ANATOMY OF A GIRL

december 20th, 1808

Location:
Cara'cius, Svet'dmai

Caius heard a faint knock on his door before it opened, letting Nevaeh in. She moved to sit beside him on the bed. She wore a simple dress, torn at the edges and fraying.

"You don't have to do this," she told him, smiling gently, as if he were a child.

"I do, Nevaeh." He felt cold, his insides frozen and unmoving. She would not understand.

"If it's about the girl, you only have to charm her. What good is a fight?" she asked.

But it wasn't just about winning over Rebekka. It was more than that now. It was about his pride. It was proving himself to that damned Half-Witch Demarko. Proving that he was not weak. He would not allow himself to be belittled.

Caius simply shook his head. "Thank you, Nevaeh, but I must go."

He left quickly, before she could get out another word. Her kindness only made his stomach quake. She did not deserve this life. No one deserved a father such as theirs. But all they could do now was make the best of this life.

*

From the sound of the crowd around him, Caius knew the city had been waiting for a fight. The Witches were waiting for a Half-Witch to be put in his place, and for Caius to meet his downfall. The other Half-Witches in the crowd were prepared to witness any manner of violence they could. The Half-Witches could say what they wanted, but Caius saw them for the monsters they were.

They were all monsters. Except for Rebekka. Or, if she was, she was the most beautiful monster he'd ever seen. Beautiful enough for him to fight to the death for the hand of this girl. (Not that he could die.) Perhaps it was his pride, pushing him to take what he so believed was his.

The stone arena was full, the crowd roaring by the time Caius entered. Hundreds of eyes watched him take his place in the middle of the arena. (And yet none of them belonged to his family.) Fights were not a simple thing here in Cara'cius. There were rules and boundaries and Caius had no choice but to follow and stay within them.

Demarko waited for him within the boundary. His hair was slicked back and a knife gleamed wickedly at his side. If that was his magic, Caius would love to see him try to win this fight. That knife held no power against him, not with skin like steel.

Caius had no need for a weapon. He would break the fool's neck with his bare hands. He could already feel the vertebrae snapping and the life leaving the boy's body, simultaneously powering Caius's. A transfer of power, as well as the heart of Rebekka. It seemed a fair deal.

Once Caius had reached the inner circle of the boundary, he prepared himself. He would tire Demarko out, draw out his life and make him look a fool before killing him.

The crowd's screams were not for or against him, but for the fight to last. These witches did not care who lived or who died, they cared only for the beauty of a killing.

A Witch on the outer edge of the boundary lifted a hand, sending up a flare of magic, and as it fizzled out, Caius stalked forward, muscles tensing. Demarko met his eyes with a close-lipped smile.

Demarko threw himself forward and onto Caius, holding the blade in the air. The blade gleamed in the moonlight. Caius grabbed the boy's lower arm, pushing it backward until he heard a bone shatter. He kicked Demarko to the floor, watching him fall, grabbing his arm.

But he was not yet willing to surrender, it seemed, as he grabbed his blade with the other hand. He pushed himself upward and met Caius's eyes.

The dark sky pressed down on them. Caius grinned and began to circle. He prepared to launch himself upon Demarko, but stopped when he heard her voice. Rebekka's voice, calling out to Demarko, telling him to keep going. She was not calling out to him. Not at all.

He felt anger burn up in his chest. He raised his fists, but quickly found himself on the floor, his cheek pressed against the dirt and a blade at his throat. Rebekka was a distraction. She was a weakness.

But it was not the blade at his throat, for the blade was in Demarko's had, a metre away. The discomfort he felt was a wound, and the numbness soon became a stinging. The blade had cut deep. Deep enough, and with enough force, to cut his hardened flesh. He felt blood run from the wound.

But this was not the blade that could make him fall. He was stronger than the power of this wound. Soon, it would heal.

He stood, pressing a hand to the wound that should have killed him, were he mortal.

His head spun as more and more blood left his body. The dirt beneath him was stained red. It would heal. It would heal.

He stepped forward once more, but could not tell which way that truly was, because the world was tilting and he was falling once more. The blade buried itself in his thigh. He felt the muscles tense around the silver. He should be healing. But this was not an ordinary blade.

On the floor once more, with Demarko kneeling beside Caius's slowly fading body, he realised that Demarko's power lay not within the realms of a weapon, but within the realms of energy. He knew that, as the boy's hand met his bare skin, as power ran through his veins, stopping and starting his heart at will. The cursed knife was a mere distraction, and he had played the fool.

His veins lit up with energy, burning his muscles and boiling his blood.

Caius could not feel his body. Could not hear the crowd. Could barely open his eyes, as Demarko walked away, and toward the outer boundary.

He lay in darkness, but soon found himself in the light. His body was finally healing, his muscles relaxing. The blade's magic was wearing off.

The stars above him were a blur of faint light. The crowd was cheering, for there was a winner. Caius, the eternal and the everlasting, beaten by a Half-Witcu. "To the death," they had said. Demarko believed he was dead. But Caius could not die. His pride, however, lay in a grave of its own. He believed it was a fate much worse than death. He did not stand, and no one ran to his aid. His family was back at home, as he lay dying. He could not die, but he wished he could.

He wanted this fight and his failure to be forgotten. He wanted his entire being to be forgotten. Death was the equivalent to being forgotten in his mind, and apparently, he wouldn't be able to experience either.

Maybe that was why his father cursed them, for fear of being forgotten. For beneath their flesh and blood, beneath their muscles and tissues and organs, lay a skeleton. A pile of bones strung together. Beneath all they were. Bones — brittle things — hold their entireties together. Each, so dependent on things that snap beneath too much weight or too much pressure. With the fear that in a few years, they would've decayed and the bones would've been all they were. All that remained. Perhaps someone would look at these bones and would see them as just that. Bones. The things that held them together in a pointless and futile mission. Fear burned his father's heart, and for it, they would all suffer.

He could not die and could not be forgotten. And so he was forced to watch Rebekka tend to the wounds of his enemy. Rebekka looked over to him and mouthed the words I'm sorry, before turning back to her love. He saw it now. Watching Rebekka hold Demarko close, kiss him gently, Caius felt shame and anger rush through him, for he realised that she was never really his.