Sacred Bones

Page I.| Golden Godhood.

 I wake as I usually do, with the disappointing ache of knowing I've been sedated. 

Beaux is crouched by the foot of our bed, staring angrily into the hearth. She throws a dry log on the sparse handful of twigs and blackening leaves so that the whole thing catches, roaring up ferociously and licking at the hackneyed stone backsplash of the hearth. It's the first good bit of heat we've had all night besides Hope, who runs warm.

"Ezra," Beaux rasps in that gravelly tone of hers. "How is golden godhood?"

My hand rises to the cut on my sternum, a bright red laceration that is still slowly weeping blood. I wipe some of it off with the thin linen cover that passes as a blanket here, and the stain spreads. 

Soon the bed will be more crimson than white.

"Golden godhood," I murmur, looking at the wraith under the covers next to me, "is keeping him alive."

"And it will get you killed," Beaux laughs, her voice still hoarse from sleep. It falls flat like a stone in a stream and is swallowed up by the hissing of the fire.

"I know that."

Beaux rises on bare feet, padding across the frigid floor, and pulls the covers off the bed. I watch her as she leaves for the wash basin, the blistered pink of her heels peeking at me in mockery. She can't tell how cold the ground is anymore, not with the way her legs are burned. 

Hope, on the other hand, is acutely articulate about how much he hates the winter air. He whines petulantly, not too far away from sounding like a struck bird, and grabs onto my arm. I turn on my side to face him, ignoring the wave of pain that swells up in my ribcage at the movement.

 "Mean," he grumbles, in reference to Beaux's retreating form. 

Beaux gives us a brusque little wave of her fingers before turning the corner beyond the doorframe. 

I try not to look at the bruises on her arms as she goes.

"Oh definitely." I agree. "She's a witch. But she's our witch."

Hope nods before grimacing. "Head hurts," he announces stutteringly.

"I know," I say. "I'm sorry."

I feel like rage could swallow me whole.

 I try and fail to keep my eyes from the scar on Hope's left temple. It's been years since the beating--since Beaux was pushed into the fireplace on hands and knees, since Hope was slammed into the mantlepiece and then the brick floor; but not all bruises fade.

I wonder if the people who worship us know their gods are beaten children.

The thought follows me out of the room, Hope still clutching onto my hand. 

 We walk down the hallway, fingers interlaced, past Beaux who is washing her face above the metal basin, tallow covering her palms. She splashes water at me as we move and I flinch at the bitter frigidness of it.

"Fucking freezing," I gripe. "You'll kill me before Father does."

Beaux's impish little smile falters, her lips pressing flatly together, eyes off to the side. It's her dead fish face.

"Not funny Ezra."

"It wasn't meant to be."

Beaux gives me a look. "Listen Ez, I can't understand your humor half the damn time. Give me the word when you attempt playing jester."

"Harsh," I nod toward her. "Not all of us are gifted with gab."

Hope hums in assent.

"Don't tell me you agree with her," I laugh. "Hope, I thought you were on my side!"

Hope shrugs his little 'I could care less' shrug.

"You're both awful!"

The jabs and the bickering bring joy to the dampness of the corridor, to the insipid musk of decay that winds its fingers around everything here. If you look closer, this entire place is a mausoleum of sorts. 

The metal bucket Beaux washes her hands in is rusted, and the mirror above it cracked.

 A centipede slides across Hope's foot languidly and disappears back down into whatever dirt hole it crawled out of. 

The floor here is a few scattered wood beams, dusty earth just below it. I've sat here for hours before, just watching crickets hop in the arid heat. 

This corridor leads to the breakfast hall, an even dingier room where the three of us gather to eat. 

I walk up to it. 

I should mention some things about us. 

We are mages, sometimes called Zem Droghan, sometimes called witches.

 But Droghan are always feared and revered in the country of Meteia; regardless of the time they are born. 

I am used to the fear. 

At least I like to say I am. 

Beaux says I am a bad liar.

Zem Droghan is old magic- the kind that chooses you. 

Sure, there are sigils that you can learn, shorthand if you cut corners. The basic spells and cantrips are written in a language called Courei, but all that requires years and years of patience- of learning how to formulate a spell and memorizing the pattern for it until you can trace it in the air with your eyes closed.

I am one of the unlucky few for which magic simply fell into my lap. 

Though that is not entirely the truth. The truth is much harsher.

I have been magic for eleven years. 

In that time, I have never been further than the steppe just beyond the city of Volprae. I used to have parents- I'm sure of that. I had to have been born from someone, but their faces and their names elude me. 

I don't know many things.

 What I do know for certain is the sharp hook of Beaux's nose, the bronzeness of her skin in the morning sun, and the way her dark hair cuts across her shoulders the same as a knife would. I know her razor-edged smile by heart. 

I know that most days she can't feel her legs-- and that sometimes she crawls into bed with me,  blood still on her thighs, to weep a river against my chest. 

She is a cruel beauty. 

Her anger runs deeper than mine and I think she might drown us all in it one day. 

I know Hope's tangled red hair, the way he is a spindle of limbs that makes up a body composed of all angles, that he is sharp as a cornice, but the rest of him screams rickety gentleness.

 I know the frown he makes with his dark eyes when he can't remember a word. 

I know them.

I pause and open the door. 

I know full well who is behind it.