Author Games: Path of the Guildpact

Quarterfinals: Heccan Kirkeus

"Did He smile His work to see?


Did He who made the lamb make thee?"

- from "The Tiger": William Blake, Songs of Innocence

"It wasn't your fault, Fluffy. I made you do it." A sob cracks his voice. "I made you."

The rabbit trembles before him, its brittle bones stained with crimson. The wetness at the tip of its nose makes it return for the first time since its death: once, it had been a symbol of its life and exuberance; now the wetness is the life of another – the death of another. The redness drips down, slowly, from the bones where a snout should be all the way to the restless earth under the rabbit's shaking paws.

Heccan hiccups in the shadows, his eyes glued to the rabbit. The breeze runs over him and pours shivers down his spine. His body is no longer his; rather, it is the product of the world around him, pulling him in every direction and tormenting him with each new twist. He had thought himself innocent once. He must have been innocent at some point, but now he can no longer remember it. When was the line crossed? Was there ever a line, or did his actions chip away at his childhood bit by bit until there was nothing left but ashes and dust, rubble and powder.

Disillusionment, dear reader, is a horrific thing – a sublime thing. It will creep into your mind without your knowing and wait for the perfect moment to strike. Every action opens the door another smidge, miniscule in its consequences until it is put with the others and suddenly the door has vanished altogether. What then, reader? How do we survive upon realizing that we are not who we thought we are; that who we wanted to be is long gone and unachievable, forever out of sight?

But we must. And somehow, we do.

"You weren't supposed to be here. I didn't think –"

The subconscious, reader, is a strange thing – an unknown thing. It invalidates your mind altogether and ignores your intent, acting as it sees fit regardless of your conscious wants and needs. I didn't mean to. I never intended. I didn't think. All of these and more are excuses, equating forgiveness with consciousness. Because, obviously, if harm isn't intended, then the harm is erased. A scar caused by accident does not cause pain – or does it?

This wasn't supposed to happen. Heccan's lips move nonstop, the words forming across his face: not only in his mouth, but in the pain of his gaze and the worried scrunch of his face. The world has rules in place: not only the legal, but what is moral. What is natural. Death, of course, fits both of these realms. It is perfectly natural for a body to reach its end, and such a state has no moral implication. The interruption of a life – murder – is another story. It interrupts the natural cycle of life; it claims one's impulses hold more importance than another's life. But when the rules are broken, there is nothing left to hold the world in place. And then, all comes to an end.

A signet lies in his hand: a goal. Once, this might have been his everything. He still remembers wishing for hours upon end that one day, he would become Guildpact, and that he and Fluffy might finally have a place to belong. Now, he wonders: is a place that expects him to kill the innocent truly a place where he belongs? The answer is obvious. But, reader, as I'm sure you'll know if you've faced any sort of similar dilemma, the most difficult part of finding an answer is accepting it as truth. Finding is easy; doing is not.

"I can make it better. I can bring him back."

A solution: a problem. Once, the two might have been one and the same – for a long time, they have been. If only he didn't know... Then, things would be right. He wouldn't know that to bring back the child would be to create a slave, nor would he be aware that Fluffy acts only as Heccan commands, whether he intends it or not. But he does know. And, if he brings back the child, then even an "if only" can bring it from innocence to monstrosity.

What do I do? If Calais were here, she'd know – but she'd never have gotten herself into such a situation, would she? The blame is merely his; therefore, it is solely up to him to fix his mistake. His brain runs at speeds unlike the ones at which it has ever operated, but still fails to overcome the void. There must be a solution, somewhere. The world is not so cruel as to leave him stranded without so much as a paddle to row with. There must be something.

Acceptance: a solution. Heccan sinks to his knees and strokes his hands against Fluffy's bones. A clinking noise fills the air as the rusted scent of blood begins to make his head spin. The sensation is not unlike magic; not so different from the feeling that comes when energy escapes one's body and creates. The aftermath, however, is entirely different. It leaves a sickly feeling in his mouth and builds a heaviness in his heart. There is nothing. This is how it is. These words – this acceptance – is what we might think makes an adult: an understanding that the world is how it is, and that there is absolutely nothing we can do to fix it.

"No more bringing back the dead," he whispers while he strokes the rabbit. "For real. You're my last one, Fluffy, so don't go dying on me. Okay?"

A resolution;

A promise;

And a curse.