The Burn (A Runner Series Companion)

Chapter 10: Luca (Part I)

209 A.B.

(4 months after the Runner's Rebellion)

Three hundred.

It is just a number. Small, miniscule even, when compared to grains of sand in a desert. Gargantuan when you consider each as a human life.

Three hundred lives, taken by me in the defense of my tribe.

I always thought that this moment would feel significant, since it is considered an important milestone in my career as Pic dil Cir's choice warrior. Wasters mark our accomplishments through blood and ink, with the highest respect given towards the most decorated. The killing of three hundred enemies entitles me to an impressively intricate marking, but as my eldest brother presses the ink into my flesh, I feel neither pride nor pain.

Perhaps it is because I have already been marked for having killed two hundred enemies. Before that, marked for killing one hundred. Fifty. My first.

To distract myself, I try to mentally calculate the number of hours I have spent in this very position, hunched over my knees before a roaring campfire while Jaron etches his designs into my back and across my shoulders. This is meant to be a place of peace, but lately I have found it to be less calming and more an inescapable reminder of what I am.

Rowan taught me not to think of it as the amount of lives we have ended, but rather, the amount of consciences we have spared. She says that we are not murderers, that we are quivers. We hold the arrows, so that our friends do not have to shoulder the burden.

Rowan says a great many things, but I am not always inclined to believe her.

We are assassins. I do not know why she will not just come out and say it. This talk of honour and burdens, it is a way of hiding what we really are. We are trained to fight, to kill, and to stay hidden all the while. We are sent into the furthest reaches of the desert during times of war and unrest, told to wipe out as many Miners as we can and to return victorious.

I will admit, there was a time when I found the idea enticing. I wanted to learn to fight, to have my fellow tribesmen look at me in reverence, to earn the same respect that seemed to come so easily to my brothers. I wanted to prove myself, to show Jaron and the others what I am worth.

It was Jaron's idea that I volunteer to be made choice warrior. Three years ago, I was an erstwhile sixteen year-old, prone to spending long hours wandering the desert. Jaron pulled me aside and told me in no uncertain terms that I must apply myself in some way, that people were beginning to talk, that it reflected poorly on our family and his leadership if I remained purposeless. He handed me over to Rowan, reasoning that my talents as a hunter could be harnessed and turned against our enemies.

I wanted Jaron's approval, and so I went along with his plan. I was skilled with a weapon - better than most. Archery was my forte, but I enjoyed learning hand-to-hand combat. Rowan was a good teacher, professionally walking the line of both mentor and friend. She was proud of her work and steadfast in her belief that I could uphold this most honoured role.

Rowan warned me of what was ahead. As best she could, she prepared me to absorb the full weight of my deeds and at the same time, release the demons.

It is this second part that I have always found troubling.

Jaron hums deep in his throat as he presses the dye-coated needle into my skin. I focus on the sharp pinpricks, inhaling low, shallow breaths between my teeth. This pain is something real, something finite. It is something I can concentrate on, for these few moments quieting my churning mind.

Noah crosses towards us, sinking into a seated position on the soft sand and peering over my shoulder at Jaron's handiwork.

"Impressive." He murmurs, keeping his voice soft out of respect for the ritual. "You will run out of space, soon. We are going to have to mark that ugly face of yours."