rubbed her stubbled head.
It is done. All is ready now. All the years of despair, of hatred, planning, preparations, the blood, sweat and tears, all coming down to this. The Great War is upon me. I must rise to the challenge.
She shifted her weight and leaned forwards, reaching underneath her cot and grabbing an iron handle. Her chest slid out, old nails scraping on timber, and for a while she just sat and stared at it. Finally, she unbolted it, paused to look at her hands. She had scrubbed them after Elise’s surgery, scrubbed her friend’s blood from her hands and arms, but there were still dark rims beneath her nails.
Blood always leaves a stain.
A knock on her door, but she didn’t answer, too lost in the tangled weave of memories that her chest evoked. The door creaked open, footsteps, the rustle of leathery wings and Morn was standing before her.
“All is ready,” the half-breed said. She looked from Fritha to the chest. “Are you?”
Am I ready?
Fritha sucked in a deep breath and threw open the lid of the chest. Inside was a short-sword, scabbarded in worn leather. It was wrapped in a weapons-belt. Fritha reached in and lifted the sword out, the grip smooth and cool, familiar as an old friend. She lay the sword to one side and looked at what lay beneath it in the chest.
A battered cuirass, a pair of white wings embossed upon its breast.
Memories flooded through her, a surge like the dam gates opening. Of training in Drassil’s weapons-field, a nostalgic glow to the memories, of feeling accepted, whole, complete. Of passing her warrior trial and swearing the oath; obedience to Elyon and his Lore, obedience to the Ben-Elim, swearing to mete out destruction upon the Kadoshim and all enemies of the Faithful. And all the while she had felt his eyes upon her, his beautiful, beautiful eyes. Soon after, he had come to her, whispered soft, flattering words, a gentle caress, in time leading to a kiss, and then, more. And finally…
Her hand went to her belly as she remembered the fleeting sensation of life growing within her. Her baby. Her beautiful baby. And he had wanted her to kill it.
Tears blurred her eyes, then, running down her face to mix with blood that was not her own.
“It is fitting,” Morn said, “that the warrior the Ben-Elim created will help to tear them down. Their hypocrisy and lies will come to an end soon.”
“I hate them,” Fritha breathed.
“They deserve to be hated,” Morn said, “but why do you hate them so?”
A silence, Fritha’s mind filled with images. Blood and tears.
“They told me to kill my baby,” Fritha whispered, “said that I was privileged above all people to taste the love of a Ben-Elim, but that the world could not know. That the evidence must be destroyed, like a page ripped from a book and cast on the fire. I was a young, besotted fool, in love with the image of the Ben-Elim, with what I thought they were, but I found out at their heart they are rotten.”
Morn dropped to a knee, put a hand on Fritha’s.
“The past is gone,” she said, her voice deep, like gravel.
“No, it is never gone. It is always here,” Fritha said, tapping her temple, hard. “And here.” A prod to her chest.
“He told me to kill her,” Fritha said. “Told me to ask the other White-Wings in their cabal what to do. I was instructed to go to a cabin deep in Forn Forest, to give birth to my baby, and then to murder her. To bury her beneath a pile of stones and walk away as if she’d never existed.”
She looked at Morn, felt more tears blur her eyes.
“I was not the first. It never entered my mind, but there were so many graves there, dug by infatuated, enamoured young women. You must understand, in that world, to be raised as a White-Wing, the Ben-Elim were like gods to us. Beautiful and wise, saviour, judge and jury all rolled into one. To be noticed was the greatest of honours.” Her hand brushed her belly. “She would have been like you, a half-breed, but still beautiful. Her life meant something.” She reached out a hand and cupped Morn’s cheek. The half-breed blinked at that, a stiffness in her shoulders, but she did not pull away. Fritha looked at Morn’s wings. “The Kadoshim raise their half-breed children, love them. Why could the Ben-Elim not do the same?”
“Their pride