REPENTANCE STORIES:
ANGUS AND FIONA

❛ BLOOD LIKE WINE ❜

STORM CLOUDS WERE GATHERING in the horizon, and Fiona Byrne feared she was going to die that day.

The sun hadn't yet set. Rays of tangerine sunlight were still warm to the touch; the darkening clouds a mere speck in the distance. A mistake to be corrected. An accidental brushstroke in an otherwise pleasant evening. But everyone knew storms and mist were the ancient residents of the Wandering Isle— and it wouldn't be long until they knocked their doors down.

Close your eyes. Count to five. Open your eyes.

"He's coming this way!"

Fiona was barely able to catch sight of a group of children —five, maybe six— running to hide amongst the vegetable stands. Fiona had had years of practice to grow accustomed to the sound whispers not meant for ears, of footsteps hurrying away from her. She had learnt to recognize them— and she had also learnt to ignore them.

Fiona wasn't quite sure when it was that she stopped caring. That she stopped caring for the looks thrown in her direction, for the whispers and the paranoid glances. For the rings of salt and the bundles of rosemary left on their front doors. Somewhere along the line, it stopped mattering. Sweep the front step, keep your head down, never step out of line.

         "Is that him?"

"Don't look them in the eye," a woman hissed at her son.

Fiona hummed a soft song, green gaze traveling across the stands of the town square. She'd seen better before— grander villages, bigger towns. Not quite cities, but somewhere in between. They both quickly found out large cities didn't fair well for them. Nameless little settlements tended to do the trick.

"Fíon stoirme."

She noticed the vegetables on the stands looked better. The tomatoes red and thick, the cabbages crisp and fresh. It had barely a season since they first moved in— but she could already see the difference between the pitiful crops the townspeople had been selling beforehand.

         "Excited for the festivities?"

         Angus' voice came as a surprise. It wasn't often that her brother talked during their walks— much less around crowded places.

"Obviously," said Fiona as she playfully nudged Angus' shoulder. She saw the pleased twitch in her brother's lips, and looked away— hoping Angus couldn't see through the lie. The truth was, she had forgotten all about it. Instead, her attention lied with the gray clouds swirling by the corners of the sky— a sight that had been chipping at her for longer than she cared to admit. "This Harvest Festival might be their biggest one yet," she continued.

"Maybe," said Angus noncommittally.

"Maybe?" Fiona shoved the thought of clouds, rain, mist, and storms to the very back of her mind. She turned to her brother with newfound intent. "Everyone here looked like they were built out of twigs and branches. Now they can celebrate the end of the season with crops to spare— and it's because of you."

"Don't say that," he muttered.

"Why?" Fiona asked, her balled-up fist twitching at her side. "It won't kill them to show a sliver of gratitude."

"Fiona." Angus' voice dropped to that low, warning tone, and she promptly regretted speaking of it in the first place.

The people in the town were pleased when Angus kept the weather warm, the crops with enough sunlight and rain, the skies cloud-clear. And yet, a single misstep was all it ever took. Spoiled crops. Too-cold weather. Someone who got sick— someone who demanded his blood in return. Payment. Debt. This is what you owe us for our hospitality. For keeping your secret. For receiving you with open arms.

Fiona inhaled sharply, forcing herself to smile. "Oh hey, look—" she gestured ahead, "they've decorated for the festivities."

Fiona briefly wondered what celebrations beyond the Wandering Isle would look like. Not shabby villages with houses made of wood and stone. She tried to imagine what a Harvest Festival would be like in Novyi Zem. A twinge of envy flickered in her chest at the thought. Warm winds all year round. Sand beaches instead of jagged stoned ones. No more looking over your shoulder for Grisha hunters. Only golden fields and sunlight for days on end.

Fiona shook her head. You wouldn't like the heat, she reminded herself. You just crave what you can't have.

Green and purple flags were hung around the town square, tall lanterns lining up the main street. It was a new addition— one she particularly liked, especially if it meant nights wouldn't be as dark.

"Is that a band?" She couldn't hide the excitement that bled into her voice. Even from a distance, she could see the stringed instruments— a harp, a fiddle, a mandolin. Something warm bubbled in her chest.

Without meaning to, Fiona found herself stepping closer to the long wooden pallet. Tentatively, her hand reached for the strings of the harp. She plucked a note. Two. She felt embarrassed at how much she wanted to take it into her arms, to play it instead of merely displaying it. Her fingers reached to play another note.

"What are you doing?"

The voice was rough, mean. Aggressive waves against sharp rocks. Never let them know they scare you. Fiona simply looked up, face impassive. The moment they find a weakness, they will feast on it.

"Playing," Fiona responded with a smile. Curly red hair. Spatters of freckles. Gray eyes. She wasn't surprised to realize she didn't recognize the boy looming over her. Had he been one of the musicians she saw a few weeks back?

"That's not playing," he scoffed. His nose twitched, his jaw tightened. "And don't touch it."

Fiona knew she should step away while she still could. Instead, she tilted her head. "Why? Are you going to?"

His lip curls into a sneer. "It doesn't belong to you."

"It could." Her hand inched closer to the harp again, longing for the feel of strings under her touch.

His fingers yanked her wrist back. "It doesn't."

"Fiona."

The boy's head snapped up, shoulders locked in place. The hand wrapped around her wrist fell away. When she turned, Angus stood just a few paces behind them, green eyes narrowed, jaw set. Scary face, she would've teased.

"Sun's setting. Let's head back."

Fiona wanted to protest. Instead, she nodded. She didn't waste her time looking back at the boy— not when she could still feel his glare digging between her shoulder blades.

When Fiona glanced back at her brother, Angus had that dumb look on his face— the one he wore whenever he felt like playing parent.

"Why are you picking fights?"

Because you can't. She shrugged. "I wasn't. He was being rude."

"Because he can afford to be. Come on, Fi— you know better."

Fiona kicked a few pebbles with her shoe. She kept quiet, knowing that if she opened her mouth, she'd end up regretting it. The two siblings walked down the stone path in silence, save for the rustle of leaves, the distant sounds carried by the wind. The little house hidden at the edge of the forest— no neighbors, no onlookers, no people to scare. Their little cabin in the woods.

It was only once they reached their doorstep that Fiona realized, "You're done for the day?"

         "Yeah." He opened the door, not waiting for her to follow.

         "But—" Fiona glanced back at the too-dark clouds that haunted the horizon. Was it just her, or were they growing darker? She bit her tongue, shutting the door behind her. "The chief won't be happy."

         "I did what I could." Angus shrugged off his coat, cracking his neck. "They ought to know there's only so much one person can do." Fiona hated how relaxed he seemed. How nonchalant. Hide from them, don't hide from me, she would've demanded. Show me you're scared too. "One day with a little thunder won't kill them."

         "No, but—" But it might kill us.

         "Fiona." She hated how he said her name. Chiding, reprimanding. "I thought you said these were good people."

Yeah, she wanted to say. When they're happy. When their needs are met.

They both knew better. Angus could play the responsible adult all he wanted, but Fiona could see through the cracks. He was only a three years older than her. Yet, some days, it felt like her brother had aged decades.

They both had learnt better than to trust the goodwill of people in the Wandering Isle.
They'd made mistakes, got punished for them, carved the lessons out of them. One of those lessons included carrying weapons with them wherever they went— inside or outside their temporary home, and always at arm's reach. The hunting bow strapped to Fiona's back had been a gift from Angus; the two knifes in her boots were stolen trinkets from two towns ago. She'd only shot the bow a handful of times— all of which had left her with quarry no bigger than rabbits.

         She still remembered the hunters with their bows, their jagged arrowheads, their curved blades. Could a few gray clouds really mean running again?

         "It's only for one night. I'll get it sorted in the morning."

         Fiona held onto the string of her bow for a moment. Not quite a harp, but as close to one as she would ever get.

         "One night," she repeated. A promise. One night.

        A few hours later, it started to rain.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

         ANGUS WOKE UP TO THE SOUND of someone banging at their door. He jolted awake like thunder had struck his skin— cold, hot, too aware, too disoriented. The world was still shadows and silhouettes, shapes and spirits.

         The banging on their door continued—thundering, thundering, crescendo, crescendo. He had half the mind not to grab Fiona and run. Whoever was knocking their door was seconds away from reducing it to splinters.

         Hunters knock, he thought. They enjoy the chase. Hunters knock— but not like that.

  When Angus opened the door, the first thing he saw was the crowd of people gathered outside. All faces that seemed stuck somewhere between strangers and strangely familiar. He didn't care to learn their names— why would he? But even when nameless, he saw the anger, the desperation, the anguish imprinted onto their visages.

         The second thing Angus saw was the fire. Roaring and scalding, licking at the trees, barreling into the wooden roofs of houses. In the distance, he thought he could see the decorations for the Harvest Festival crumbling into ash.

         Then the smell of smoke finally hit him, and the gravity of their situation nearly knocked him over. Cold winds embraced the Wandering Isle once more, and Angus couldn't even step in to grab shoes before he was dragged towards the rapidly spreading fire.

         Most of the town square was unsalvageable. The flames had swallowed down the decorations and food stands long before Angus had even stepped within range.
But as he tried his best to ward off the fire, to get it to settle and disappear, there was only so much he could do.

         The damage was done. Houses reduced to ash. Shops left charred with embers in their walls. Angus wasn't a Tidemaker. He wasn't an Inferni. In the end, he was just a Squaller. A Squaller with little to do but wait until the fire died out— guide the winds and pray above the fire didn't jump onto the next home.

        The storm clouds of the early hours had paved the way for thunder, and thunder for lightning. Angus was cursed— he had to be. An omen of bad luck, of the horrible things to happen. Lightning had struck a tree on the outer line of the forest. From there, the fire had snaked its way through the village with ease, locking its jaws around the first home it found.

         Some part of him knew it was bound to happen. That he had been pushing the limits for far too long. Storms, rain, mist— they were the wandering spirits of the island. He had exiled them, shoved them out of their own home by force. And now— now they were angry. No, not angry. Worse: they were vengeful.

         Angus had barely registered Fiona's presence by the outskirts of the crowd, her sights set on him. He had tried to keep his weaknesses from showing— he always did. He would never tell her just how deep his exhaustion ran, how it wore down at his bones. It had been easier in the past— hiding it, pretending it didn't exist. He was a wall, a barricade— big brother Angus, carved from stone.

         That voice in his head had long since warned him he wouldn't be able to keep it up. Maintaining sunny days for longer, diverting storm clouds before they formed. The village stood too close to the True Sea— unprotected from the harsh winds of the North. Clouds were being permanently guided towards them. It was a matter of time.

         The moon was still up in the sky when the fire was finally put out— but its claws were very much visible to Angus, to his sister, to everyone in the village.

         Keep your head down, never step out of line. How the hell was he going to fix this?

         He glanced one last time at Fiona. His beloved sister, forever damned to carry the weight of his curse. Selfish, he thought, thief. He'd taken so much from her. Stolen it without even blinking.

         She used to be happy. She used to dance. She used to sing. Perhaps she could've made it far— farther than most. All if she hadn't been cursed with him for a brother.

         He'd considered it before. More than once, more than he'd care to admit. Ending it all— finally freeing Fiona from the ball and chain that was having a Grisha for a sibling. He'd thought about what it would mean for them. Late at night, a stolen knife in his hand. Angus wasn't good with weapons— he'd always been too clumsy with them, as if he couldn't properly assess the length of them, the unfamiliar weight. He had toyed with the idea for a while, turning the knife in his hand, wondering if he would ever find the courage to drive the steel into his chest. If he was gone, she'd be free to stay in a village of her choosing. She wouldn't have to run. She'd have somewhere to settle in— somewhere to call her own. She wouldn't have to live looking over her shoulder, hoping the shadows at the edge of the woods were just shadows.

         But to do that, it would hurt her. Stabbing his heart would be stabbing her own. He would never forgive himself..

         Coward, he thought. Coward. Selfish. Thief.

         Angus was still barefoot when the village chief approached him.

         "Fíon stoirme," he heard one of the women in the dispersing crowd whisper. Storm-wine. His throat felt dry, tight. Storm-blood.

         "I will fix this," Angus told the chief with a certainty he didn't feel. He spoke in a rough, almost hoarse voice. Intimidating, Fiona had mocked him once, saying his voice got lower whenever he spoke to strangers. Angus only wondered if chief Darragh could hear the tremor in his words. "I will— I will fix it."

         But chief Darragh only raised a hand. There was a coat around his body that Angus envied. Even with sweat brimming his forehead and sticking to his skin, the cold gnawed at him with that all-too familiar bite.

         "You have paid us in kind for a full season," Darragh said, resting his hand upon Angus' shoulder. Angus thought it was meant to be a comforting gesture, something to soothe his worries. He couldn't stifle the flinch, the way he tensed up like an oak. "Get some sleep, boy. We can sort this out in the morning."

         Angus parted his lips, but couldn't find words to respond. There was kindness in his gray eyes, something warm he would've liked to lean into.

        "Thank you." It was Fiona answering for him, stepping to stand besides Angus. "Thank you." She glanced back at Angus, before giving the chief a small nod and a thankful smile. "We'll— We'll get this fixed tomorrow."

         "Yes." Chief Darragh smiled back. "You will."

         The two of them waited until the rest of the village went back to sleep. They waited until the streets were empty, until doors were closed and windows locked. Darkness still hung over them, an overcast sky.

         Angus shut the door behind him. His hand was still gripping onto the knob tightly when he spoke.

         "Pack your things." Green met green. He felt his heart starting to pick up. Ba-bump. Ba-bump. Thunder rising in his ears. Electricity prickling his neck. "We're leaving. Now."

         Fiona didn't need to be told twice. She hurried to the their shared bedroom, unblinking, unflinching. He was certain she could feel it too— that cold chill, that static snapping cracks onto his bones.

         They'd done the exact same routine a thousand times before. Settle, prepare, run. It was why they both kept bags ready underneath their cots. Why they always planned for escape routes. Why they never protested when townsfolk offered the house farthest away from their homes. They needed an easy out.

         Angus dragged one of the tables to barricade the door. They'd leave through their bedroom window as they'd planned. Their biggest problem would be the remnants of the storm. The rain would've muddied all paths— with his luck, perhaps even toppled a tree or two.

         "We can go down the cliffside," he decided as he placed another chair against the door. The men and women of the village wouldn't wait until morning to get them. Every moment, every second counted. "It's steeper, and the rain won't make it easy— but they won't follow."

         After he shoved one last chair for good measure, Angus turned, expecting to find Fiona with her bow and their bags ready. Electricity buzzed underneath his skin, prickled at his neck.

         "Fiona." He could hear rustling from their bedroom. She knew to be quick. She'd always been. He took a step closer towards their room. "Fiona, come on— we need to hurry."

         The door creaked open, as if a gentle wind spirit were beckoning him closer, inviting him to see. His heart was a storm, a jackrabbit, a frightened little thing. The moment he caught sight of her limp hand on the floor, he realized his mistake.

         The window. He left the window open.

        Before he could turn, a rock knocked against his head— and the world became an abyss.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

         FIONA WOKE UP TO THE SMELL OF SMOKE. It scratched against her throat; sandpaper against her lungs. Her eyes felt heavy, her body ached, and there was a dull throb by the back of her skull like a drumbeat.

         Fiona was tired— exhausted, in fact. Her body weighed far too much to be set upright, and she wanted nothing more than to continue to sleep.

         But then she heard his voice.

         The ache behind her eyes sharpened into pinpricks as she tried to adjust her vision. Shapeless blurs, unrecognizable silhouettes. She was certain she'd heard Angus. Was this a dream? It felt like one— save for the dull burn by her wrists.

         Blurs started to take form slowly. A campfire. Tall, looming trees. A person was talking to Angus. Fiona squinted her eyes, grimacing. No, not one person. Three— no, four.

         "Angus?" she asked, her voice nothing but a scratch against tree bark. She still felt smoke lingering in her lungs, marking the walls.
Figures and silhouettes grew sharper, and Fiona was certain one of them turned to look at her.

         The spirits of the forest, she thought. She felt dazed, disoriented. Caught somewhere between reality and a dream.

         "Someone's waking up."

         "There's a surprise. Could'a sworn you hit her too hard there."

         The voices felt close, too close. Something itched against her wrists; it left her skin feeling raw. There was something wet on her fingertips. Her vision grew in and out of focus.

         Then a hand grabbed a fistful of her hair and yanked her head up. Fiona yelped, feeling a sharp tug. A pair of yellow eyes stared back at her.

         The woman grinned like a wolf baring its teeth. "D'you sleep well?"

   Fiona clamped her jaw shut to stop herself from screaming. No. Her chest rose. Rose and fell. Too quickly. Unevenly. There were ropes around Fiona's wrists, she could feel dried blood by her temple.

         "Where's my brother?" she managed.

         There was a purplish color to the woman's teeth. The half-braided pattern of her hair. The fox pelts around her clothes, the knives strapped to her chest, the glass vials hanging from her belt.

         Never let them know they scare you, she tried to remind herself. Her heart hammered against her ribcage, wanting to break free, to splinter the bone. She couldn't think clearly. The moment they find a weakness, they will feast on it.

         Fiona made the mistake of looking away from the hunter. Her stomach recoiled; bile climbed up her throat. And she couldn't help it— this time, she screamed.

         Bodies. At least five or six dead bodies hanged from the trees. Arms above them, wrists tied to branches and makeshift poles. Men and women of all ages— all with wide gashes running down their abdomens. Pale like husks. When Fiona looked down at her hands, she realized she was sitting on wet blood.

         "Niamh," one of the hunters called to the woman in front of her.

         "Don't worry," Niamh grinned again, running her thumb against Fiona's temple. She wiped the blood away, before licking her finger clean. Her yellow eyes flicked down to the red puddle under Fiona. "It's not yours."

         Fiona wanted to bite, to rattle, to kick and scream until her limbs gave out. She wanted to go down with a fight. But her body weighed like stones upon stones— and she could only vaguely recall what someone had mentioned about hunters using belladona on their victims.

         "Leave her alone— leave her."

         Angus didn't recognize his own voice. It felt wrong, frayed— as if fire had singed the edges off. The man that tied up his arms barely spared him a glance. The woman standing over Fiona didn't even turn, as if he was already dead on the ropes.

         "She's not Grisha,"Angus tried again, louder this time. It felt like rubble tumbling up his windpipe. "Please— Please."

         "Is that right?" The two hunters below him shared a look. "D'you hear that, Kellen?"

         "Loud and clear," Kellen responded with a wolfish grin. Angus didn't see the dagger— but all hell, did he feel it. A loud scream tore through his throat, steel tearing his flesh like a broken dam.

         "Angus!" Fiona cried.

         He turned his head up, grinding his teeth together as his scream burned out. Perhaps some part of him believed if he couldn't see his sister, then she wouldn't be able to see him.

         Tears began streaming down his cheeks. Wet, warm, stinging against the cuts on his jaw. A different person would've tried and comfort Fiona. Gifted Fiona, who looked like a red fox caught in a snare. A different person would've lied— he would've said it's okay, I'm okay, even as the steel embedded itself into his ribcage.

         But Angus did not have words of comfort— it had been long since he'd had any use for them. Instead, there was anger— worse. There was fear. There was certainty.

         This is where he dies.

         Nearly six years running from village to village, and the road was finally over. Tracks through the forest that would've always ended up on a cliff. Nowhere left to go. Nowhere left to run. Not for him.

         The moment they find a weakness, they will feast on it. But he couldn't stop— not even if he wanted to.

         "She's not Grisha," he begged again. Red flowed down his side like a river, tinted vials and bottles quickly filling up. "She's— She's not."

         The same hunter flashed a wide grin again, his reddish teeth gleaming underneath the moonlight. He repeated the words they'd both heard a thousand times over.

         "Fìon fòs fìon caolaichte." Angus felt his vision blurring. Watered-down wine is still wine.

         There was another cut by his ribs, and this time, he couldn't swallow the scream. Angus thought, distantly, he heard Fiona crying.

         "He's sick!" Fiona sobbed. "He's sick— he has illness in his blood," she pleaded, but it was a lie that would've never worked for either of them. Fiona felt debilitating dread take possession of her soul.

         She watched as Angus —strong Angus, fearsome Angus— was stabbed again. Fiona screamed, tears blurring her vision. "Stop! Stop, please!" It was futile. Her brother, her best friend, was going to die. Had she never thought the day would come? Had she never truly considered Angus could die before her? He was meant to outlive her. He had always been meant to outlive her. "You'll be drinking poison if you take his blood!"

         The hunter above her twirled her knife, a sick, gut-twisting smirk on her lips. "There is a market for everything, girl." She shrugged, licking her red lips. "Everyone wants a taste nowadays."

         "Angus!" Fiona's voice was devolving into something gut-wrenchingly unfamiliar. Desperation clawed at her vocal chords. "Do you want coin? Is that— we can get you that, please!" The cry that tore through her throat didn't feel human. "Please!"

         He thought he heard another scream. Angus wondered if it came from him. Either way, it was enough to make the hunter pause. Angus wouldn't entertain the thought of it being a mercy. Blood from the dead didn't work. The blood had to be taken while they were alive.

He looked up at Fiona. Bright Fiona. Gifted Fiona. Fiona Byrne, who had deserved such a better life than what he'd given her. His voice cracked and quivered. "I'm sorry," he whispered. His eyes felt heavier. Coward, selfish, thief. "I'm sorry."

Fiona rattled against her bindings, crying, sobbing, cursing. I'll kill you, I'll kill you, I'll kill you, she vowed. Empty promises, but her rage, her grief felt like a bottomless well.

         "Where's Faolan?"

Among her screaming, Fiona couldn't pick up on the conversation between hunters. Not until the man who stabbed her brother yanked her face down.

"Stop. Talking."

From the ground, Fiona couldn't see what exactly was happening. All she saw was a flash of a dark, gleaming metal. She felt delirious, like the world was tilting and straightening, before tilting again. Then she heard the screams— but they didn't come from her.

The clan of hunters six hunters was strewn across the clearing in a blink, bodies limp and lifeless. Fiona felt deranged, caught somewhere between wanting to laugh and wanting to break down crying.

Some spirits of the forest didn't appreciate bloodshed on their grounds.

         When Angus opened his eyes again, his bindings had been torn off, with him being carried off somewhere else. He saw a head of black hair underneath his outstretched arm. He blinked drowsily, looking down at a girl with a long frock. Hair like midnight, he thought.

His bleary eyes flicked down, catching a glimpse of another dark thing with a silvery glint. Angus squinted. A handle made of a green stone, akin to mossy cobble, except polished. The dark extension of midnight quickly became some dark form of iron. No, not just iron— a sword.

Angus' panic returned ten-fold. More hunters. More death. More debts to pay.

Fiona.

Angus pushed himself off of the black-haired hunter, stumbling directly into the ground. He spun onto his back, only to realize the hunter was joined by another one— a woman with golden bracelets and long curly hair.

         The two hunters cornered him against a tree. Angus pushed his back against the bark, forcing himself to stand. One hand pressed against his open wounds, the other raised in front of him.

         "Don't come any closer," he warned with courage he didn't feel. He looked like a cornered animal, no doubt. Easy prey for wolves to jump on. He wasn't even sure he could summon enough wind to put any sort of distance between them.

         The curly haired one took a step forward, and Angus raised his two hands, flinching at the lost of pressure on his wound. "I said don't come any closer!"

         The one with the sword said something he couldn't understand. Both their features were unfamiliar, foreign. Not Kaelish. He blinked rapidly, feeling as darkness trickled back into his vision.

The golden skinned hunter said something else, and Angus couldn't even place the words nor where they were from. Shu? Kerch?

         A flash of red dashed in front of him, and Angus could barely hold back his fight or flight before he realized it was Fiona.

"Stop— Angus, stop." He hadn't even realized he was struggling against her in the first place. Her hands held onto his shoulders with a painful grip, but his body still thrashed.

He could barely make sense of what he was doing. Struggling. Shaking his head. Nearly bringing them both into the ground. Tears were still messily rolling down his cheeks. "We— We need to— We—"

"Angus."

Fiona's green eyes were all-encompassing, all he could see. His breaths came to him unevenly, stones lodged against his throat. But Fiona's tight grasp around his shoulders was grounding. An anchor.

         When Angus finally stopped thrashing, Fiona let go of him. She took a step back, giving him space to breathe.

Big brother Angus, Fiona thought. Carved from stone.

They'd never come this close. Perhaps some part of her had somehow convinced herself they were invincible— two gifted foxes that could avoid all traps and snares.

Foolish.

         She watched as her brother pressed himself against a pine tree, dried blood in his face, his skin painted crimson like a brutal canvas. There were bruises by his jaw, scratches by his nose. Big brother Angus— she'd never seen him look so small before.

"Mahali pa kutibu," one of the spirits of the forest said in Zemeni. Fiona turned to them, and upon closer inspection, they didn't look like spirits— but perhaps she liked it better that way. There was dirt on their faces, blood in their hands. But their teeth were whiter than any hunters'— and that would have to be enough.

         Fiona wracked her brain for the meaning of those words. Her limbs were still jittery, her vision blurry, throat dry and that sharp ache by the back of her head. She remembered the three months they spent in a coastal village— one with Zemeni tradesmen. Neighboring countries, and yet she had never before wished more than she could understand it.

         Fiona didn't know what the girl with earth-colored eyes was speaking. But she remembered one word. Her throat hurt— whether from screaming, crying, or the poison from the hunters, she couldn't be sure.

         "Khalas," Fiona croaked, the syllables feeling odd on her tongue. She wasn't sure what the word meant exactly. Help. Aid. Anything to keep her brother from bleeding out.

         The girl golden bangles gave a nod, and offered her hand. "Khalas."

         Fiona grabbed her brother's arm, helped him stand. The two spirits didn't lay a finger on either of them. They only led the way until they reached the coast. The dark skies were turning a lighter violet, a brighter pink. And there, docked in the beach, was a ship.

         Khalas. Fiona remembered it then.

         Salvation.

━━━━━━━━━━━━━

A/N.

first entry to the repentance stories!!!! *screams into pillow* the upcoming seven devils chapter has been absolutely kicking my ass + i feel like i don't have enough time to actually sit down and...... move forward with it. this just felt like a lower commitment thing :)

there will be more stories to come!!!! lmk which repentance crew members you'd be most interested on reading their backstory!! except ofc for neyar and emerens. my plan with them rn is to reveal their stories through their own words at some point during seven devils, and maybe after that write out their backstories with a similar format to this. spoiler: i already have the dialogue for them ready.

so!!!! this one took longer than expected, probably cause inspo for me rn is at an all time low (hopefully that didn't affect angus & fiona's story negatively). can i just say i am so used to writing in present tense that writing in past tense was an absolute PAIN i was fixing my grammar every two sentences omfg. also i will have to make a few adjustments to that time fiona mentions their backstory in seven devils bc i changed a few things :-)

finally!!!! most of the wandering isle world-building are headcanons of mine :)) including the fact that the words wine and blood mean the same in kaelish. fun fact!!!! the word wine in irish is fíona,,,,, coincidence? perhaps. but i will be taking credit for it.

[ Started: Feb 25th, 2024 ]
[ Posted: Apr 7th, 2024 ]

( word count: 5.5k )