Darkness in Valhalla

Chapter 7: Deadly Revelations

The scene never really leaves me, and the horror doesn't seem to cease. I wait on the bench next to the lockers for Grim to return. She left the room abruptly after Andreas and Ryder's fight ended. I couldn't excuse myself, so I waited in the hollow training room by myself, going over what had happened again and again.

Brutal was the only way I could describe most of it. Both Ryder and Andreas started off with straight punches. In the first five minutes, blood spilled; it was Andreas'. I felt it was intentional, him wanting to throw the fight, but the reason I couldn't place. Why would anyone here want to lose? It seems my sentiments were shared by Grim. She told them to continue and that this would be over when someone called out. Andreas looks annoyed but not surprised. So, the beating continued further, getting bloodier by the minute.

In the end, it was obvious who was lacking. Ryder didn't have the stamina or the energy to last long, yet he refused to give up. Surrender was not an option for him, an admirable trait in the right setting. Grim noticed it and changed the rules again, unquestioning and unwavering in her order.

"Mr. Jameson, it seems you don't have the fuel to win, but you still won't call out, admirably foolish," She smiles, "Mr. Andreas, use your powers to finish the fight."

Both stop in their tracks, clearly mortified.

"Wait, I'm not...." Ryder attempts to argue, but one stare from Grim shuts him up. That woman had a talent for putting people in their place, one I was not hoping to personally test.

Andreas doesn't argue but makes no attempt to hide his distaste. He runs his palms together, and thick virescent vines appear from thin air and shoot toward Ryder, who tries to dodge them but fails. The vines envelope his body, slowly tightening, and it's painful to watch, much less endure,

"Breathless?" Andreas taunts, and I can't help but be repulsed by this version of him. Unforgiving and cruel, a stark contrast to the playful boy in the library that day. Ryder only winces.

"Tighter, Mr. Andreas." Grim days, "Mr. Jameson needs to realize that in the real field, the enemy isn't forgiving."

A few more agonizing minutes pass, and I fear that Ryder is going to die asphyxiated. Struggle only worsens the grasp the vines have on him. A cold wind hits me, and my blood turns white; this is bad. Crazily I look around, and my eyes finally land on the figure hidden in a white cloak. Death was here to make a claim. I knew better than to interfere with its work, but I couldn't just sit and watch someone die in vanity for something as trivial as honor. Slowly it moves towards the ring, and I jump and intercede.

"STOP!" My scream echoes as I send the knife from my hilt toward Andreas' hands.

Andreas loses focus and dodges. The vines retract, and Ryder falls to the ground, gasping for air and fighting off his impending end. I look over in the corner and find the cloaked figure shaking its hood and exiting the room, a wave of relief rushes in, and tears lace my eyelids. I don't look up.

"Miss Haris, volunteer to die in the other place next time you'd like a fight to end." She threatens, "never interfere with my methods again."

That's when she walked off, and the class dispersed. The boy on the verge of death sent me a look of pure hatred, and Alayna didn't even say goodbye. Was everyone going to casually disregard the fact that one of their own was going to die? Was tradition really that significant in comparison to compassion? I already knew the answer, so why bother.

I return to reality, and the realization hits that maybe Grim isn't going to come. So, I decided to visit Anakin and update him on what's transpired in my life. Grasping the bench, my nails dig in, and I take deep breaths, refusing the tears to fall again. Seeing Death always left me like this. I don't know whether it was that day at my father's funeral or was it something that it did to me specifically. Whatever the case, I always ended up defeated, hollow, and in tears. Before getting up, a door opens, and I see Andreas walk in towards me. He holds some ointment, bandages, and a towel and sits beside me but refuses to meet my eyes.

Moments pass, and finally, he asks,

"Why did you do that?"

"Because he was going to die, and no matter how much I might despise a person, I would never let them die," I reply, my voice raspy, "I've met death too much for my own liking."

"That's one thing I like about you." This time he maintains my glassy gaze, "most people would be insensitive to it by now, indifferent and merciless, but you're different. You don't let it corrupt you or take away your empathy."

No words leave my lips, and even if he's right to some degree, he'll never know the truth. I'm not like this because I'm empathetic; witnessing the passing from both planes is painful. I experience the feeling when Death rips the soul from the body. Like a million knives digging into you, the force keeps worsening with every pull. You're on fire and utterly alone with your tormentor as it shreds every connection with the living plane, severing every thread. And after a harrowing separation, you're nothing but an empty vessel guided to a place I've promised never to follow. Seeing people pass scares me because it feels like I'm the one dying.

Changing the topic, I gesture to his arms,

"You should go take a shower and wash the blood off."

"That's what the towel of for."

"You can't just wipe it off; you need to...."

"I don't NEED to do anything," he interjects, "I don't have time, and I need to report to Weaponry in ten."

Despite my hesitance, I don't push him because I tell myself I don't know who this is. We're not friends, and I don't think I'd want to be with someone who almost killed another to prove a point. But I won't leave; instead, I sigh, grab the towel and help him clean the blood off his palms. No complaints from him either. I trace his calloused fingers and stop, a feeling of déjà-vu comes, but I shake it away. Moving up to his sculpted tan arms, I rub the blood off, gently pour disinfectant on a corner, and dab his wounds. He flinches at the sting initially but then lets me clean it.

A few minutes later, his arms are bandaged, and I'm cleaning the cut on his lip, trying to focus, but all I can feel are his intense stormy eyes on me. They burn into me, and in the next moment, my hand is lowered, and so is my gaze, as my fingers gracefully fold the bloodied, scruffy towel.

"I'm done, you should run off now, or you'll be late, Andreas." I look back up, refusing to let him get to me.

"Call me Caspian." He says.

"Why?" Slightly taken aback.

"Just because."

"Okay, Caspian," I roll my eyes halfheartedly, "you need to go."

"I don't need to be anywhere but here." He says so softly that I melt for a second. Neither of us moves, and I know where this leads; my mind might be cloudy right now and my heart wanting, but I wasn't going to let my walls down. No matter how much I want to. I take one final look and get up.

"I would reconsider that." With those parting words, I'm gone.