Birthright

Chapter 4: I See Red (With Eight-Year Eyes)

His body is weighed heavily by the exhaustion of a restless, fitful night. His sleeping mind is plagued by splattered blood and shattered bones, fallen heads and buried corpses, a swordsman's swing and a sterile bed, an assassin's gaze and a wyvern's roar.

Red blood, red hair, red flames.

Redredred.

Cale lies in bed, staring blankly at the wooden canopy above him. The blankets cover him snugly, encasing him in a comfortable warmth he doesn't feel. His mind whirs slowly with memories of the events of the last few days, tired from the barrage of interconnected nightmares that bombarded his psyche.

He blinks heavily, his breath coming in ragged inhales and shaky exhales. His fingers tremble where they rest above the duvet that covers his body from the chest down. He didn't know how long he remained lying there, pale and drawn like he was about to join Mother in the afterlife, but it was long enough for him to hear the bedroom door open.

Deliberately audible footsteps walk across the room from the doorway to the windows and Cale wonders how he never realized just how fake the sound of Ron's steps were, how the Butler had to consciously make noise or else someone would suspect him of having a more sinister background.

He hears the muffled clatter of the curtains as they're pushed apart and feels the gentle rays of the early morning sun stream through the sheer curtains surrounding his own bed. Cale remains motionless under the covers as Ron's footsteps drew nearer. A gloved hand pulls the curtain open slowly and Cale feels a mixture of dread and acceptance bubble up in his chest as the Butler greets him with that carefully crafted smile that used to bring him calm and joy, but now, only elicited trepidation and fear.

Cale felt like sobbing, the sharp spike of sadness that shot through his heart catching him in a vice. Less than a week has passed since Mother died and he's already falling apart. He envies the Cale of the days before the incident, envies the ignorance and contentment, the innocence and blind trust. He envies the Cale who didn't know that his Father will abandon him for a new family, that his Mother will pass on her cursed ability to him and die, that his Butler will leave him for someone else, that his home will be burned to ashes.

He envies the Cale who didn't have this power to see, the Cale of barely a week ago.

"Good morning, Young Master-nim." Ron's voice makes him shiver, gooseflesh erupting on his arms. Cale doesn't respond, doesn't move, doesn't look. Because if he looks, he would only see Ron and Beacrox leaving, or Ron and Beacrox covered in the blood of the corpses around them. He doesn't move.

He didn't have to.

Ron leans over to smile down at him and Cale's vision is lit up with the dreaded glow of the Rings. But this time, he doesn't see the kills, and he doesn't see the swordsman. Instead, he sees black and red and white.

He sees a mansion littered with rubble and blood and corpses, black masks and black hoods and black uniforms, five red stars and one white star. He sees a woman wielding a great sword fighting and getting cut down. He sees a younger Ron running to her body and clutching her close. He sees a younger Beacrox hidden in the foliage a ways away, watching his father cry for the woman who was most likely his mother.

The sight reminded Cale of his own Father and Mother, one dead and the other left grieving. But that was where the similarities ended.

The young Ron of the vision looked at the ruined surroundings of the mansion, at the slaughter occurring before him, and his face contorts with so much rage and hatred that Cale fears for his own life even though it wasn't directed at him. Then, Ron gently lays down his wife's corpse, stands up with a determined glare, runs towards Beacrox, pulls his son into his arms, and flees.