Her body burned.
Strange, how it burned so, when no fire had touched her.
Perhaps the blade had been forged by something godly.
Her body burned, and her blood fell.
It kept falling — it spilled, like water from a cliff, like rain from the clouds.
Was this how Evîn had felt?
Her body burned, and Livia felt it grow heavy.
Heavy as if consumed by insects running through her bloodstream, trying to take her body down into the ground.
Her body burned, and Livia tried to take one final, rattling breath.
She thought of Arevik — of braided hair, a gaze of moss and earth. She thought of Akaris and Qirin.
Was this what they had wished for her?
Her body burned, and Livia's gaze was blurred.
She could barely make out the shape of two people bending over her.
Her body burned, and her lips parted.
Her fingers twitched.
And she was no longer breathing.
He couldn't remember the last time he'd seen that much blood.
It swathed the stones in a sickly crimson, the haphazard strokes of an artist caught in fury.
The Pale Death, they called him.
Pale, and haunted by red (by lavender, by ink). Pale, and holding the bleeding girl up, as if the lull of her head was merely caused by her slumber.
It followed Icharen wherever he went.
Beside him, Laia trembled.
Her blood coated her fingers, colouring her bandages red. Vivid, and striking, and nauseating.
The only blood she'd seen up close had always been her own. Hers was a pain that tore through flesh and turned ivory into crimson. Others were clean, pain hidden underneath screaming and sobbing.
She'd always felt a relief at that, at not having to see how she affected them so.
She'd always felt wrong, for feeling relief.
''There's too much blood,'' Laia whispered. ''So much blood.''
Beside her, Icharen yanked off his gloves.
She wasn't sure what it was that he did, but his hands seemed to grip Livia's head in a silent prayer. Was this his gift? Could he heal her?
Livia stirred, as if roused from slumber, and Laia watched as her chest rose and fell one more time.
Icharen murmured, ''Come on.''
She didn't move again.
He vividly remembered the last time he'd seen that much blood.
It had turned the sand into ribbons of scarlet. Rendered bodies lifeless.
He thought he'd left that behind.
Marcus had thought this was it, the end of the night dipped into the wine that had generously flown down his throat, the laughter he had managed to elicit from the goddess Taniyn. Cain leaning against him as he led the two of them out of the ballroom, the silence of sleep slowly descending upon the palace.
He'd planted a glimmering seed of hope inside his mind, and he had been rewarded for being so foolish.
Rewarded, yet again, with blood.
''What did you — ''
The red-haired girl — Laia, her name was. Laia, and Icharen, and death.
Laia looked up, startled as if shaken awake. Her face was wet with tears. Her eyes were wide with fears.
''No, we — we found her. We found her like this. We didn't — ''
His gaze drifted down.
Gods, she was carved up, like one might slice their blade through wood to create. To decorate.
Her flesh was decorated with slashes of vivid red, down her arms, across her throat, over her chest, as if someone had tried to find the bleeding organ underneath brittle bone.
Just a few hours ago, he had danced with her. Another Anunnaki he had attempted to find kinship with. Livia had twirled and he had laughed.
So much blood.
He had had too much wine.
That must be it — he had too much wine, and it was making his head swim, conjuring up images that weren't there.
Because why else would there be a dead body in the middle of the courtyard?
It was only the first night.
Was this what he'd agreed to?
''What the fuck,'' Cain whispered, eyes dancing around the pool of blood, the two Anunnaki who held the third, the destruction at the heart of stone.
It looked strange. It was a puddle of crimson tears, odd and at war with the satin of Livia's dress. Death and Life waged war on the stones.
Who would win?
Who had won?
Cain swayed on his feet.
Marcus tried to keep him steady.
''Looks like someone spilled a bit too much wine,'' he said. His words came out forced where they tried to be light and airy. It only made his words plummet that much faster.
They broke apart on the stone floor, along with the horrified look of Marcus, of Laia, of Icharen.
Gods, maybe he should have drank more wine. Maybe he should have turned on his heels and fled, close his eyes and open them in a shady inn in Buyan, in the middle of a harvest festival in Thule, in the perfumed markets of Nibiru —
Should he try?
Beside him, Cain swayed. Neither of them moved. They only stood there and stared, stared as Laia tried to explain, as Icharen stayed quiet.
He had seen Laia laugh only hours ago. He had complimented her on her hair, and she had told him his was even prettier — he had seen Cain speak to Icharen, their conversation seeming that of old friends.
It had been simple. It had been easy. Had it been a lie?
Again, Cain spoke up. Violence seethed within him, the need to make him shut up.
''Is she dead?''
Something akin to a whimper left Laia's lips, and she pulled at the bandages on her hands. Her fingers moved as if they wanted to pry her skin open. Icharen let go of Livia's head, and seemed to want to move closer to Laia.
His hair was tousled, his previously composed expression cracking, something else leaking through the chasms on his visage.
No longer gold, no longer silver, no longer gilded —
he looked strange, holding Laia but not holding her, keeping his hands close to his side, while at the same time, reaching out.
As if he only just remembered them, Icharen quickly pulled on his gloves. It didn't hide the blood.
Laia wasn't looking at anyone else, only him, as her hands trembled. Only him as she wiped them over her face, leaving streaks of red.
The dead girl lay between them.
They looked at him like they could see Death crawling on his skin. Like he and Caidil had become one and the same, melding into a deity of death, singular and unforgiving.
Underneath his gloves, his skin itched. His fingers twitched.
And bile rose in his throat.
Something twisted inside him, caught hold of his mind, captured all his thoughts and made them insidious.
Had he done this?
Had he not been careful enough?
Had the poison leaked out of him as he'd held her, seized an innocent soul and ripped the life out of her beating heart?
Had she been alive before him?
He and Laia should have taken a different route through the palace.
Perhaps if they had taken a different turn, left instead of right, someone else would have found Livia before them. Someone else would be looked at the way Marcus and Cain looked at them now.
He wanted to hold her as her tears mingled with the blood on her cheeks, but there was a distant call in his mind. A warning, burning and blazing.
Murderer.
Behind him, a scream pierced the air.
Rhodys' scream was a distant sound.
She barely heard it, as she stared at the body, blood pooling around her like the fallen petals of a rose.
Her eyes were still open.
Arevik blinked when Rhodys' hand squeezed hers, and tore her gaze away from the sight in front of her.
Don't look —
don't look, don't scream, don't cry —
don't stare, lest she stares back, lest those mismatched eyes remain in her dreams.
Even bloodied, even with her flesh torn asunder, she looked lovely.
She couldn't bare to look at her.
''She's dead,'' she said numbly, and gently pried her hand out of Rhodys' grip.
They had only meant to look for the kitchens, Rhodys having come knocking at her door.
''She's dead,'' Rhodys repeated, parroting her words right back to her.
Arevik almost wanted to laugh.
Instead, she ignored Rhodys' growing panic, the words that came jumbling out in a mess of strung up sentences. She ignored Rhodys to approach Livia's body. She didn't look at her.
She reached for Laia's bloodied hands, slowly, as if approaching a wounded animal.
''Let's take these bandages off, shall we?''
Laia scrambled back from her touch, eyes wide, chest heaving. She shook her head, almost violently. She sat in the pool of blood.
''No.''
It was like trying to chase a baby goat who had escaped its mother.
(she tried to ignore the smell of her blood, how it reminded her of Havryil)
''It's okay,'' Arevik said, gently, still so gently, trying to coax Laia closer.
(gods, the smell was so strong. arevik wanted to look at her.)
Suddenly, Icharen stood. He made for a strange figure, standing there with red streaking the white of his clothes, like freshly plucked strawberries leaving their stain against a handkerchief.
Laia looked at him as if he might leave her. Icharen didn't look at anyone.
''We need to alert the gods.''
That was as all he could say, before the sound of commotion rose around them. It seemed that Rhodys' had scream alerted everyone.
Arevik didn't look at them. She no longer looked at Laia. Slowly, her gaze moved to Livia, laying there in a now-red gown, the image of her there something that might have been painted and propped up in the halls of the Thuarin home.
She waited for the other girl to move. For her to stir, and smile at Arevik, and ask her if she'd missed her, blood be damned.
Arevik stared, and stared, and stared.
Livia didn't move.