“All my tears drip and dry
As the words flow out,
Like drops of blood red wine.”
— Old saying

Prologue

His hands descended toward her throat, a gleeful smile on his distorted features, waiting, hoping, praying for the miracle of blood—the warm crimson wine of life that pulsed through the veins of the vain, filthy, two-legged corpses who wished nothing but pain and agony on everything and nothing.

Yes, the blood. He craved for it. He heard it whispering in his ears in the dark hours of the night, convulsing, pounding against the thin sheet of living skin, calling him to take it away.

The girl looked up at him, expression suddenly shocked as his fingers wrapped around her delicate neck, and an abrupt, shrill laugh escaped her. A muscle twitched and the blood-craving lessened as the familiar features sucked the air from his lungs.

The madness pushed a livid gleam of delight into his already fevered gaze as he let his fingers rest on the pulsing, living flesh beneath his fingertips.

The laughter ended, the dark room falling into silence, as his fingers tightened. A small snarl escaped his lips.

The girl looked at him, speechless, the sudden sincerity of certain doom making her live through everything she saw and heard, felt, craved, flushing her against the very living rock that would be her resting place.

Her hands fell, the rigid creases her long nails had scored on his wrists bleeding black in the sunless room. A shuddering convulsion ran through him as the deed was done. Her body lay lifeless, spineless, dead. Just as he was. Just as he felt. Just as he longed to be.

He stood, but his knees gave out and he fell down next to the body which rested nameless in death, its features distorted and unreal.

He closed his eyes, the very color of life seeping out of him. Darkness swirled, giving shape to what he truly was.

Wings folded and fell as the shrill cry of a bird broke the elongated silence in the emptiness of this reality.

Another convulsion—a twitch, a jolt, a shudder—and he stood.

The body was gone, not even a bone left in place. He seemed taller, saner, more human than before.

A feral snarl escaped his throat.

The man stood in the silence, reveling in the new light of the moon, glowing and pale in the starless sky above. The very earth seemed repulsed by the crime committed, and the air sung with silence.

He took a step.

Small at first, and then another, longer this time. His legs held.

A grim twist of his lips marked the man, full of spite, hate, loathing for everything. Everything that was. Everything that would be.

He took a step.

He walked out of the darkness and into the light of the new morning day.

Chapter 1

It was a forgotten year in a small town in the mountains of Europe. The year had been harsh beyond compare, crops failed as thunder and lightning ravished the region with kisses of blazing fire. And then there was rain that fell in torrents, like oceans out to feed their young wards with life-giving nectar.

The people lived, hoped, dreamed of the forgotten sun as it hid beyond the reach of any mortal hand, behind the raging thunder of the gods. The world was bleak and dreary as it laid its face open, tears streaming down its swollen features. The world was covered by a blanket of brown mud, coating everything it touched with rot and infestation, with drowning trees and flowers. Even the animals lay down into the hopeless bosom of the forest, waiting for the sun to show its merciful gaze on the land once again.

A lad, not much older than nine summers, skid and fell onto the muddy terrain of a street oozing with filthy green slime and things worse. It was nearly time for the noon bell to be rung, but no one could tell, as the dark clouds overhead promised another bout of rain for the dismal day.

He stood, the mud clinging to his already dirt-caked clothes, determination in every move. He was on a mission.

“Father. Father!” he called out to the smithy at the end of the lane, a whiff of acidic smoke clinging in the air.

A head peered out the door, one so unlike the usual haggard appearance of sooty black that the boy nearly flinched.

“Father.” He treaded carefully the rest of the way, watching his step in the trickery of the muddy ground.

The man had already disappeared back into the gaping dark mouth of the forge as the boy finally made it past the last puddle.

“Father!” he called out once more as he climbed into the dim room, the only source of light coming from the bed of coals in the middle of the forge.

“Yes, yes. I heard you the first time, boy,” the voice, gruff but kind, echoed in the room as the town smith waved his hand for the boy to enter.

“There is news from the castle!” the boy told with a certain amount of glee, as he shivered, cold and wet as he was.

“The castle, aye?” the smith asked as he placed the last hammer onto its rack and turned to face his son. The smith was a boisterous man, full of wit and cunning. He stood tall and proud as he wrought many of the necessities that the town needed to survive. Being one of the few survivors of the dreaded boil-plague from his youth, he was looked upon as one of the high masters of the town and farms around. The illness had left its mark, his skin darkened by the touch of the sprites that brought the plague.

“Yes, father,” the boy responded, waiting for his father to decide.

“Aye, aye. I shall go down there to see what goes,” the smith finally replied and nodded his head. “Your mother calls upon you, boy. Your sister Lineth is in one of her swings again. I pray she shan’t be harmed.” He shook his head and pulled on the coat he had taken out before, as he had prepared well for this trip of honor.

“Go, be gone, you.” He ushered the boy out of the smithy and locked the door behind him, leaving the calm darkness behind as he started his solemn walk up to the castle keep.

The boy watched him for a moment, while the wind billowed its sorrowful song into the air. The smith, with all his bulk, seemed small in the face of the upcoming storm.

Shivering, the boy darted to the house next to the smithy and pulled the door open, leaving the cold air to be stirred by the wind.

“Who goes there?” a quivering voice spit out and coughed as the door let out a creak and whistle as it closed.

“It is but I,” the boy breathed the words, preying upon the warmth of the open room.

“Young Quell does come in such weather.” The old woman coughed and shuddered as she sat near the hearth, knitting. “Your mother has called and called for you for hours. Where came you from, boy?”

“I was called to the keep this morrow, Grandmother,” Quell said loudly, so that the old woman could hear past the ages.

“Ah, so it was, so it was. I do remember this now,” the woman said and nodded her head, her eyes not wandering from the dull gray of her yarn.

“Off with you, then. Your sister is in need of you.”

“Of course, Grandmother,” the boy said and turned.

He ran past the doors and up the stairs, hearing moaning and a crash from a room above. Quell, as his name was, shuddered again and pushed into a room void of light or shadow.

A woman, young, but old as all the ages past, lay upon the bed weeping for the world and naught. His mother stood above her, her hands twisting and turning in their misery as she watched her oldest child in agony.

As the door creaked open, the older woman turned her gaze and let it rest on the boy, revelation lighting her features, and she nearly smiled before the truth of the matter dawned upon her face.

“Quite late you are,” she spoke, her voice soft and nearly swallowed by a sob from Lineth.

“I am sorry, Mother.” The boy bowed his head and waited.

“Change your clothes, before you catch your death,” the woman said and turned her gaze back to the other child.

The boy complied and rushed to change into warm clothes. As he returned, warmth started its attempt to seep back into his chilled soul. He stood, like his mother, above the body of his sister.

“Help her,” his mother begged, her voice about to break as she watched her child in agony. “Help her!” A demand this time, as she turned a heated gaze to her son, as if he was the only one able to help, to take them away, to drive the demons inside his sister to peace.

“Lineth,” Quell whispered, lifted his hand and put it to her breast. “Lineth, please hear me,” he pleaded, his mother’s presence fading.

The woman stopped, her features melting and fading, leaving a girl in her place, face drowned in tears. Her eyes snapped open—unseeing eyes, dead eyes.

“Lineth,” he spoke again.

“Aye,” she whispered and lay still, her eyes closing in sleep.

“She sleeps,” Quell said and took his hand away, the world seeping back into his mind as he turned his gaze back to his mother.

“My poor child, my poor child,” the woman wept as she watched the unmoving body on the bed.

The boy moved away from the girl and to his mother, holding his hand up to her. She moved, slid towards him, and he led her down the stairs, away.

He came upon the kitchen once more, the old woman sitting as she had before, knitting away, the world a wonder around her.

“Mother,” Quell spoke gently as he guided her to a seat at the rickety wooden table.

The woman sobbed into her hands the moment Quell took his hand away, the force of her tears wracking her body, far away from the world, deep in the sorrow in her mind.

“She’ll be fine, mother. I promise,” Quell tried to sooth her to no avail. She was lost in her own mind, full of horrors, and unresponsive to any of his pleas.

The old woman scoffed and ground the few teeth she had left together, the sound eerie in the room full of tears.

“Death comes, takes his toll, and runs and hides. Comes again the next day and prances upon the heat of fire, his demons pushing against the damned and eating, singing, dancing, playing. Torture, death. Forever and ever until the end of this time and the next.”

Her cackling laughter filled the air, and as Quell shot her a harsh look, the old woman quieted with a snicker and a curse.

Sofia Sirén