The Song of Roland Ch. 21

"He no longer dwells beneath the protection of merciful Gosvin. Neither my skills, nor that of any healer can mend his lingering injuries now. The power of the Gods are antithetical to that which courses through his veins." The Priestess' voice spat like tongues of feckless fire. "His myriad wounds have not mended, they are merely papered over, like plaster slopped upon a house's ruined foundations. Any attempt to help him, merely undoes the stitches that hold him together."

Almyra glared at Kelsea. "Now only the power of the jealous Goddess can mould him; you have bound him to you, as surely as you did with your initial beguilement."

Roland saw what the angered Priestess could not. "Kelsea-" He managed to groan out, lifting his hand to take her own. He grasped onto boneless fingers that slipped through his weak grip. Ignoring him, she pulled away, leaping to her feet. Kelsea left, striding out into the night. Her footsteps were harried, jerky and unnatural. She did not seem to look where she was going, tripping upon her normally-dextrous feet as she stumbled. Her voice was haggard, short-breathed as she tried to conceal a sob. She fled.

Roland shook his head, gritting his teeth as Almyra silently moved to bandage the wounds of his that remained. Neither spoke as she dressed him, laying him out onto the ground with a blanket to rest from his unexpected torture.

"That young woman is your death." The Priestess said at last as she finished her task, leaning back upon her heels. Her copper eyes were red cuts of steel in the low light. "You are marching into the Void with her."

Gods, why did this hurt so badly? Hadn't he learned his lesson the first time? Hadn't he felt firsthand the doleful grief such misplaced fondness produced? He'd have faltered in his self-appointed task long ago, were it not for that indelible memory of her sitting there, at the campfire, telling him her past. Of the person she had once been.

Roland sighed, stitches of pain running through his side and down his leg as the half-healed wounds bled through the bandages. He'd need her mending licks soon enough, he expected. "Perhaps." He said, his throat dry as he accepted a skin of water from his unhappy caregiver. "I'm like as not a walking carcass. Have been fer months, yeah?"

He leaned back, staring up at the canvas above. No one around them stirred, Almyra had taken them to where the worst afflicted were triaged. Most were unconscious or delirious. Roland heard the wind rustle through the tent, the assorted chimes creating a chorus of old voices that echoed in his ears.

I'm waiting for you.

"That girl is worth the Void." Roland was taken aback by his own admission. He had never voiced the thought aloud.

"Your high-minded romanticism will not spare you." Almyra replied.

Roland chuckled. "Aye, nor will fervent pleas to yer God."

"Blasphemer." The Priestess murmured, but she quieted down upon his retort. "...You do not care, do you?"

"About what?"

"Your fate." Almyra said. "The end of this journey. You have only two paths that you may follow, now: death, or a doom far worse than it. Sooner or later, she will start to give in-"

"Is that why you let us in here, then?" Roland interrupted her, feeling suddenly very tired. "Seems if such is the case, ya couldn't have picked a worse time to welcome in a bunch o' fools, corpses and Demons into yer home."

"Bogdan is a foul, iniquitous man." She said. Her body drooped forward as if weights had been tied to them. "...But he is wary, and he is clever. He would not have risked letting you enter at this dire moment, were there not some cause for trust. And you have proven yourselves able, if nothing else."

"So you trust her, cause he does?"

"No." Almyra said, though the words sounded sluiced with great difficulty through a straw. "No..." She whispered again. "I trust her, because I see in her what you've clearly seen, as well." She shook her head back and forth. "But what you are looking at is a revenant, a pale shadow on the wall. It cannot last; eventually, they all give in to the hunger."

"Better it's me, then." Roland said, nodding to the assorted people lying about them. "Better a single, willing fool than ten guiltless gobs."

Almyra's face was long, morose as she stared at him. Despite being younger, she looked positively ancient compared to him in that moment. "She won't stop upon your death, Roland."

"Then kill her." He snarled, the heat of emotion at last arising in his chest. "Cut her head off and spike it to the wall! End this misery and be done with it."

"I cannot." Almyra said.

"Aye, ya can." Roland replied, "She'd probably even let you. It's just because she's got yer heart beatin' as quick as mine that you don't. Besides, you don't have the stomach for cruel butchery."

"Perhaps not." The Priestess admitted. "So what do you propose we do, then?"

"Breathe." Roland said, leaning back and staring up at the woven tarp above. "Take in a breath, put a foot in front of the other." He felt the wind upon his face, the quiet whispers of another life wafting past the present. "Breathe."

* * *

Kelsea stood in the empty interior of the Cloister graveyard, wondering to herself how many corpses slept beneath her feet. She treaded softly, afraid to disturb their peace any more than she already had. Everything she did was a transgression, every choice, every action befouled the very world around her. She was an abhorrent beast, a monster of the darkest abysm. Repugnant. Disgusting. Miserably odious; wretchedly despicable. She thought she'd helped him, cured Roland of his life-threatening injuries. It was all an awful illusion; even the good she did was bad.

"Gods." She wheezed out, reaching out to grasp a weathered headstone with her hand in a vain attempt to steady herself. "What a fool I've been."

She'd always been a fool: first a stupid child, ignorant of her mother's work and its true implications. She had never thought to wonder why she dined on fine food and slept in a warm bed while all her friends dozed in filthy alleys and gnawed on crumbs. Then she was a foolish girl: headstrong, full of wishes far beyond her station or ability to make for herself. She walked off into the wide world with a heart that was wide open and eyes that were sealed shut. She all but danced a jig into the waiting Demon's clutches.

And now she was an ignorant monster: a warping mass of flesh and bile that converted those around her into her slaves. Yet still she remained the foolish girl, full of wishes beyond her station. She had learned nothing from her experiences, attained no wisdom through her own suffering.

"I should've been a whore." She whispered, sinking to her knees as she held to the headstone for dear life. "Gosvin save me, I should have just put on the stupid costume, like Mum told me to." But she hadn't. More's the pity; now she was both a whore and a devil. Even in this squalid place she couldn't get the wishes and images out of her head. Her mother's smile became a dread fantasy, and Kelsea imagined herself reaching down, pulling at the strings of her half-size bodice as she reached out to grasp her mother's quivering-

"Gods!" She shouted, slamming her fist into the ground. She couldn't even indulge her own woe without wanting something sexual out of it. Her nethers noticeably moistened, even as she wiped angrily at the hot tears trailing down her face, sniffling and groaning.

There was a presence. Her head lifted and she saw a familiar, dark figure moving between the mortuary pillars to her left, following the path towards her location. Kelsea let out a heavy breath, steeling herself, in an attempt to recover her wits and her dignity. She found neither of them in time.

"'Tis a passing peculiar place you've picked, to revel in such anguish." Bogdan said in a soft voice, striding forward from behind a tall gravestone, his hands clasped behind his wiry back. "The dead do not weep. They cannot condole your mortal concerns. Your tears are wasted here."

"They're wasted everywhere." Kelsea said, slumping against the headstone.

"Not an untrue statement." The strange man agreed. "Though, perhaps you meant it in a less philosophical manner than I." He stepped forward, ignoring the look she gave him as he came to a stop uncomfortably close to her person, staring down at her like a black monolith. "You are troubled."

"-And you trouble me." She said. Her fingernails dug into the aggrieved headstone for support. "Can't you just leave me alone?"

Bogdan's head turned this way and that, the long strands of his grey hair catching in his face and on his lips as the wind picked up. "In this place?" He shook his head. "No. The province of the restful dead is mine to tread, not yours. It is my duty to protect this hallowed place."

Kelsea laughed in cold humor. She could barely find the strength to stand. "P-protect it from what?"

Bogdan's eyes did not waver. "From you."

"My powers don't work on the dead." She replied. Thank the Gods, she added in her head. "I'm no threat to you."

"I beg to differ. You are the greatest threat that this community has ever faced." Bogdan said, his voice was empty of malice, but unbending in its assessment. "The Demons that attack the physical form, that brutalize and ravish, are a mortal danger, this is true. But they are not capable of rotting good men's hearts from within, like you are."

Kelsea did not answer. She let out a shuddering sigh and squeezed her eyes shut, gritting her teeth as her shoulders shook. "I'm n-" She started, but the air left her lungs and she let out a true sob. Bogdan watched her make a fool of herself, his face expressionless as he remained standing over her.

"Hm." He said, "I meant no offense, though such truths can often be excruciating. I must confess, your actions intrigue me. Tell me: what do you intend to do, now that the immediate danger has passed? Will you try to depart here; will you bring your thralls along, or leave them?"

Guilt built in Kelsea's breast as she shook her head from side to side. "I cannot leave."

Bogdan shrugged. It was a bare gesture, mechanical and unnatural. "Nor will you. The question was more academic than practical: your debt of service has not been repaid, and the true threat has not yet passed. We have won a momentary reprieve. But the Demons still remain, hidden in the Deepmines beneath our feet. They will return; we will not withstand another onslaught."

"They are beasts." Kelsea said.

"You are a beast, lost Child of Amphara." The Volkhv placed a bony hand upon her shoulder. "A pitiable, conflicted fiend, but a fiend nonetheless."

"Not... not like them." Kelsea said, "Not like him."

A pause. "You speak of the one who turned you." The Volkhv stepped away from her, the chill wind of the mountain ruffling his fur cloak as he took in a deep inhale. "I have a query to pose to you: a moral quandary, if you will. Would you be so kind as to oblige me?"

No. She thought. "Fine." She muttered out instead.

The thin man with the dark eyes smiled, his papery lips stretching in disturbing mirth across his face. "A man takes a walk through the woods in the evening. He brings his wife along with him. They walk the narrow trail for hours, but in the depths of the night are set upon by a pack of wolves. Before the man can act, she is carried away."

Bogdan's voice is clear, he speaks like he is giving a sermon. "He tracks her trail for days, and eventually comes upon the den of the wolves. He finds her chewed bones amongst the carrion, and in his grief and rage he slays the beasts to a one. Not even those innocent of the attack, nor the young cubs are spared. All are put to the sword." The Priest clasped his hands behind his back. "...Was it right for him to do so?"

"Of course." Kelsea responded. "They had killed his wife."

"The wolves could not have known who she was, all they smelled was prey." Bogdan's brow lifted. "They chose the weakest: the least likely to survive and thrive. They left him to carry on his species. The man, however exterminated them all, from root to stem."

"He was in grief." She challenged back, "In his eyes, she was priceless to him. The wolves took her from him."

"Was there ill intent?" The Volkhv's eyes shone with dull light. "Did the wolves do it out of malice, or of cruelty, or of spite?" His movements gained more animation, his hands reaching and circling as he gesticulated to her. "Would the story ring sweeter if there was only one wolf? If it was starving, desperate to feed its new-birthed young? The wolf only wishes to survive, and can only do so by fulfilling its nature. Would you call it evil when it does so? Do actions define wickedness, or the intent behind them?"

"Both." Kelsea paused. "But... intent, moreso."

The Priest's grin grew. "Then are Demons wicked? Their actions harm, it is undeniable. But if sin is your nature, can you truly be considered sinful?" His eyes held firm to hers. "What is more freakish: a creature - made to be malevolent - staying true to its disposition," He reached out and brushed a trailing lock of black hair from her face. She felt a portion of her illusion slide away, revealing the purple skin and red eye beneath. "...or a creature that masks itself behind an aberrant delusion of humanity?"

Images of a darker time arose within Kelsea's mind. "You know nothing about true wickedness."

Bogdan laughed aloud, a genuine fount of amusement that spewed from his thin lips in an eruption of awful gaiety. "You err in your assumptions, dear child." He said, his smile wan and corpse like. "-But your words are nonetheless comforting to a man too used to conversing with headstones."

His smile faded away like a figure in the fog. "...What is the memory?" He said suddenly.

She looked up at him. "The what?"

"The memory. All of your kind have it: that one, crowning experience that finally broke you to his will." His dark eyes pierced her. "The thing that plays over and over in your head, in the sleepless night, when all others are at rest." He stared at her. "You were thinking of it just, now. I have seen the look before."

Kelsea slid down the face of the grave, her rear touching the icy ground as she fell against the stone in search of something solid to hold her up. "It-" She began, but the words caught in her throat. How could she explain? It would have been better were it merely a physical indignity or an embarrassing humiliation. But that was too easy. "It was everything." She lied. "From start to finish, I remember all of it."

"Undoubtedly." Bogdan said. "If it is such a bother to discuss, then start at the beginning." His callous words aside, something about him in this moment compelled her to tell him.

"I..." It was so hard. Her mouth reflexively tried to shut, her tongue felt like it was steeped in syrup. Even saying the words seemed to pull her back towards that awful, endless experience. "I was captured, alone, walking along a forest road. They jumped me, knocked me senseless and then did... other things." She clenched her hand into a fist. "They dragged me off the road, stripped me and bound me. I was taken to a cave network, deep in the forest. They didn't even bother to gag me, the screams seemed to amuse them."

The Volkhv was silent. Somehow, it gave her the strength to continue. "I was the first one they'd caught in a while. The Imps were pent up; I was used several times before I reached the innermost sanctum, where... he was waiting." The old fear returned, and the anger. "Grevich."

"He-" Tears filled her eyes. "Gods, why am I even talking about this?"

"Because you must." Bogdan replied. "Because it will be worse if you do not."

"He used me." She said, simplifying six months of woe into three, inadequate words. "At first I resisted: I bit and I clawed and I fought. When he hurt me, I told him to kill me. I'd ignore little orders and intentionally muddle big ones."

"...But you learned." The Priest said.

Kelsea swallowed. "I learned." She agreed. "Eventually, I learned the price of disobedience, the pain of thinking for yourself. Others came, other men and women were captured. Some fought, others begged, but eventually everyone learned."

"We were chained to the floor, like dogs in a kennel. We were kept naked, and dirty, and cold. They called us 'livestock,' and treated us like cattle. Food was an afterthought, the Imps considered it the height of humor to 'feed' us with their seed." She felt the rusted chain about her neck again, the heavy iron links she had tried for so long to cut through. "Some of the more unlucky livestock actually took them up on their offer. They broke the fastest."

"Grevich had other Demons with him." She said, "Other victims he had... turned. Once we had been made sufficiently meek by the initial punishments, we were paired off to individual Demons. To be their slaves, their playthings, till we died or they grew bored of us and tossed us to the Imps."

Kelsea couldn't stop herself from speaking. The words flowed from her mouth so fast that she didn't have time to think about it. "Grevich always chose first: we'd all be lined up in a row, shoulder to shoulder. He'd stalk among us like a panther, sniffing at us, groping us, fondling all of us. We'd be told to perform degrading acts. Sometimes to Imps, sometimes to each other, to show how we were 'progressing.' Grevich chose the most ideal candidates, said it was an honor."

She swallowed back bile in her throat. "He was... picky. He was always looking for something, something unique or unexpected. Something that drew his eye. Beauty meant nothing; willingness to submit even less so. He didn't want 'willful' or 'stubborn' servants. He wanted different ones. The greatest honor he could bestow was when he pointed to you in the lineup and solemnly declared: 'I choose you.'" Kelsea huffed, "...Because that meant he had noticed you. That there was still a chance that you could survive this ordeal, by becoming his puppet."

"He was choosing new converts." Bogdan remarked. "Vetting his future followers. The Demon was clever."

"He was cruel." Kelsea whispered. "He turned us into beasts, fighting each other for scraps, tripping over ourselves to debase each other, that we might be spared a single evening of agony. They learned to never trust our fellow humans."

Understanding entered Bogdan's eyes. He knelt at her feet, his eyes staring into hers, unmindful of his disturbing intrusion into her personal space. "They learned." He said, "But not you."

"There was..." She said, pulling back as she looked away from him, leaning her face into the granite slab in an attempt to hide her guilt. "There was a girl who got caught, a long time after I was. Somehow I had never managed to be chosen by Grevich. It was getting long enough that I was going to eventually be simply left to the Imps. People who weren't chosen got... worn down. Useless, mindless from the endless ordeal. The Demons discarded them out of hand."

"She was about my age. She had red hair, locks that trailed down to her shoulders." Kelsea smiled, her hands reaching down to indicate about where her hair grew, as her demonic self. "I ended up chained, neck to neck with her. She tried talking to me the first night, but I ignored her. I had seen what happened when you tried to converse with new blood. It always ended the same way. They always stopped talking by the third day."

"But... she was different. Each day they took her was the same: she fought and struggled, screamed and bit. The Imps hated her, and they let her know it. She came back with deep cuts and broken bones, but she still just kept fighting them. They'd chain her to the wall without food or water, covered in their filth and fluids, but still she didn't break. Every day, she'd try talking to me. Only me; always me."