Diantha couldn’t tell when exactly it had happened, but at some time still in the morning, she turned back to see the path behind her disappear into mists, the same as the path ahead. When she looked up, she thought she could see Serra astride her pegasus, that white beast that some lackwit deigned to name Nightertale, thinking it the pinnacle of wit. Just as well it might not. The marshes had a way of fooling one’s eyes, with waters so unclear, shimmering with silvery streaks of sunlight trying to break through both clouds and canopy. If Serra could manage to espy any threat from the sky, it would be a wonder, but it cost nothing to take such a basic precaution. Besides, some of these paths between the black alders were tricky for a horse to negotiate, let alone one with such wings.
They’d parted ways with Hugo not far from the village. From here on out the trees grew close enough to make the road narrow and unreliable, and their steeds were becoming an impediment. Mia was so sad upon saying goodbye to her mare that she was on the verge of tears, so Diantha had to tell her to shut up. At least Serra had nothing to whine about. She had grown so fond of her stupid beast that you’d think she gave birth to it. Diantha had no such patience, and always carried with her the unspoken fear of the loathsome creature emptying his bowels right as he flew directly above Diantha.
“You should not grow so close to an animal,” Diantha had tried to teach Serra, who, in this matter, was unwilling to heed her words. “Horses die. Hounds die. So do ravens and pigeons and pegasi. If you name them, you will grieve. If you love them, you will mourn.”
“The same is true with people,” Serra replied with no hesitation.
Yes, which is why you shouldn’t love them either, you fool of a child.
Stepping on what she could only hope was merely a puddle of slime, Diantha found herself envying Serra her stupidity and ease of contentment, because at least someone wasn’t having an entirely miserable time. If nothing else, at least so high up there the stench of the swamp should be too distant to make her retch. Mia and Teana were silent for once, but nevertheless the marshes were entirely too loud. Water hissed across tree bark and moss, underfoot as footprints settled in the sodden soil. At times her own thoughts appeared drowned by the unceasing whine of gnat wings and whirring dragonflies, the cries of cicadas so monotonous they burrowed into her mind in a rhythm steadier than their footsteps.
Light shone on through the leaves as the canopy grew sparse, illuminating a stagnant plash, rimmed with foul, gray froth, just in time for Teana to see it and step aside. Mia had no such attentiveness or swift thought, however, and promptly sank her right boot in the filth, up to her ankle. High above, Serra gracefully circled in gentle arcs, and Diantha had started to think that this was more for her own elation than for observation. Such talented fliers should not be allowed into the Rose’s pterippic orders, as this excess of aptitude and fondness could lead the childlike and doltish to spend their time airborne reveling rather than actually performing their fucking duties. You wouldn’t understand, Faustyna Kitze would tell her with her familiar condescension, and go on to tell her how animals could tell her heart was rotten and wormy and that was why they hated her. If you had a soul, you’d understand just how liberating it is to soar with naught but clear sky above and around you.
Less liberating, perhaps, than dying and rotting with naught but dirt above and around you, as was the fate of so many delightful unfettered pegasus riders who were felled along with their steeds by a stray arrow. Like the one, just now, quick and straight, darting towards Nightertale and Serra…
For an instant it was as if she was falling, before Diantha realized she was dodging, diving towards the swamp’s canopy. Another arrow flew to the sky, but it proved too distant and ill-aimed. Mia shouted something stupid, but nonetheless Diantha could hear sounds of something splashing, to the north… They had been found, but when? It did not matter now, not as much as who had found them. Diantha raised her hand, and a simple spell shone high in the sky to signal Serra where to head.
“Weapons drawn,” Diantha said. Mia unsheathed her sword, Teana took a combative stance with her spear. Diantha still hoped to salvage the situation and prevent bloodshed, but only after making sure the girls could defend themselves. “Be steady. You were well trained and prepared not to lose your nerve.”
To their credit, they did not panic. Nightertale landed by their side, hoofs softly pressing upon moist foliage, and Serra leapt to the right of her bloom-sisters, spear held carefully but firmly. Diantha waited, watched, but she saw nothing, only hearing steps draw closer, stirring the stale waters, louder by the moment. Another arrow was loosed towards them, but was nowhere close to striking anyone. The second, however, was tearing in Teana’s direction; Diantha quickly raised a hand, and with a dismissive motion willed the arrow to veer its course, harmlessly piercing the bark of a nearby tree. Incensed, Diantha raised her voice:
“Civilized men tend to see who they’re confronting before letting loose their arrows,” she reprimanded them, idiotic children that they were. Still, there were no arrows after that, and the steps grew less frantic, so at least these filthy swamp people could understand speech. “Now come closer. No blood was drawn, that is your fortune.”
A man did as he was bid. An ordinary face for an ordinary man, Diantha thought, a face she would not be able to recall. A nose too crooked to be aristocratic, too sharp to be invisible. His hair was not exactly thinning, but was not far from that, and his dull brown beard was sparse, unremarkable. There were no noticeable scars to commit to memory, the roughness of his face not so severe as to make him appear battered by life. An incarnation of mediocrity.
“Is it boldness or folly to bear fangs against travelers too distant to identify?” She questioned. “What madness has compelled you to take such brazen measures…?”
“The madness of caution,” said the man. “Of having paid dearly for carelessness, for trust.”
“So you would see them as one and the same,” she sighed. “Yet you relented. Why? Did cooler heads prevail, for once?”
“You are not lackeys of Eluriel, but Blossoms,” he said. “You are as of yet undecided on what to do to us. We cannot say the same of the Prince-Regent.”
It was the Prince-Regent who sent us here, she thought, but best not to mention that. Diplomacy would not have been his first choice, however, and he even seemed to resent the Blossoms for keeping his hands clean. Savages always long to shed blood.
“His preference would have been to keep us from journeying to Alunziria,” said Diantha. Not entirely the truth, but she could spin this tale to their benefit. “We insisted on diplomacy, on learning as much as possible before taking up arms. Or letting arrows loose,” she remarked, words biting. Other men were appearing from between the trees, and most were decent enough to sheathe their weapons. There were footsteps coming from behind, too. Diantha had noticed, but what of her wards…? “A lesson all could learn, but until men grow past their eternal adolescence, it falls upon us Blossoms to do better, to be better. And so here we are.”
“Don’t trust her, Alvi,” said the woman next to the unremarkable man. She, too, was almost as indistinct as the man, save for her lazy eye. Better to be dull than deformed. “They are no friends to us. Always has the Rose thrown in her lot with empires and masters.”
“You think we’d debase ourselves as Vadurian hounds?” Diantha scoffed. “Our affairs here are our own. To understand your demands and cause, and to bring a satisfactory end to this conflict without the need for fire and steel. The Prince-Regent may only accept submission, but to the Red Rose, stability is the true prize.”
“Stability…” She spat. “You would have done better to promise justice. You only want us to be silent, that you never have to think of us again…”
That would be best.
“It is justice that you thirst for, then?” Diantha asked. “You may claim it. We are content to work together and reach a conclusion that is agreeable to all.”
“And if one isn’t possible…?” Alvi asked.
“There always is common ground to be found,” said Diantha. “A compromise that does not taste of bile and failure. Alunziria has gained nothing from Vadurian prosperity, such as it is. Is this the justice of your cause? To mend such faults, is that why they call you healers?”
“That… Is not all,” said Alvi. He sounded concerned, almost afraid. “Still, if you would hear our words…”
“You can’t, Alvi,” the woman said. Diantha had already grown tired of her. Her mother should have slapped the other side of her face until her eyes matched. “You can’t actually trust them… No good has ever come to us that we did not claim ourselves,” as she raised her voice, so did the tension in the air mount. Diantha noticed a fool of a man, bow and arrow in hands, his weapon drawn and his arrow notched… This lackwit was a novice to his weapon. The strongest of men could only hold a drawn bow for a time, and he lacked the discipline, his fingers already quivering. Diantha knew, then, that this would be trouble. One word, one movement, and his hand would falter, and then…
“All of you, please,” Diantha said firmly, “lower your weapons. Now.”
“Why?” The woman asked, hand drawn close to her sheathed dagger. Entirely the wrong answer. “So you have nothing to fear from us?”
“Irma, please,” Alvi began, but the woman cared nothing for his pleas.
“Fuck that,” she said, a bit too loudly, too forcefully, too wroth… The sudden intensity startled Mia into taking a step back.
And it startled the archer, too. His arrow flew. Again, Diantha commanded it to stop, but it was close, too close, too fast to divert, so instead it broke, shattered, splinters flying wildly and ferociously, towards the trees, towards fallen leaves and towards stagnant ponds, and directly into Irma’s eye, the ugly one. For the briefest moment, Diantha felt a hint of dark amusement, but of course it was only a moment, for her next thought was a simple “fuck”.
The men around Alvi moved to raise their weapons, but he commanded them to halt, and they actually listened. The same could not be said, alas, of the two idiots standing behind the Blossoms, who charged at them. Mia and Teana had, in fact, noticed their presence, but Serra was startled, and though her Mantle sufficed to shield her from a peasant’s dull sword, in her panic she thrust her spear into his gut.
Alvi screamed something. Diantha couldn’t hear what it was exactly, but nobody else was rushing to attack them, so that was good enough for her. Good enough could not be said of Serra’s stab, though. Diantha had seen a fair amount of grisly wounds, but this was the sort that only someone who had never actually wielded a spear in battle could be incompetent enough to cause.
The spear had not gone deep enough into the man’s belly to kill him cleanly, but had skewered his entrails, and a clumsy movement of the spear pulled that misshapen, pink thing out through the stab wound, like a grotesque tongue too large for a mouth too small. Serra had dropped her spear in horror, but its tip was still wrapped in the entrails and dragged them out another inch. Mia retched, while Teana, quickly coming apart, rummaged through her own rucksack in search of bandages, and Diantha did not have the heart to tell her that it would be best to look for a new set of guts for the miserable man dying so messily in front of them. There’s no saving him. She pitied Serra, even though it was the living corpse writhing that probably warranted more pity.
“Gods, oh gods,” Alvi spoke words that could have his tongue torn out in the presence of more unkind Blossoms. “Floro, one moment, be strong…”
The response was a pained rattle. Alvi ran past the Blossoms, and knelt before his man. Last rites? Diantha couldn’t imagine what other sort of aid could be offered in this situation. Serra’s whole body quivered, and she had to be held by Teana and Mia, from whose mouth some vomit spilled onto Serra’s oh so beautiful hair. My own day does not look so foul in comparison, Diantha thought, glad she was not wearing her hat.
“My ladies,” Alvi said as he pulled out his thick gloves, revealing slender fingers, calloused and spotted with strangely bright greens. “I would ask you to look away, but I suppose ‘twould be in vain. Instead, please… Please do not look so unfavorably upon us, for this.”
He put a finger into the man’s wound. Another girl retched. Fortunately Diantha wasn’t trying to grow a surplus of chins and had eaten very little today. It was a grisly sight, though, she would grant that. The fingers dug into the bleeding hole, expanding it, tearing skin as the splattered entrails were clumsily shoved back inside like a doll’s clumsy stuffing. Alvi’s fingers were slick with blood now, dripping everywhere, but the green spots gleamed faintly, flickered once, twice, and as the fingers twisted, so did the pink horror they grasped. They writhed back inside, returning to their shape of origin, neatly wrapped up on themselves. The skin stretched towards the center of the wound, closing in, stitching until only a discrete scar remained. And the screaming stopped. The man still breathed with urgency and fear, but, helped by Alvi, he began to rise. The dead man lived.
“This magic…” Diantha turned to face the two, aghast. Serra recognized it, too, but Teana and Mia didn’t seem to understand. “This is blood magic. Foul, forbidden, heretical…”
“He is my friend,” Alvi said plainly. “That is all. I know it to be sinful, but what is sin compared to a friend’s life?”
The Rose's Torn Petals 