Ashes of Eden

The Hound Inn was lodged near Hiken's one-way entrance, close to the merchants' spot. It worked well for them, Eric thought. The more distance between them and the outlaw camps the better. On their way to the inn, people had scurried past them, rushing away from the screaming brought on by the Dybbuks' influence. It was a stark contrast on what had had happened at Callibur. There, instead of running, people had gathered to see if they could help; either with putting out the fire or even with the woman. Here, people were scared shitless—which he completely understood—and selfish. They'd seen a teenage girl sprinkling an older woman with some sort of alcohol and then toss a lit candle onto her, igniting flames. Ragnos barked at them to ignore it, saying meddling would only cause the Dybbuks to pursue them. Eric knew from experience that was true. Still... Something pooled at the pit of his stomach—something heavy and suffocating—because he hadn't done a thing to stop that act of terrible violence. Jordan had been mystified by the gory scene, leading to Nadia tolling him behind her.

Now, at the Hound Inn, they were safer. Dybbuks could enter anyplace, according to Ragnos, but they wouldn't bother with all the "sinning scum outside", that was a direct quote. Ragnos demanded rooms for their little ragtag group; the lady at the counter nodded, eying Eric gravely. His cloak shielded everything except for his blood painted face. He probably looked like a nightmare come to life: broad and looming, dressed in a massive black cloak, face caked with blood. The woman with long raven hair guided them through two flights of short stairs; they groaned under Eric's heavy steps. She gestured Jordan to a room and Nadia and himself to another. She stepped into the room shortly to grab an empty metallic vase, claiming she'd return shortly with water and a clean cloth. Eric didn't have time to thank her—the door shut behind her.

Nadia's silence grabbed his attention. Quickly, he realized what was wrong. One large bed. Faintly, Ragnos calling him Nadia's "partner" played in the back of his mind; the guy must think they were together. They hadn't debunked that statement and hadn't paid much attention when the Captain demanded two rooms.

"We can ask…"

"No," Nadia stopped him. Eric glared at her, stoic. "I mean…" her hesitation drifted into silence again.

Nadia's eyes were on his face, but unfocused. She looked worn and pale. Her night hadn't been fun-filled, either, Eric reminded himself. He went to lick his dry lips—then caught himself. That would be disgusting. He cleared his voice instead.

"I can sleep on the floor?"

Nadia rubbed her temples, shutting her eyes.

"Alright," she said in a quiet voice.

Eric tasted the unspoken thank you in Nadia's lingering stare before she walked over to the foot of the sizable bed, sitting. A few moments later, a knock on the door revealed the busty woman with a jar of water and cloths. She told him that Captain Ragnos demanded she attend their needs and asked what they required. Nadia wanted nothing—she was half asleep already.

Eric peeled his cloak off, starting off, unsure.

"My clothes… They got…" dirty?

The woman lifted a weary eyebrow, but hastily nodded, like she wanted him to shut up.

"Take those off and leave them outside the room. I'll have them washed for you, sir." Hearing someone call him sir made him think of his father. Eric pushed the pang to the back of his mind. "Will you be needing anything more?"

"No." He said monotonously. She nodded, stepping outside. Eric twisted at the waist, checking to see... Nadia was still perched on the foot of bed—still awake. "Shouldn't you get under the covers? You're going to fall on your face."

The girl was tipping forward slightly, eyes fluttering.

"I'm thinking."

"You can think tomorrow, now's the time to sleep."

Suddenly, a wry smirk tipped Nadia's lips causing her sleepy features to become dazed, almost like she was tipsy.

"Afraid I'll see you naked?"

Yes, the thought rang clear in his mind. Eric reined in any reaction, schooling his face into a blank canvas.

"I'm trying to be a gentleman about it. But if you want a show, by all means..."

Eric didn't get to finish. Nadia unhooked her cloak and toed off her shoes, next she slipped off her Nike bag on the floor. He watched her blue-tipped hair swish freely after an entire day of being concealed underneath the cloak. She peeled the flimsy sheet and crawled underneath it, promptly curling up.

"Goodnight to you, too." he muttered. Eric trusted Nadia's personality enough not to be a creep, so, he pulled the shirt over his head. Looking down at his trousers, he sighed; he loosened them, kicked off his boots—they felt tighter—and shimmied them. He gathered the clothes and cracked open the door, tossing them out. Eric latched the door from the inside.

Navigating only in his boxers—boxers that really needed to be washed—he grabbed the cloths, dipping them in water and began to clean his face blindly. No mirrors anywhere. Once he dipped the previously white fabric in the water, it became pinkish. Eric stared. Why was he so calm? He killed two men—he murdered them with Carter's freaking birthday present. What would dad say? Eric kept cleaning, rubbing vigorously until he could feel his skin peeling. Done, he sauntered towards the bed, grabbing the pillow Nadia wasn't nuzzling her face into. For a split second, Eric just stood there, watching her face; it was still shades paler and he could see the girl's eyes darting under her eyelids.

Eric laid on the wooden floor half expecting splinters to dig into his naked skin. He didn't feel any stings though. He drew his cloak around himself, uncaring of the dried blood on it. He stared at the ceiling, the flickering candle on the bedside table was dim, barely lit so... What were those shadows? His eyes were bleary with exhaustion, his mind worn with conflicting thoughts on what he'd done and why he didn't feel more and worried about his brother and...

He could still hear wailing outside. Nadia was dead to the world if she could sleep through it. Eric's mind wandered to the Brit; was he alright with this noise? Had Jordan been dragged here through a fissure too? He folded his arms underneath his dark head—grimacing. His hair felt thicker; it was caked with blood. Great. He drifted slowly, shutting his eyes, calling for sleep. Waiting. Nadia's strange trance haunted him; he changed lanes, thinking of the way her hand had felt in his, small and warm… He remembered blood trickling down her cheeks. Eric gave his lids a squeeze. Sleep, he chanted wide awake. More waiting. Eric heaved a massive breath when a shattering noise floated from the small window to his left.

He threw his eyes open, resigned.

Eric's mouth parted, but he couldn't word a thing. Those shadows on the ceiling were undeniably larger, twisting and curling like smoke above them—no, above him. Eric propped himself on his elbows, stealing a quick glance at the wick. It was out. The only light was natural, coming through the window. Those shadows weren't normal—maybe they're not shadows, part of him whispered. A breath stilled in his throat as the shadowy monster-like-thing moved—descending. He wanted to move, wanted to reach for the sword lying inches to his left, but felt paralyzed.

It wasn't fear, though. It felt like... something was keeping him in place. The shadowy creature? Could this be a Dybbuk? Was he starting to see them too? It didn't fit Nadia's description. The shadows twisted into a shape—into several silhouettes—before deciding on one. It was humanoid; it was pitch black, inky, without mouth, eyes or a nose—no features. It was an outline of a woman's body. The made-real hand reached out, its fingers breezily touching Eric's chin. He told his body to get a grip and obey him, trying to swell his muscles—he felt his left hand twitch. The invisible force keeping him statue-still snared him tighter, leaving Eric panicked—a caged animal. The inky woman-shape curled an oil hand around his neck. The touch sent a prickling sensation throughout his body. In the recesses of his mind, Eric thought he heard giggling. Dark eyes jumped to the forefront of his memories; he'd seen those eyes whenever he passed out or in those dreams.

The bizarre pain he'd been getting acquainted with flared, bringing blinding images that knocked him out quicker than any pill.

***

Eric watched Pythias nimbly dispose of the bandits—the bandits he'd ambushed. It wasn't something one witnessed often: bandits being outsmarted at their own game. This turf was known for several small clans, since merchants were obligated to travel through Loron territory. Little merchants made it to the villages nestled deeper in Loron's forest, it was one of the reasons why they were so poor.

"I taught him that." Peach bragged excitedly, puffing out his small chest. Eric let out a snort. The Fairy glared at him with offense. "How dare you doubt a Fairy? We can't lie!"

"With all your squeaking they'll know where we are." there were still two bandits left. One was a woman.

"You could always help him." Peach drawled.

Eric wasn't thirsting for battle today; he felt rather drained. It couldn't be sickness, he never fell ill. It was the lack of food; whenever he strained himself without eating, he tired, but that wasn't the worst part. He could live with having to drag his legs. The worst part was: his skin grew softer, it got pierced easily; his strength decreased; his reflexes felt muddled and sloppy. Eric hadn't told Pythias about it, but the Elf and his incessant Fairy friend had been with him for over four seasons now and Pythias was a clever one. He studied Eric attentively, to the point where he would feel petrol eyes burn holes in the back of his skull.

Pythias flung a dagger and it struck true, burying itself in the woman's neck; blood gushed. Pythias kicked out at the man, doing his graceful dance of avoidance around the enemy; the Elf grabbed the man's wrist with both hands, twisting the hand backward—crack. A short-lived scream rang out before Pythias grasped the knife the bandit had held, slashing it across another neck. The man folded on the ground, dead or dying. Pythias breathed heavily for a moment, glaring at the death around him. Five dead—all his doing.

Eric followed Peach as he twirled happily into the small bandit camp. Pythias grinned shortly at Peach before crossing the distance to the trapdoor on the ground, their goal for tonight.

"They were eating Babi meat yesterday." Pythias sounded excited and Eric's stomach was purring and rumbling at the thought of food—meat. Something substantial, unlike the small roots, vegetables and whatever fruits they had been surviving on.

Hunting in the winter was harsh in Eden, especially in the Loron region. Eric wished they could get back to Ebbe where he could slaughter large critters and feast like a king. Famine didn't sit well with him; thank Malvato for a childhood of enslavement and little sustenance. But Eric somehow agreed to accompany Pythias and Peach home, to Idril. Pythias had roped him in by claiming winter wasn't as harsh beyond the massive wall separating Idril from the rest of Eden. Eric had to admit, business was slower during winter; mercenaries would always find work, but the kind he liked—the fighting and killing kind—was diminished during snow falls and cold storms. Earning quadras would be a special kind of hell.

There was a shout of happiness from the hole in the ground; Eric crouched beside the opening, peering into the darkness. Peach was glowing brightly, helping Pythias see. His companion glanced up with a brash smile.

"Good food?"

"Oh, not just food."

"Mead?"

"Liquor!" Eric blinked. He never drank liquor before; only rich people had access to the stuff. It must've been stolen from a merchant heading to Phaedra. "Here," Eric grabbed the large container, wincing at the strange strain on his muscles. Was this what other people always felt like? With a grit of teeth, Eric twisted at the waist, lowering their spoils on the ground. "Now for the main course." Pythias lifted a wooden chest above his head. Eric grabbed that as well, getting to full height.

Pythias heaved outside the men-dug hole with striking quickness.

"Are you alright?"

"Fine." Eric mumbled.

Pythias didn't push; he sauntered toward Eric as he pushed the chest's lid back, revealing cured meat. His mouth watered.

The scene fell away, his surroundings changed. The air around Eric felt hotter and he felt different—taller, stronger, older.

Eric hiked a road with a sword on his back, a leather bag leisurely swinging from a shoulder; with sharp eyes, he pinned any unfortunate soul who dared look his way for more than a second without pissing themselves. Eric was aware of the sticky blood running down his leather armor, painting his tanned skin in an ungodly sight for normal folk to see. These last days had been too hot for cloaks, though, and Eric didn't know other ways of concealing the bloodshed of his last job. A mercenary didn't concern himself with how he looked or how he smelled; he concerned himself with getting hired, getting whatever job over with to earn quadras. As a child, Eric had gone long periods without bathing. Malvato hadn't worried about hygiene as long as he was healthy and fit to help with his slaver trade or as long as Eric was clean enough to lay face down and let himself be fucked by paying men. Eric allowed his nose to wrinkle as his lip curled in disgust. He refused to shudder at memories. Those were in the past. Malvato was dead and he was earning quadras like mad. He was a lone mercenary without a band; Eric smirked to himself. Pythias would say they were a duo, that was the case because the Elf insisted on accompanying him whenever Eric went off to work. There were times when he was glad for Pythias presence. Eric was known for being reckless, Pythias was known for saving them from… scrapes. These last years hadn't been bad, he had a place to return to now—almost a home—in Idril. Eric didn't care about race, maybe because he wasn't a run-of-the-mill human or maybe because he'd gotten to know the Fae folk. Of course, there were rotten apples, but those who lived in Idril under Fauna's rule were welcoming and pacific. Pythias didn't ask about Eric's past; he respected personal space, never asking why Eric slept with his sword mere inches from his grasp—even when they were safe in Idril. Eric had to admit, it felt nice to have someone watching his back, someone to rely on. A larger part of him, though, would always think it was foolish to let someone—anyone—near. Needing others was a sign of weakness, a step in the wrong direction. Weak people perished, strong people didn't. It was as simple as that. Eric's entire life had been a shithole. No parents or home to call his own beside the one Malvato and his slave trade had provided, where he'd been used and abused by everyone.

He had survived, though.

Hiken never changed. No matter how many times he left and returned, it all remained untouched by time. Hiken's perimeter was surrounded by a tall wall of stacked stone. Eric knew all its little holes, where one could slide through and find shelter in the steep hill the city sat upon. The city's entrance was open to anyone. There were no looming doors or guards. Eric walked on, stepping foot inside the only home he ever knew, and could already hear the drunkards spouting nonsense and insults in the nearest tavern. The hardest would be to know which tavern since there were so many littering the place.

He side-stepped a pool of vomit.

Eric was here for one last job before returning to Idril. The best way to get jobs was to find whatever mercenary band and take the ones they said were too small. He snorted. Some jobs weren't small at all, but some men needed more than currency to risk their lives. They were shriveled little shits with no guts. A true mercenary didn't fear to die in battle. He followed a path that led him to loud singing men, some who'd drunk more than their weight long ago and were close to falling asleep, others had their faces against worn tables. Eric walked through the open door, blue eyes searching.

"Blood eye," he muttered with a sigh. He strode to the tavern's owner, eyes fixed on the destination. Eric's gaze deviated once he caught a shadow coming closer to him. The shadow danced clumsily. He stopped just before the drunk man crashed into him. Instead, the man lost his footing and fell, hitting his face on a stool on the way down. "I see the rumors are true. Your band has become a sorry excuse for mercenaries." He stated looking disgusted at the other Blood Eye members, lifting a leg over the fallen man.

Those sober enough, had caught his words and were now struggling to find the person who'd insulted their banner and leader. This would get ugly soon, he knew.

"I'm looking for work, old man. If these pushovers are loitering in your tavern I'd wager you know of some good ones."

Eric knew this man, thought his name was Linus or Cyrus. He wasn't too good with names. Linus or Cyrus was a short, stocky man and the only thing compensating his lack of teeth was the abundance of brown hair, both on his head and face. The man's beard was so thick and bushy, Eric couldn't make out the rest of him; lunch leftovers were stuck to the man's greasy beard.

"Boy, you better leave before these here mercs come for your hide. I won't have my tavern turned into a…" his words died once he looked up at Eric. He put down the meat and bread he'd been preparing, swallowing thickly. "Gods above… You're… You're him! You're the merc with no band."

Slurs came from the gathering crowd, like "Whatcha talkin' about, geezer?" and laughter erupted from a corner of the establishment.

The owner looked truly mystified by Eric's presence. He pointed at him, "Are you all daft? He's the one they call the U'Kari. The King of mercenaries. It's you, I know it. I've heard stories about you. Eyes like death's chill, tall and built like a mountain. They say you carry a large sword—larger than your body—and that it's been forged with Fae metal!"

"Hmm," Eric intoned. "I've been gone so long and yet you know all of this… Well, I do carry a sword made of Fae metal. But as for the King of mercenaries?" Eric barked a cruel laugh, eying the men slowly clambering his way. "Fuck. Who knows? But if all mercenaries are like these shits, being called their King sounds very sad."

The first man lunged at him using a bottle. Eric caught the wrist with ease, lifting the man off his feet, smacking him on the counter. Every bottle, cup and plate on it shook; a sizable crack showed below the fainted man. Next, two idiots tried slashing him with swords. Well, one was a thin blade, the other was a small dagger. Eric fisted his right hand around the dagger's blade, gripping it tightly without wavering. While they were awed by Eric not bleeding, he grabbed Erebus, bringing it down on the man's rapier, splitting the blade in two. When the broken piece clunked against wood, the other men woke up from the trance. Their gazes switched from the immobile dagger and uncut palm, to Erebus.

"How can he lift that thing…?"

"…he can't be human…"

"I—I must've drunk more than I thought… His hand's not fuckin' bleedin'..."

"…that body… what a beast…!"

Eric didn't like attention. He always ended up getting it, though. Pythias would make a big show of this little mob. With a sigh, he wondered if anyone else would try their luck. The man holding the dagger buckled, releasing the hilt he fell on his knees, staring up at Eric with reverence.

"Shit," he hissed. Other people gave him that look—like he was some sort of God to be worshiped. "Listen up, Erebus can cut through anything. Your throats and guts won't be a match for it." Eric hefted the sword for emphasis. The dark steel gleamed eerily. Some backed up, others remained in place, ogling his sword. "And quit it with the glaring." He gritted possessively.

After that, the crowd disbanded a little. Returning his attention to the tavern owner, Eric grabbed the knocked-out man's hair, flinging him to the ground. The owner looked awestruck still.

"That strength… it can't be human." Eric hiked an eyebrow, causing the man to swelter. "I've just… never seen anything like it before, lad. You're a…"

Monster. God. Demon. Ancient Blood. Blah, blah. Eric heard it all before, from multiple people. But none got it right. He was human, but his strength came from something else. As well as his agility, his tough bone, his quick healing and his skin's durability. That all came from the five Blessings bestowed onto his spirit on birth, as Fauna had kindly informed him when they'd first met; yet another reason why he'd remained in Idril, because he'd found some answers there.

"I'm a mercenary who needs a job that pays well." Eric reminded the stuttering man. He stabbed the dagger into the cracked counter.

"Right, sonny. Right. A job, of—of course!" Eric controlled himself—resisting to growl at being called 'sonny'; otherwise, Cyrus or Lucius would've fainted. "There's been talks about a thieving party hiding in the mountains, near the capital. I don't know how large the group is…" he trailed off, eying Eric's very long sword. "Anyhow, the—the pay is sixty quadras for each of their heads. They'll pay ya' a hundred if ya' drag the leader to Phaedra for a trial."

"That's the best you have?"

"There are others. But they're larger jobs, for…"

"For bands?" Eric finished. He waved a hand behind himself, "This is a band. There are about what? Fifteen men? I could kill them all in a breath. And it's not because they're stinking drunk, old fool, it's because I'm that good with a sword. Death is a present I never fail to deliver."

The bearded man sighed deeply, glaring at the dagger stabbed into his counter, at the crack running along it, while he spoke, "Alright, lad. I suppose you are better… suited than some of these ones. The biggest job I've heard 'bout is all the way across lake Marleen. In Agnar turf. Just a few moons ago, some Agnar folk came in and I heard on… on chance… that they're thinking of rebelling. Can't say I was surprised, with what they've been reduced to…" He cleared his throat hurriedly. "They're enlisting strong people to mine for metals they need to forge weapons."

"Mining?"

"Yes," the man nodded, some leftovers flew from his beard. "But the pay is good. Ten quadra for each day you spend down there."

Eric gave a smirk, "And you heard all this on chance, was it?"

The man's beard blocked his cheeks, but Eric could see his nose growing red. If there was going to be an Agnar uprising, this man had already sided. Eric wasn't surprised by the choice. From what he knew, Agnar was—or had been—a den of warriors, soldiers and assassins. They brought prosperity to Hiken since many spent their savings with pleasures. Phaedra was all about order. Years ago, before he'd been born, King Holland claimed he no longer needed Agnar soldiers because he'd trained his own guard. Of course, Agnar hadn't been thrilled.

"Easy, old man. I don't care about upcoming wars or who is on whose side. I care about money," Eric stashed Erebus in the oversized sheath on his back, grunting. "That said, who do I see about getting paid for killing the thieving bastards in the mountains?"

"Ah. The Aelius' guard Commander." If Phaedra's commander was the one hiring outside help to defend the capital against thieves, if there was a war, Eric didn't see Phaedra victorious.

"Alright then. Thanks for the information." He thought the man would complain about Eric cracking his counter and walking off without tossing two quadras for the owner's troubles, but he didn't.

A mercenary with red and brown leather armor stepped forward as he passed, leaning heavily on a beam. Eric gave him a glare and received a heavy, drunken gaze in return.

"Hail the U'Kari."

Eric gasped and coughed altogether. He felt hot and cold, shivers wrecking his body. He was lying down somewhere… it was a hard surface; so, not a bed. Was he camping? Was he on a hunting trip with dad?

"…another dream?" came a feminine, groggy voice. Not camping with his father, then. Eric curled around the warm blanket pooled over his body. "Eric? You better have a good reason for waking me up."

Eric's eyes flickered open; he turned his face, eyes adjusting to the dawning sunlight flooding the room. The veins at his temples pounded, punishing him for some unknown reason. Nadia was peering down at him from bed, her eyes only half cracked.

"What's wrong?"

She tilted her head.

"Nothing with me, you were the one mumbling and rolling around. I think you kicked the bed." Sleepy, Eric groaned an apology. "You were sleeping, it's nothing to apologize for. Are you okay?" she asked—for the second time.

He wasn't sure. Eric felt displaced; just minutes ago, he'd been somewhere else entirely, with someone else, someone… He couldn't remember everything. Like always. Eric scrubbed at his face, half sitting.

"I'm fine. Must've been a bad dream, I can't remember." He turned back to Nadia. She had a cute flush to her cheeks. Was she getting sick? Who knew what deceases…

"Cover up, Fabio." she stated; Nadia's gaze fell to the mattress. Eric noticed the cloak had slipped exposing his bare chest all the way to the hem of his boxers. Ignoring the thin sheen of sweat, Eric laid back down, pulling the black material around him.

"Let's go back to sleep."

Nadia looked down one last time before giving a slow nod and disappearing. Rushed knocks on their door didn't allow for such mercy. Eric folded deeper into his cloak. How could he feel more tired now than before sleeping? Argh. The echoing British accent made Nadia roll out of bed; she strode to their door, unlatching it. Jordan brushed past her without invitation. Eric decided he wouldn't get up, whatever the ginger wanted to talk about, he could do with Nadia. Eric wanted some decent shuteye…

No dice, he sighed annoyed as Jordan ran his mouth faster than Eric could listen. Between all the questions on where the hell they were and on why the 'bloody hell this was happening to him', Jordan trailed off, cocking his head and meeting Eric's narrowed blood shot eyes.

The ginger looked confused, "You got kicked off the bed?"

"No," Nadia rushed to answer, tone clipped. "He offered to sleep on the floor. We're not a couple, okay?" she cleared up with an eye-roll. Jordan's eyes slid back to Nadia. Eric thumped the back of his head on the slim pillow. "Let's go to your room, 'kay? Eric gets cranky when he doesn't get enough beauty sleep."

Eric couldn't be bothered with a comeback, as soon as they stepped out, he tripped to his feet and shut the door from the inside, grabbing the tossed pillow and throwing it on the bed; since Nadia was gone he didn't have to slum it. This time, there were no strange dream-like shadows, no yelling to keep him awake, he was asleep the second his head hit the pillow.