thing cowering before her might. She resists the urge to lick her lips when the smell of blood hits her nostrils, and for a second an image flashes before her eyes: of her claws against Nobody's throat, of her drinking in that fear in their fading eyes, feeling the—
No. Not yet, the voice says, and at once Ridhima's clarity is returned. If her heart was beating more slowly, she would feel shame, but now she simply turns away from her bleeding enemy, and once again rushes towards the source of her strength, the new-found vigor reverberating through each of her limbs.
It is there, some ten paces before her, and—
—and again the terrible force comes, this time with half the strength but with twice the determination, and Ridhima is pulled sideways, towards the nearest hillside, as if the world itself has shifted around her and right was down.
Panting heavily, Nobody stands back up.
Their tunic is stained with blood, the whole of it, but they tighten the grip on their staff regardless; somewhere admist the adrenaline comes a sudden clarity upon their mind, an intimate and ultimate understanding of their mission. They see now, as they move their hand and whisper words whose meaning they don't understand, and it all comes flooding back as if it was a memory they have live through: they see the life of the one that came before them, the great furred thing; they see their pilgrimage through the ruin of the world; they see their holy mission, their creed to rid the world of all that once was of the Queen, of the Starlight, of Mab.
The memories come again, all at once, and Nobody knows that they must succeed.
Oh, but the Queen is not dead, you fool, a malicious thing mocks inside a memory that isn't is theirs as Nobody lifts their staff. She is but binding her time, and when she returns, her kin will be waiting.
They again feel the terror their previous self has felt at the revelation, again the determination to do whatever they can do to ensure the court of terrors the Queen has entertained does not return and chain the world once more. They feel the cold spike right in a heart that isn't theirs, and they feel as the shard inside their soul finds another, across time and space — as their purpose finds them. And that purpose begins here, under the moon-lit sky, with the corpse of a pained horror that should have died millenia ago and the poor shepherdess it has found common purpose with.
They must not be allowed to live.
Nobody's staff falls again, and a brilliant pillar of celestial light comes down towards their unfortunate enemy.
Before Ridhima can stand right back up, her head still spinning from the hard ground she has hit, the fire reaches her — and it burns, it burns unlike anything she has never known. In an instant the pain returns her consciousness, and to her terror she finds her left arm scorched like hunted game, scorched like her home, scorched like her mother and her lover and her—
She lets out a terrible shriek, the howl more beast than human, and she launges forward. But Nobody is already there, their staff firmly in the ground. Their lips are moving as a spell is cast, the power coalescing into a barrier meant to stop Ridhima's approach, but before it can come together she breaks right through it, shattering Nobody's might, and she slashes again, again, again. In the fury of a wounded animal she rips and tears, her red nails breaking away at the lunar might of Nobody's defence.
There is a spill of blood, a dull scream, and Nobody grabs their eye.
At once, their world goes half-blind.
Ridhima attacks yet again, this time with the only hand she still can, trying to reach for the throat, but though wounded her adversary is not in retreat. They block each of her attacks with whatever power still remains inside their staff, the cold wood the last bastion against her claws. Through sheer muscle memory, Nobody parries and ripostes, each hit a surprise to both them and Ridhima.
From a distance, it almost looks like a dance.
One hit, then another, then another — each a step closer to breaking Ridhima's faultering defence. First snaps her finger, then closes her eye, and then—
—and then Ridhima suddenly jumps away, cold realization entering her mind as the voice speaks once more: Do it now. Do it now, or never stop hurting.
Before Nobody can land the final blow, before they can finish off the thing that the poor shepherdess has turned into, she launges right towards the corpse in one final attempt. She cannot hope to survive the move, but she does it regardless — in one final desperate move, she expends all her energy, both mundane and arcane, and lands right next to the twitching carcass.
And though she is bleeding, broken and bruised, her soul only barely still anchored to the beaten and dying body, she moves a finger towards her destination, and at once they are reunited.
Nobody's heart skips a beat, and in the next moment they too are next to the undead demigod, but it is already too late. Ridhima turns back to them, smiling through tears, and her hands dig right into the writhing flesh of a thing that should have stayed dead. At once she feels it all — a hatred ten times brighter than her own, an anger trascending life, transcending space, transcending time. A brilliant scarlet point refusing to yield to fate and destiny, twitching against linearity, and she drinks its blood like a starving beast, lets it enter her veins and mind. Enough to silence the last whisper of doubt in her mind; not nearly enough to make her stand up and fight on.
As a red whirlwind surrounds the two figures, the seams of time and space creaking right at its borders, Nobody looks at Ridhima, and all they can find inside their heart is pity. They raise their staff for one final blow, but when their eyes lock, they hesitate.
They look at her and cannot find it inside them to do it. A howl breaks the sky as the moon and sun turn faster and faster, and the world breaks — the scarlet flows out of the corpse and onto their place in space and time. Above Nobody, ages that aren't their own pass as the hatred pulls farther and further, its tears of indignity more timeless than time itself. It is a transgression against reason, they know this, and it would not take much to end it — just one more swing, and they would be done. But as they look at her, they do not see the bleeding, raging animal subservient to the Scarlet Fool; they only see her, Ridhima, the daughter and wife and friend, a fragile little thing broken by the weight of her own life, and they cannot help but feel pity. They kill monsters, that is their destiny: but Ridhima is just a person, wounded and scared out of reason.
Still: they know their duty. They know what they must do. They tighten their grip on their weapon, close their eyes, and take one last swing.
Before it lands, a dull pain suddenly beats inside her heart, and darkness falls upon their soul. Before they can say anything, they feel as blood rushes to their mouth, and they fall to the ground.
Memories come flooding again. Of their mission, of their previous, of their failure. Of the cycle. Of the beating, throbbing shard inside their soul that will now have to find another. Of the fact that they cannot give up, that—
Another blunt fist comes down at them; this time, there is no reaction.
Ridhima pants heavily, with strength enough barely to stand, and at once she vomits blood. She falls back to her knees, falls to the sand that now bears two corpses.
The world is still spinning, but the rage is now gone; the whirlwind has dissapeared and the sun and moon are back to normal, but the air feels different, the desert feels different. There is grass now, all around her, dully verdant sprouts where before there was only sand, and it is raining. But Ridhima does not notice any of it — not the bushes, not the temperature, not the grave of an enampment some few dunes away, the dried up corpses of her former companions surrendered to time in the countless relative ages since she has left them. Kneeling in front of the Fool, her hands are dripping with blood, the half-crazed tempo of her heart still unwilling to calm down.
She looks at her palms, then at the corpse: but she no longer hears the whisper. There is only the ringing of his fear in her ears, a tremendous realization of regret, of terror of what he has done, and—
She pushes it all away and digs deeper into the corpse, its rotten flesh and putrid blood flowing down her fingertips, and she laughs an exhausted, twisted laugh.
When she stands back up, she is no longer weak. There is a might, a stolen strength pumping through her veins, its arcane echoes reverberating through each of her movements. A might that will ensure she will no longer have to run, no longer have to fear — a might that will ensure that those who have wronged her, gone as they might be, will pay. With this terrible power, it does not matter where they hide, no matter which corner of space and time they might retreat into — she will find them, and she will have her dues.
Yes, they will pay.