The Balance Demanded

The wind cried as it slithered across the battlefield carrying with it the stench of rotting bodies and the promise of more bloodshed. The cries of the wounded and dying followed the wind up the massive hill to the encampment of the victors of that day’s battle. Most of the tents were dark, the soldiers in them either asleep or dying on the muddy field beneath the safety of their bedrolls. Three tents at the center of the camp blazed with firelight and the bustling of bodies between two of them identified them as hospital tents. The third, slightly larger and filled with dire conversation held five people around a table covered in maps and battle plans. A sixth person, cloaked in the enemy’s colors and tied to a chair in a far corner, tried to remember every detail spoken in her presence.

“We lost too many men today!” One of the seven growled, his oil black beard quivering with barely disguised rage. “You cannot expect us to hold the demons off for much longer without reinforcements!”

“Ronan, I understand your anger, but the enemy is far more depleted than us,” the woman speaking placed a steady hand on the hilt of her dagger, “Plus we have her.”

As a group their heads turned to focus on the girl in the corner. It was hard to tell what she looked like, other than that she was cloaked in shadows and blood with piercing silver eyes. Eyes which narrowed in suspicion as one of the younger generals moved towards her. She bared her teeth in warning as he got within a foot of the chair to which they had bound her.

“What do they call you?” The young general asked, his voice dripping with hostility.

She leaned her head back, her eyes roving over the man in front of her, taking in the proud stance of his shoulders, the anger hiding exhaustion in his eyes, and the cut gushing blood down his cheek. A wicked smile cracked across her bloodstained lips and she ducked her head to her chest. In low tones she spoke an incantation in a long-forgotten language. The cut on the general’s cheek sewed itself shut, the blood disappearing from his clothing altogether. She raised her head, shadows swirling around her like hungry wolves and let the five generals see the cut proudly displayed on her own cheek.

The fourth general, an older woman with steel in her bones, gasped in shock. “Hexe. You’ve…” Here she turned to the oldest general, a man with withered skin and blackened teeth. “You’ve captured Hexe.”

The old man grunted his own surprise, “She didn’t fight like the stories said she would.”

“That’s because,” Hexe hissed, her voice cascading through the tent and freezing everyone in place, “I was not fighting.”

“Then what were you doing on the battlefield?” Ronan demanded, his feet carrying him closer to the sorceress tied up in their tent.

She cackled and the shadows around her swirled dangerously. “I was stealing.”

“Stealing? What could you possibly steal from a battlefield?” The younger general, the one she had healed, asked.

“Souls and bones, General Dmitri,” she responded and at the confusion on their faces her lips creased upwards. “Did you think I wouldn’t learn the names of my enemies?”

“Name us then,” the younger woman said, her hand releasing the hilt of her knife.

“You would challenge me, General Irsalla?” Hexe tilted her head to the side, the blood from the cut on her cheek dripping onto the floor of the tent. Her eyes lit up with wicked mischief.

“I would,” Irsalla replied, courage making her words float down the table. The others turned to her, worry creasing their brows.

Hexe gave a cruel laugh and pointed with her chin to the youngest general. “General Dmitri Lovus of the Kilida Isles, second in line for the throne, and arranged to be married to Princess Krysta of Isila Bonia.”

Dmitri took three steps back from the chair, the ropes now seeming too feeble to contain the woman tied beneath them. Hexe’s eyes, the silver glowing with hellfire, shifted to Ronan next.

“General Ronan Bryso of Jordea, set to inherit the Bryso estate and the title of Lord from your frail and dying father, married to Lord Galvin Urto of Jordea. Tell me, General, how do you intend to combine your estates? Surely the King of Jordea would never allow for a territory larger than his.”

Ronan had the good sense to look away from the harsh threat in her eyes, his cheeks reddening beneath his beard, whether from anger or fear it was hard for anyone to tell. Hexe chose the younger woman next, her lips pulling downward for the first time. The wound giving her a shock of pain in reminder that it still existed.

“General Irsalla Philo-Cordavs of the United Liysan Republics, President of the Territories, and mother of two,” Hexe paused, gave a cruel laugh, and continued, “With a third on the way. My, my Irsalla how is your husband going to react when you come home from war, pregnant?”

Irsalla’s hands fell protectively over her stomach as the other generals openly gaped. Her cheeks trembled and Hexe smirked before turning her attention the older woman. The shadows danced across the tent walls as Hexe considered her next words.

“General Minastra Humaris of Rylonat, Queen of Rylonat, fighting a war your father died in and wishing you were back home with your twelve consorts and seven sons. Have you told your fellow generals of your plans flee?”

Minastra’s face paled and she backed away from the table as the other generals whirled on her. She raised her hands wanting a chance to explain, but Hexe’s final name was already ripping across the tent. Her voice callous and unforgiving with accusation as she named the last and oldest general.

“General Giorno Rapuins of Chyloan, son of the great King Luisio Rapuins, married to the now deceased Queen Nimala Ilsa-Rapuins, traitor to your people and father of the man who holds my leash.” Hexe struggled against her bonds, fury radiating from her and the blood on her cheek flowing with renewed vigor. “You created the Beast that paces at the other end of this field! You created the suffering you are so desperately trying to staunch! The blood of this war is on your hands and yours alone!”

Giorno let out a harsh laugh, his hands falling loudly on the table. “My son has filled your head with lies, dear Hexe. He is the one who started this war, he is the one who relied on evil to solve the problems of his life.”

Hexe stopped in her struggles and bared her teeth. “You lie. You tell these generals that you are fighting for the spread of morality, of goodness and yet you are fighting to murder your son simply because he found another answer to the question you posed him twenty years ago.”

Dmitri stepped into Hexe’s line of sight. “What question?”

“My dear son,” Hexe’s voice changed, became the deep gravel tone of Giorno, “Have you considered the prospect of everlasting life?”

“Stop.” Giorno demanded, fear widening his eyes and bringing him around the table, sword raised.

Hexe responded to herself, this time in the velvety voice of the Beast, “Of course, father, but it is a fairy tale. The promise of immortality is a shining one, but an unattainable one.”

“Make her stop!” Giorno bellowed as he rushed for Hexe. Ronan caught his arm and dragged him back.

Hexe continued, Giorno’s voice once again pouring from her throat, “It is possible though, my child.”

The generals listened as Hexe unspooled a truly cruel and evil story before them. Giorno’s voice telling his son that he had until he was twenty to bring the Elixir of Life to his father. The Beast’s voice swearing that he would. Giorno’s rage spilling from Hexe’s throat as his son returned empty handed and screaming in fury the only other alternative. The Beast begging his father for another chance, begging his father to unbind him and take him off the alter. Giorno reciting an ancient incantation. The Beast screaming as his soul was separated from his bones. Giorno’s voice faltering as his son’s screams echoed off the temple walls. The Beast yelling in rage as he tore through the ropes and fled from his father.

The final words, shouted from the Beast, descended upon the tent as it fell into an unnatural silence. The four generals facing Giorno, a range of emotions on their faces. Dmitri broke first, turning his head to Hexe.

“This is the truth?”

“I am only capable of telling the truth.” Hexe replied, her breathing ragged as the shadows pressed closer to her, attracted to the outpouring of power like vultures to a carcass. Dmitri looked back to Ronan, whose arms were still wrapped around Giorno, though the old man looked ready to pass out entirely.

Irsalla spoke next, “The Beast, is he open to negotiations to stop this war?”

Hexe growled as one of the shadows broke away and raced for Giorno, bringing it to heel before she responded. “Yes. He has mentioned wanting to end this war for some time.”

“If we release you, will you tell your master we are ready to speak of peace?” Minastra whispered, her tone hollow as she glanced back to Giorno.

“I will race back across the battlefield with the news,” Hexe said, her eyes flashing with an emotion too quick to process.

“Untie her,” Ronan commanded as he finally released Giorno, who staggered to the edge of the planning table. Dmitri cut through the ropes with his dagger and stepped away as Hexe stood, her height nearly matching his. She walked across the tent, pausing at the threshold to provide one last piece of advice to the frail Giorno.

“It would not have worked,” she said, her tone almost pitiful and Giorno raised his eyes to hers. “The incantation was wrong, you would have killed your son and brought nothing into being. It would have been a failure that would have killed you in the days after. The gods you called to demand balance and you would have disrupted it.”

Giorno let his eyes fall back to the table, the words bubbling from his chest, “Perhaps I should have failed.”

Hexe tilted her head, listening to a distant conversation. “Perhaps. Perhaps not. Either way balance has been achieved.”

With that she drifted into the black night. The wind changing direction and taking away the stench of blood and bringing in the promise of rain. The cries of the dying had faded into the after life and Hexe paused only three times crossing the field to shuttle the remaining souls into the beyond. Each soul gave a bit of itself to her healing and by the time she reached the Beast’s tent, the cut on her cheek had healed and her shadows had grown feral with unbridled power.

Giorno’s search for everlasting life had failed, Hexe’s had not.