Wake of the Dead | Three

Chapter Thirty-One | Jasper

Jasper had followed the directions of where he'd been pointed. Unfortunately, he'd nearly fallen asleep on the way there, still riding on Takeo's back. He had to stop for the night, but as soon as the first bird had chirped, he was up and ready to continue his journey once again. He had to find Killian, if there was even the smallest chance that he would run into his partner or any of his old groupmates, he would find them again. He wouldn't stop searching until he knew their whereabouts...or if they'd died. But word of mouth wasn't always reliable. He'd have to see the remains himself to confirm their deaths.

Takeo's hooves made a satisfying, hard thump against the packed soil beneath him as he stallion galloped through the tall grasses, leaping over foliage and debris. Over the distance he'd been searching for Stephan's men, he'd noticed smaller signs he might not have before. He wasn't as good of a tracker as Killian, but he knew once he found his lover, he'd ask to be taught. God forbid they were ever separated again, it'd be a lot faster to find him if he knew how to actually track him down.

A trail of smoke curled in the distance just over the horizon, a spark of hope ignited in Jasper's chest. Smoke means a camp. Camp means people. Killian my love, are you close? But as soon as Takeo carried him over the curve of the hill, his stomach dropped. It was almost as if the world was holding its breath, halting its eternal spin. The birds became silent, the sky had paled from a blue to a dull, emotionless grey. What Jasper saw was not his lover, nor any sign of life. What he saw was a bloodbath. Killian...oh god, Killian! He clumsily hauled himself off of Takeo's back and ran the rest of the distance, nearly tripping over his own feet as he descended the hill. The horse followed him, albeit a lot slower, more cautious. Jasper didn't blame him. Even he could smell the blood and fresh corpses.

His sprint faded into a slow stagger the closer he got. Every single one of his muscles were numb, as if they'd been frozen with ice. All sound dulled, echoing in his ears like a distant tunnel as the edges of his vision began to grow hazy. He wasn't only frightened, he was petrified. What if he's...what if he's been...When he began to look around and nearly tripped over a corpse whose belly had been slit open like a gutted fish and organs spilled out across the ground, he nearly vomited. Not from the sight, but from the thought. Did they kill you like this, too? Oh, my love...

Jasper couldn't count the number of bodies littering the ground. Some were at the very edges of the battlegrounds, their bodies crumpled among the long grasses as if they'd tried to run away. Some of them were Reaper's but most were Silence. So there had been a fight here, a very, very bloody one. There was no doubt in his mind that Stephan was responsible for many--if not most--of the lifeless bodies that stained the grass scarlet. That, or the disembodied limbs. But perhaps the two most frightening things were at the very center on the carnage. A body was tied to post, that had been the source of the burning. Kindling and empty bottles of alcohol lay around the base, the corpse was reduced to nothing but the sizzling of what little clothing was left and soot-stained bones.

The worst part was that the body was nearly Killian's height. Jasper's stomach lurched, he nearly doubled over into the ground, barely managing to stay on his feet. His hands were shaking as he took a few hesitant steps towards it, screwing up his nose from the putrid scent as he looked it up and down. The hips were broader than that of a man's--even Killian's very slight curve. Was it wrong to feel relief when he knew it wasn't his lover who had been burned to death, but a woman who had possibly been an innocent victim? No. No, it isn't wrong. Killian...Killian matters more than some random stranger.

The second most gut-wrenching thing was the body hanging from the only tree in the glen. After checking if it was Killian and yet again relieved, he immediately turned away. His hands were still shaking as the memories of one of his old comrades--a man who served with him, Rowan and Anderson--who couldn't take the haunting memories anymore. He'd always felt a bit guilty, wondering if not noticing how much they were suffering was his fault. This was done by the man who has him, the one he spent such a long time with. My love, what has he done? Has he hurt you like this? My beautiful, beautiful angel...