starknight-writes

[starknight-writes]

Saviour

by starknight

The first time she saved you, you could barely keep track of what was happening. You’d been run down, your axe blunted with the skeletons of your foes, the core of your magic drained and sore. The fight was never going to be equal, and you were always meant to die. You saw the rush of steel and threw yourself backwards on instinct, desperately clinging onto your small mortal life. The ocean rushed up to meet you, jagged rocks lurking underneath a sure sign of your doom.

But then the glint of light on the waves was overshadowed by the swing of braids, and your saviour grinned down at you, and you weren’t falling, somehow.

“Need a hand?” she asked, and pulled you up with all the ease of immortality, setting your feet gently on the ground. Where she touched you, you were renewed, the blisters of battle smoothed over and healed perfectly. Her smile, though, was ravaging.

You opened your mouth to say thank you, but she held up a finger to her lips, and when you blinked, she was gone. The battle was over, and you stood at the edge of a field of dead bodies, enemy and friend alike.

It was a couple of months later when you began experimenting with the runes that were, in hindsight, obviously a terrible idea. You traced them onto the cold rock of your small bedroom, and they began to glow. A strange whooshing, humming noise slipped from the stone, and you whipped your hand back, dropping the chalk.

“Hhyyyyyaaasssssrrrr,” a voice hissed. “For whaaat have I beeeeeen sssssummoned?”

Your voice had deserted you, and you were going to die. The ethereal voice began to laugh, a horrible, grating sound echoing through your little room. You inwardly cursed yourself for a fool, but as the light crept towards you on velvet paws, you tried not to flinch. You had gotten overconfident in your curiosity, and would pay the price.

Your door opened, and a warm, dark hand grabbed yours.

“Are you missing legs as well as a brain? Run!”

You stumbled along behind her until your lungs hurt and your eyes watered. When you looked behind, the light had spread through the Mages’ College. You could see it through the windows, pale, menacing, unending. You heard screams, and the sound of something splattering.

You turned back to your saviour. Why, you wanted to ask. Why you, why me? 

She shook her head, and then her hand was gone as quickly as it had come.

You had to leave the village after that, and travelled further South into the mountains. It wasn’t a mild winter, and you didn’t have much experience with the cold. 

You knew enough to curl up tight when the storm hit. You didn’t know about snow digs, and you hadn’t known you’d need snow-boots. You whispered up a fire with the last of your failing magic, in the hope that the warmth might stave off your ending, but it only burnt your coldstiff flesh. You pushed your face into the snow, and waited for it to be over. 

You woke up the next day to a warm cabin, a hot bowl of stew, and re-awakened nerves in your feet throbbing.

“You really are terrible at keeping yourself alive,” your saviour said. She was leaning against the windowsill, weak sunlight watering itself over her head. “You’re a lot of work.”

You tried to speak, but only a faint choking sound came out, and she softened.

“Have some food. Gods know you’ll probably starve next.”

You pretended not to hear and started shoveling stew into your mouth, the bulk and warmth a comfortable weight in your stomach. There was something strange about the taste of the meat, but then again, there was something strange about being rescued for the third time by a stranger.

You looked up, your throat finally clear to speak. But you were alone.

You arrived in the big city of the South a week after your near-freezing. Snowkeep was huge and bustling, and you made the most of the food and the life. You tried out the public baths, and bought overpriced snow-boots, and feasted on roast chestnuts stuck together with caramel as a make-do birthday cake.

One night, you were stumbling home more than a little drunk. Your snow-boots were sliding in and out of focus as they slapped against the snow. It had been a warm day, so the cobbles had become all slushy. You almost slipped once or twice.

You weren’t aware that you weren’t alone. You weren’t aware that several people were following you. You weren’t aware when they moved closer, and you weren’t aware when one drew their knife. What you were aware of was the press of the blade into your back. 

It felt like something out of a dream. You tried to run, but you were still new to the snow-boots, and you slipped onto your bottom. Your pursuers laughed, and grabbed you under the armpits, and the knife returned at your back, and you wanted to cry.

A slam of light, then, and you found yourself back on the ground, your back soaking wet.

Your attackers lay around you, but they did not stir. You got up, and they continued to lie there. You were not surprised, then, when you looked up to see her.

“Thank you,” you said quickly.

She looked surprised at first, and then delighted. “Oh, so you can speak!”

“Yes,” you said, unable to help smiling back. “I just - wanted to say thank you.”

“No need,” she said, waving her hand airily.

“But -” you began again, and her smile turned sad, and she melted into the air. 

You bent down to trace the outline of her footprint with your hand, just to prove to yourself that she had been there. The mushy snow melted beneath your fingers.

The next morning, conscription flyers for the latest Great Battle were up, and you were signed up by midday. You didn’t bother to practice with all the other recruits, instead buying a set of the finest robes you’d ever owned, and embroidering the hood of them with intricate little doves. Then the battle started.

You defended yourself for a little while, casting shields, wrapping tendrils of flame around enemies’ ankles, and sticking to the back of the fight. But you were bored, and your hood had begun to grow sweaty, and you didn’t want her to think you’d been trying too hard. So you marched right up to the vanguard, and held out your arms, waiting for death’s embrace. 

As if on cue, a halfling threw his very small spear in your direction. You watched it come closer, feeling quite smug in the security of your rescue. You started to get nervous as the tip neared, though. It would be quite something, for your saviour to materialize this quickly, to react so fast to the weapon. And as the sharp metal blurred out of focus, as it nudged against the bridge of your nose, you understood.

You were not getting out of this one.

She is waiting for you when you come to. You understand, when she turns to you and does not smile, that you are dead.

“I never learn,” she says. “Sorry for dragging it out like that.”

“No trouble,” you reply. It bothers you that you spent all that money on your nice new robes when they didn’t even make it through here.

She looks at you, properly, the skin around her eyes tensing. You open your mouth to speak, to thank her at least, to tell her -

She snaps her fingers, and your story ends.