Sanguis et Libertas

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    “Here.” A fur blanket slides down on the floor. “It's winter. You must be cold. Take that and the food and go home. ”

Saval mutters thanks and slips away as quietly as he could. But halts when the voice calls again. “Let's be friends.”

“Sure.” His lips did a painted smile that disperses as soon as it appeared.

Benevolence is like a can of milk thrown by a kid who just learned he's lactose intolerant. It rots and expires. They say that the only reason the sun lets the night come is to show how brighter it is compared to the moon.
    
Everyone is out for something.

This witch wants something too.

And if it means food, Saval can pretend to be so. He can dance on this song and get resources until this witch finally becomes bored with him and move on.

The bowl of soup and the blanket warms his frosty hands as he steps out of the palace. Snow plummets to the rooftops, to his tousled hair, decorate the dying lanterns tied up to poles, and pricks his lashes as he blinks. Mists form as he breaths.

He sees Irion in their hut and he smiles and waves, as a lone crow flies one last time into the sky.

—

She watches the boy leave.

Her destiny is perfect. It's everything she has ever wanted; all of it given on a silver platter flying right to her face majestically like a flung dog doing ballet on a pole. And, Saval Locke—well, she can handle it. Perhaps. M̶a̶y̶b̶e̶, h̶e̶r̶ d̶e̶s̶t̶i̶n̶y̶ i̶s̶n̶'t̶ a̶c̶t̶u̶a̶l̶l̶y̶ p̶e̶r̶f̶e̶c̶t̶. M̶a̶y̶b̶e̶, s̶h̶e̶ j̶u̶s̶t̶ d̶e̶s̶p̶e̶r̶a̶t̶e̶—

She grabs and reads Writer more intensely instead.

“Ow—ow! Calm down, you're tearing my pages!”

Nyx loosens her hold in haste, muttering apologies under her breath. The book floats right up to her face, clearly annoyed. “You've been reading your story for hours straight and now you're attempting to tear me up. Absolutely sane behaviour.”

“Sorry,” she apologises again. Nyx loudly hums a rather cheerful lullaby as she inspects the dark pint beginning to crawl into the edges of her fingertips.  “Still, such a low price to pay for people to see the future.”

Writer chuckles, “Why, you want me to raise up the compensation?”

“No, of course not, Writer,” says Nyx as she bites her lip. “Just rather... wary.”

“Why so?”

“Mother's hands looked like this.” She gestures to her hand. Then, her gaze turns harsh. “She must have used you a lot. You tell happy stories yet, she died. Was her fate meant to be that?”

The book is silent for a moment. “No. Of course not.”

Nyx raises a dark brow. “So, you are tricking me?”

“No. It was her fault. She deviated. Wretched mortals,” it grumbles sarcastically. “She wanted her fate changed. She was selfish and she wanted more. She was supposed to be happy.”

“Why...?” Nyx asks despite knowing dead no longer answer. “What did she want?”

Writer sighs, pages flickering wildly in distress. “Knowing cannot change anything anymore. It's far more productive to look on to the—”

And somehow, somehow, it clicks and she interrupts, “In her perfect fate, was I there?” The ringing silence that follows sounded like an answer. It hurts in a numb way but rings right like a confirmation. “Tell me. Please.”

And, Writer complies.

She can see it, like a dream, her mother dancing with a faceless person—the love of her life, Nyx presumes—childless, and the happiest she has ever seen her be. She's not that stern, calculating assassin who can kill with a glare nor the cold mother who showed Nyx the tiniest bits of love only in her last hours.

The vision soon ends and vines of dread seize Nyx at the thought of being like Mother—of being foolish and weak enough to want and discard her future for it. “Can I accidentally deviate from my fate?”

“Do you know something about the butterfly effect?”

She tilts her head to the side. “I'm afraid not..?”

Writer explains as he flies around her. “Your future isn't set in stone. Make sure you don't deviate from that fate. Easy.”

Nyx clenches her jaw and suddenly she stands. “So... It could change. You should have told me earlier.” Her face turns white. “I have to memorize then.”

Writer sounds confused. “Memorize what?”

Nyx grabs it and Writer yelps in shock. “You—the things I have to say to Saval. And to everyone.” She frantically opens the book up.

“Or, you could just act natural?”

“And if I accidentally messed up my fate? I can't have that. I can't risk it.” Her voice becomes higher, louder and distressed. “Okay?”

“Okay,” Writer complies tiredly. “Do whatever you want. I'm just a book, anyways.”

Ever since then, the book stays stuck in her pockets, ready to be opened whenever someone talks to her. In a way, it feels liberating. Life is easier when you're following a script. You don't have to decide and you don't have to worry about the future.

And while Writer has a horrible tendency to randomly and loudly sing at dawn (Nyx is a hundred per cent sure that it is intentionally done to pester her), she enjoys their company. Or perhaps, just lonely enough to tolerate it.

Such things don't matter.

What matters is the fact that she will soon get out. A small smile carves into her lips, giddy and heart thumping like a fool in love.

And she is in love indeed, with freedom; the thought of rolling down the meadows in one sweet afternoon, of seeing the canvas of the fading sunset without the barred window obscuring the sight, and of hearing her laughter echo and perhaps, even mingled with someone else—to laugh, to love, to cry yet not be lonely until the world turns oblivion.

And then, the guard knocks and drills out a familiar order. Maids clamber in and tie her crimson hair up properly. The corset wrings tight and a white silken robe clings to her body and under it, hides a cuff locked in her feet.

Yes, she knows what will happen today. It's just also particularly, remarkably—and excuse my improper word—shitty.

You see, every three months the kingdom is filled to the brim with guests. All lined up—sick nobles, dying kings, a crippled royal, wounded generals and old royalties who long for the youthful days once again. King Franzes lets the commoners in too and in everyone's eyes, he is the benevolent ruler.

Most kingdoms have allied with him and those who aren't, are crushed by an undying battalion of an undying king.

The tales grew and so did the line in the kingdom, waiting to be healed.

They bow to his throne of lies—the Miracle Kingdom, they call it. All held up by one little girl with a chain under her feet.

The same hall Mother once stood is grander than ever and it twinkles with gold and gifts from other monarchs. In the corner of her eyes, she sees Saval cleaning and, following what she read, she ignores his eyes.

The dress itches and Nyx scowls.

At the sight of her, the crowd becomes feral and the redhead snorts. Greedy hands reach out for her. She recognises some of these people—they hunted her and Mother once and called her a witch. Now they call her goddess, a saint; the girl in white, whom if you just touch you shall heal.

The noise is deafening, all clamours to be cured. The line looks endless.

It worsens when the actual healing process commences as people start shoving and pushing. Beads of sweat roll down Nyx's forehead, glistening her dark complexion and her arms stiffen and strain. The warm light from her healing ability turns harsh—blinding and painful against her dark eyes.

On the twenty-hundred-fifth, the faces blur.

On four hundredth, she can barely blink.

And one, two, three—

She falls.

—

“You embarrassed me.” King Franzes is an angry man beneath those frilly purple robes. The bruises he inflicts are angrier though. “Once they heal, you will be assisted back to the hall.”

And they do heal.

They stop hurting as quick as they appear, and really, it sounds like a blessing but oddly enough, she wants them to hurt. Because if they do, then maybe she's finally allowed to cry too.

Scars are never pretty and you'll probably never show them to the world. They're a reminder, a reassurance. For when you look at yourself on those particular days when you huddle in a corner or sit in the showers, maybe you'll look at them too. Then, you'll remember that you got through this, that you can do so tomorrow.

And hey, scars are cool. Atleast, according to ten-year-olds. You can make a cult out of that.

Nyx snorts at the thought as she goes back to the hall and continues healing.

Plus, it's fine. It's according to the book—her fate. She hasn't deviated so it's fine. Once she's out, it will all be fine.

Because in the stories, all bad guys lose. The heroines always get their happy endings. Their Prince Charming is what they only needed.

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Sorry for the extremely late update. Was moving out. Back to weekly updates now though.