Journey of the Half-Elf - Book 1

Chapter VIII - The Beginning

The Sun had risen above the Manor watchtower, its light passing freely through the shattered windows of every room and corridor. Upon the break of dawn, the birds began their song, marking the start of a new day.

The crimson inferno that destroyed the Manor and its surroundings had now subsided. Within some of the ruins of peasant homes, trails of smoke still ascended to the morning sky. All homes and rooms however, were either empty, or filled with blackened corpses, their skinless mouths forever screaming — their souls could not peacefully return to the Earth, for they were painfully immolated in the Soul-eating red flame, to purge the anger from Guinevere's collapsing heart.

Along with the innocent men, women and children, every animal in the vicinity had also been charred, including faithful Cirillac'h, Aeledwyn's unyielding steed with gallops like crashing thunder; even she was not fast enough to outrun the spread of the ruinous red fire.

Surrounded by the consequences of her wrath, still sound asleep in the epicenter of extirpation, was Guinevere. Having scorched most of her sumptuous orange dress, the red flames left her nigh nude yet wrapped from head to toe in freakish hues of firm, leathery black. 

For some reason, the flames of draconic hatred had focused themselves most on her opisthenars and forearms — perhaps the most viewed areas of the body would serve as fertile land for the seeds of consequence.
Patches of pale gray formed on her biceps and insteps. Tall bands of pebble gray wove around her thinned thighs and calves, and a charcoal rope hung from her bony hips, below two charcoal claws clutching her ribs.

All of Guinevere's scars were as strange as their placement, but none boggled the mind like the mirrored symbols on her chest and back: The black visage of a winged creature.

She could not sleep forever, though deep down she wanted to. As the Sun rose further into the sky, its golden rays grazed her face, warming her bruised cheek; it felt so wonderful that she immediately awoke, thinking her Mother had returned to embrace her, cleansing all the sadness inside her and replacing it with joy.

But sadly, she had not. How could she return? She was already behind her, her bony corpse still bound to the black stake, right next to Gaiagan — the enchanted silver manacles that disabled their magic were now solidified pools on the black ground.

Guinevere turned around to face her loved ones, and before her cracked lips could even quiver, tears had already begun flooding from her bruised eyes.

"I'm so, sorry... Mother... this is all, my fault," The woman fell before her mother, profusely apologising, devoured by guilt from within.

if I hadn't been, born... you and, Gaiagan would... still be here... I don't deserve to live... I deserve to suffer for, for still being alive while you...

Before I die, I'll make Guingeras pay with his life. I'll hunt him down to the ends of these lands if I have to. I'll make him suffer for all that he's done. I swear on Grandmother's grave.

I need, to find clothes. These rags just won't do. And, Father. I need to find Father. Together, we'll hunt Guingeras and his followers down. We'll avenge you, and Gaiagan, and Aegwyna. Everyone he hurt, I'll bring them justice.

I promise, Mother." She finished speaking to Aeledwyn's lifeless corpse. At that moment, she noticed the grotesque burns on her skinnier arms and legs, along with her now visible ribs. What stood out most to her however, was the symbol on her nigh bare chest. It resembled a bird of sorts; it had a beak which faced her throat, wings which curved along her breasts, and a narrow tail that ended at her navel. Somehow, the black symbol had burnt itself into her skin through her amber dress.

Upon touching the black marks, Guinevere winced, ensuring from that point on to not even try grazing them against anything — just brushing her finger against the edge of a burn felt like a blade piercing it.
After painfully discovering more marks on her chin and neck, she quickly remembered her priorities. As she stood up and walked behind her mother and mentor, the traumatised woman weakly ignited the ropes binding them to the black stake, before laying their bodies down on the charred ground.

As she searched around for a shovel, Guinevere encountered the rest of the immolated corpses, many of whom were simple Elf peasants, forced to watch their benevolent Queen burned to death. The twisted corpses of faceless Royals lay strewn about too, easily recognised by the warped silver shackles still bound behind their bony backs; even with the privilege of knowing magic, they could not shield their souls from the raging red fire.

The scarred young woman, no longer a Princess with her future Throne buried under blackened stone, made her way to a collapsed barn in the peasant area, now razed to the ground and devoid of life. With every glance at her surroundings at every step she took, she was reminded more and more of what she had done.
Innocents had painfully died because of her rage: Livestock and horses that weren't fast enough to flee; fathers as scared as their wives and children as the red flames consumed their souls.

Though completely understandable, nothing could change the fact that in a single night, she had taken more lives than the very man she despised, the man she sought to brutally punish — for the rest of her days, Guinevere would have to live with that knowledge.

As she brought an intact shovel back to the courtyard along with a cart, the dutiful woman gently lifted her mother and mentor onto it, before sluggishly pushing it around to the back of the Manor, where the Royal Garden resided.
Somehow, it survived the devouring red flames, still decorated with countless flowers and plants of varying hues, shining vividly beneath the sun.
The Garden itself was built by Gaiagan when the Manor was first built, as a gift to his beloved sister.
It was both his, and Aeledwyn's favourite place, for it let them escape from the hectic noise and chaos of Royal life, into the gentle arms of nature, their souls soothed by the passing breezes.

There, atop one of the cliffs overlooking the sea, Guinevere felt they should be laid to rest. She began to dig, knowing this was her first step of her thousand-mile journey to repentance.
As she continued to drive the shovel in and hurl out chunks of the earth, oblivious to the pain of forcing her bare sole into the sharp steel, two decisions had arisen in her mind:
Upon meeting her father, she could either begin hunting down Guingeras, or return to the Manor and lay every inhabitant to rest.

At that moment, she needed to decide which of the two took precedence over the other.

What would be more beneficial? Honouring the dead, or adding to them?