Red Debt - A Crimson Rising Short Story

Chapter 19

     Four months and I still have trouble waking up and living with myself. Seraphina Harley believed she had not given me anything of value to take back to them. She didn't. Not consciously. But that one statement, that one defense of herself the entire time I was around her that day, was the thing that damned her.

     I have not heard one word about Seraphina Harley since she fell as if she never existed at all. As if no one is curious as to why she would trade that child's life for her own, let alone why it hurt her so much to see the boy there in the first place. Another second, and I know she would have lunged to protect him. I saw her prepare for it, witnessed her move to the defensive after wreaking havoc all by herself. If the telekinesis she blocked the dirt with ever failed, she would have stood in its place. He would have lived, too, if she hadn't hesitated.

     That Seraphim girl was right. There still existed a fragment of a Princess in that war general. I've been too cowardly to ask Cress what the hell happened that day and where Seraphina's body had been taken. There's a part of me that wishes he actually doesn't know, and I am scared to find out if that, too, is a fool's belief.

     Wendin was more than surprised to see me return from the front, but after giving the rebels the information they needed to take down General Harley, I'm more or less allowed to have whatever I want now.

     I told Cress I did not want to have to face full on war like that again. That I would be happy to go back to being the messenger. That whenever I could, I would like to be a healthy distance away from all of it.

     He stationed me at a fortress in a swamp in the middle of nowhere. Kassida explained that it has never been found by ally forces for as long as the war has been raging. No one will bother me here.

     They even let me take Wendin with so that we would both be far away. The boy just scowled at me and walked off to go grab his bag of things. I don't know what the rebels have my sister's step-kid do for them, but I have never seen him be useful this entire time.

     While I have seen Kassida often enough to warrant a headache and enough guilt to drive someone to death, I have not seen the girl named after the Princess once since she warned me about deceptive appearances. I wonder what the girl would think of me killing Seraphina Harley.

     I sit in a planning room in the stone compound by myself. The rebels here leave me alone most of the time, which I am more than grateful for. Sometimes I pity their admiration. I wonder if they do not think me a liar and a murderer like the rest of them. Every time we pass in a hall, they smile and nod and I can feel their gratitude in waves.

     The walls here are not soulstone. I can feel every emotion that these people use to praise me here. I can hear every thought of thanks and wonder and I actually think I'd prefer the crushing soulstone to this. These constant reminders

     I start to realize that I was not made for this. For war. I would have been content with a scowling nephew and the small farm I inherited from my sister that is now ash in the wind. Simple. Quiet. Peaceful.

     What a wonderful and impossible wish.

     I lay my hands on the table, scanning words on a page I couldn't possibly care less about these days. What is any of this but what she said? Wolves sending sheep to slaughter. It's likely that every one of these messages ends up killing at least one person. War, I've learned, is like that. I wonder how the Princess lived with herself when this was what made up the last couple years of her life.

     The nightmares - so similar to those fever dreams of Harley - manifested after seeing Mayra Laursen and the rest of Seraphina's Coven slaughter thousands. Right before the Second was about to raze the remaining forces to the ground, Janette teleported to my side and warped us out before I could even think about saying no. That maybe I should stay there and face the Laursen girl. To explain so that at least she would know what had happened and how it has gone so wrong for her General. Her friend. Maybe more, considering the way she wailed Seraphina's name.

     Flowers in her hair.

     It's ridiculous. This entire thing. That woman has slaughtered millions, so what if she's met her end. It would be fitting to be brought down by the very arrogance that made her walk out onto that battlefield alone, that made her halt her allies just to prove a point. In spite of those eyes, General Harley was wicked and dark, a beast contained in light skin and soft-looking hair, yet another weapon she could use to fool others into thinking she was safe to trust, to love. She was the cosmos' nightmare, far more than her Second is mine. While she was slaughtering soldiers in such an ethereal way - her fire a beacon - she felt nothing. I can only imagine what cruel laughter would come from her, especially now that there's nothing left of the female but a monstrous legacy and a Coven that will probably tear space apart as recompense.

     I am here for a reason, and whether or not I am the reason she is gone is no longer relevant. It happened. It's done. Even if it makes me just as much of a killer as she was.

     I spend another hour reading the same four sentences about a movement somewhere else on Jevoah - the jungle-swamp planet I am currently residing on - that has to do with Asgard. Personally, with how many times I've gone over the same eighty-two words I've become convinced that it's a trap of some sort. In the last two weeks, Asgard has really kicked their strategies back up a notch and the rebels are back to working hard only to flee. I wonder if Mayra has finally learned a trick or two of the trade. If she has grown accustomed to being called general. If she can come anywhere close to filling the shoes of her predecessor. If the mantle suits her.

     I lean my head down on the largely empty table that spreads about six feet across from me. Everything in here is shades of grey and black. I see why Harley brought a painting with her. I almost wonder what would happen to all those books and fabrics she brought with her, but quickly realize that sleep is much more pleasant.