Context

This work was written as part of a larger narrative. This primarily concerns two characters who share a romantic past. Because of a series of traumatic events that both of them experienced, their relationship ended up crumbling. And while they still interact with each other, the relationship is not what it once was.

Background

• Caltair - She was born with a “god’s gift” in the form of healing blood. Her blood literally glows beneath her skin with a golden light. This blood can be used to heal people. She generally does this by making small cuts along her arms and letting blood drip onto the wound. This will heal the wound and the cut that it came from. However, recently she has been greatly overextending herself.
• Edos - He was once a ranger from the “deep-north”. He possesses super-human senses and reactions along with the ability to hear the “song of the world” which is the song that all life in a place make.

What Remains

Edos found her in a tent near the edge of camp. Though many tents glowed with uncertain firelight, always dancing on the edge of death, hers shone with a brightness that could not be quelled.

He stopped in front of the tent and peered between the partially open flaps. Caltair crouched over a small child whose lungs were filled with a strange fluid. He coughed quietly, his eyes fluttered closed, a string of the green liquid dripping down his face. She lifted his head and tipped a small vial of golden light down his throat. Slowly, his breathing softened and his eyes settled shut—not in death or exhaustion, but in peaceful sleep. As she set the empty vial aside, Edos noticed her hands trembling and the stains beginning to seep through the bandages wrapped around her wrists..

“Is he healed golden one? Will he live?” The boy’s mother asked, a rag held tightly between her hands.

Caltair nodded, rising to her feet, “Your boy is strong, Ophel. He will live.”

The boy’s mother released a sigh of relief, “Oh, blessed be the divine. Thank the seven holy hands”, she strode across the interior and grabbed Caltair’s hands, “Thank you Caltair. We would be lost without you.”

Caltair squeezed the woman’s hands back, “The path is yours, I only light it.” As she spoke, Edos caught sight of golden droplets beading on her forehead. Not sweat, but her own luminous blood seeping through unbroken skin.

The two women exchanged a few more words, then Caltair turned and left through the open flaps. She saw Edos then, but if it surprised her she did not show it. She turned and moved off through the rows of tents, another destination already in mind. He fell in beside her as she walked.

“Edos,” she said, “Do you bring word, have Ontos and the others returned?”

“They have,” Edos answered.

They walked in silence for a time, Edos watching the people that they passed. Most stopped what they were doing to stare as Caltair strode by. A leatherworker watched her with wonder, hands frozen halfway through a stitch. A group of boys engaging in mock duels all turned at the sight of her gleaming form. Others called greetings or waved. A few even lowered heads or bowed as she swept past.

Edos chuckled quietly to himself. Beside her, he faded into the background, becoming no more than another refugee. He knew how much she despised the reverence the people held for her. But could she blame them? A being made of golden light who banished from them their sickness, their weakness, their grief?

What the refugees couldn’t see from their reverent distance was how her glow wavered at the edges, or how her confident stride betrayed an almost imperceptible limp.

Caltair suddenly halted, turning to face him. “Say what you came to say,” she said, folding her arms.

“What do you mean?”

Caltair narrowed her eyes, “Your message is delivered. You have other tasks to be at. Why are you here, really?”

Edos let out a quiet sigh, “Where are you going, Caltair? You need rest.” He recalled his conversation with Nashandra the day before. According to her, none knew the last time Caltair had slept or ate.

She gave a bitter laugh, “You as well? Ballistar has pestered me enough for all of you.” She raised a dismissive hand, “I am fine. There is work to be done.”

“Caltair, this is foolish,” he said, anger rising in his voice, “You are killing yourself.”

“As I said, I’m fine.”

Now it was Edos’ turn to laugh. “Fine? Fine?” he swept a hand around at the refugees who were surreptitiously pretending that they could not hear the conversation being had, “Caltair, you may be able to hide your failing from them,” he placed his hand on his chest, “but you cannot hide it from me. Do not lie to me.”

“Lie?” Her voice rose. “We are nothing but lies, Edos. Truth died when…” She gestured vaguely, unable to finish. “If I can save even one more life, balance even one more death on the scales, then I will bleed myself dry doing it.” She paused for a moment, eyes hard. “You cannot save me, Edos. You couldn’t save our world, you couldn’t save us. Don’t pretend you can save me now.” She turned away from him, heading in her original direction. A gust of wind stirred the dust between them, and when it settled, he stood before her again, having moved faster than mortal eyes could follow. A quiet gasp escaped the throats of those who milled about around them. In all the years, his speed and senses had never dulled, but only grown sharper.

“You broke us, Caltair”, he said quietly, eyes cast down to the ground.

She shook her head. “We were already broken. Let me pass.” She took a step to the side.

As she moved past him, Edos lashed out with the speed of a serpent and caught her by the arm, his fingers wrapping firmly around her wrist just above the bloodstained bandages.

She spun toward him, her free hand already rising, palm flat and aimed at his face. For a heartbeat they stood frozen—her arm drawn back to strike, his grip firm but not harsh, both of them breathing hard from words that had cut deeper than any blade.

But something in his eyes gave her pause. Two pools of icy blue stared back at her from a face deeply tanned and worn from years of wandering. She knew those eyes as deeply as she knew her own. No anger burned within them, nor the desperate hope she had grown to despise. No, what she saw was simple, unguarded concern—gentle and without expectation.

“I have a question for you Caltair,” he whispered, their noses only inches apart, his breath warm against her face. “Just one. Then I will leave you be if you wish. If you continue on this path you will die. What of those you leave behind? What of those that need your help and never receive it because of your self-destruction and wanton selfishness?”

A retort rose in her throat, but she bit it down. Her raised hand trembled in the air between them. Around them, the refugees had begun to disperse, sensing the private nature of what they’d witnessed. A few lingered at tent flaps, worry creasing their faces.

That is when she looked down and saw it—golden blood seeping between his fingers where he held her, staining his palm with luminous drops that caught the firelight. His grip loosened immediately, but neither of them moved. They both stared at his bloodied hand, the evidence of her slow unravelling made visible.

He took a step away from her. For a long moment neither of them spoke.

“Your… wounds,” he said eventually, “They do not mend, do they?”

Slowly she nodded, feeling shame blossom within her bosom. She pulled her arm back, cradling it against her chest, and for the first time in months, allowed herself to feel small.

With a curt nod he turned from her and set off in a different direction, out of camp, his shoulders set but his hands still trembling slightly. “Come,” he called over his shoulder. Not a command, but a request, or an offer.

After a moment of hesitation, Caltair followed.

He led her up a small rise to the top of a hill that overlooked the camp, but was outside its sphere of light. A gnarled tree curled out of the hill’s surface, crawling up towards the night sky. A calming wind brushed over the hillside feeling cool against her forehead and setting the tree’s leaves dancing.

Edos gestured to a small rough-hewn bench that squatted beneath the bough of the tree. “I come to sit here sometimes. When the sights and sounds of others become too much.” He grimaced, “As I’ve aged, I have found that begins to happen all too often. Please, sit.”

Caltair settled down on the bench’s rough surface as he knelt before her. She handed Edos her medical satchel from which he pulled out a flask of distilled water, ointment for cleaning wounds, and rolls of newly-boiled bandages. Gently, he lifted her arms and rolled up her sleeves. The bandages wound the full length of her forearms and each was soaked in her divine blood.

He cursed softly under his breath. “Caltair,” he said as he unwound the dirtied cloth, “When last did you have these changed?”

She opened her mouth to answer, then paused—in truth she did not know. Days, or perhaps weeks? She bowed her head, not wanting to meet his eyes.

But her silence was answer enough. He clicked his tongue, “You forget your own teachings. I want you to visit the surgeons daily from now on. What is it that Ontos is always saying?” His eyes took on a far off look, “‘You cannot expect other to do what you would not. Lead from the front and others will follow.’”

She nodded, still not wanting to meet his eyes, which seemed to satisfy him. They sat in silence for a moment as the used bandages fell from her arms. Edos carefully bundled them inside another bag so they could be delivered to the surgeons to be sanitized and reused. Uncorking the flask of water, he poured it across her forearms, washing away dried blood from the many small cuts that marred their surface. Cleaning the skin also revealed the brands they all shared which remained as stark against flesh as the day they were first marked.

“Why are you doing this, Edos?” she asked.

Edos grunted, opening the small vial of ointment and wetting a rag with its contents, “Do you know how many times you have tended to my wounds? Saved me from sickness, or death?”

“No,” she admitted, “I never bothered to keep count.”

He smiled, “Neither did I.” She grimaced as he placed the rag against her raw flesh, a burning sensation shooting through her arm. “I do this because you are hurt,” he said, not looking up from his work.

Again they sat in silence as he finished disinfecting her wounds. Lifting the bandages he began to roll them around her arms tightly.

Suddenly, a thought came to her mind, “Edos, would you…” the words came quietly, and with a strange difficulty, like her mouth was coated in tar, “Would you sing to me?”

Edos faltered in his task as she felt him flinch at her question. A pregnant pause hung in the air as both remained frozen, Edos poised for another turn of the bandage around her arm. She felt shame once again burn in her chest as the silence stretched. She opened her mouth to apologize as he began to wind the bandage again, but the words died in her throat.

For he began to sing.

His voice rose soft and low, carrying a melody she had never heard before. It was not a song from their home, but something rawer, more immediate. The music seemed to emerge from the earth itself, flowing through him as if he were merely giving voice to something that had always been there, waiting.

She watched his hands continue their work, winding the clean bandages with practiced care even as his voice filled the space between them. The melody was mournful, heavy with a sorrow that seemed to seep from the soil and stones. Around them, the world itself began to join the lament. The gnarled tree offered its creaking trunk as a bass note, ancient wood groaning in harmony. Leaves rustled overhead like whispered percussion, their dry rattling keeping time with his voice.

As he secured the last of the bandages, she lifted her eyes to his face. Tears traced silver paths down his weathered cheeks, catching the distant starlight. Yet his voice never wavered, the song continuing to pour from him like water from a spring. She felt the music settle into her bones, the low timbre making the very stones beneath their feet vibrate in resonance, as if the hill itself mourned. The wind stilled as if the world itself listened as she closed her eyes and let the song wash over her.

When the last note faded into silence, Edos turned away from her, his gaze following the gentle slope of the hill down toward the encroaching night. The echoes seemed to linger in the stones and tree, as if reluctant to let the moment pass.

Rising from the small bench, Caltair took her place beside him, staring out into the inky blackness away from camp. “Thank you Edos,” she said, the melody still ringing faintly in her ears, “It was beautiful.” Then after a pause, “And unfamiliar.”

Edos nodded, his breathing hard, “It is the song of this place. I merely gave it voice.” He raised a hand before himself, capturing a leaf as it fell. “This land is so unlike our home, or the worlds we have travelled. And yet…” He released the leaf and it continued its dance along the wind, “And yet it still sings. A mournful song. I think it knows what is to come.”

“Do you think we walk towards our deaths?” she asked.

He shrugged, “I don’t know. Istifar seems to think so. His eyes have shown him an end to our path, though if he knows more he does not speak of it.”

They stood in comfortable silence for a time, the echoes of his song still seeming to drift through the night air. Finally, Edos turned toward her, his voice gentle.

“You could stay with me tonight,” he said quietly. “Not as we were, but… you don’t have to carry this alone anymore.”

For a moment, something flickered across her face—a crack in the walls she had built around herself. She leaned toward him slightly, her fingers brushing the back of his hand, her body betraying the longing her mind had tried to suppress. The offer hung between them like a lifeline thrown to someone drowning.

But then that familiar weight settled back over her shoulders, heavier than any physical burden. The guilt, the certainty that she deserved no comfort, no respite from her pain. She straightened, pulling back from the possibility he offered.

“I cannot, Edos,” she whispered, her voice thick. “You know I cannot.”

He studied her face for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “I know,” he said simply. “But the offer remains, should you ever change your mind.”

She turned away from him, her movements careful and deliberate. With mechanical precision she lifted her satchel from where he had left it, placed the supplies back in their proper places and slung it over her shoulder. At the edge of the hilltop, she paused and looked back once. He stood silhouetted against the starlight, watching her with those eyes that had known her better than anyone.

Then she turned and walked back toward the camp, her golden glow fading into the maze of tents and cooking fires.

Edos remained on the hill, listening to her footsteps grow distant. When silence returned, he reached for the soiled bandage he had tucked away in his sleeve, lifting it to catch the starlight. Golden stains caught the light like captured tears, almost appearing to glow again with her fire.

He closed his fingers around the cloth and held it close.