TALLOS

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tallos knew little of his father’s faith to which he had tried to be true, only what his mother had told him. He knew that one should not piss in a river, one should not sleep through the rising of the Dawnstar, and one must bury the bodies of the dead so they can return to the Mountain. He had obeyed all these laws of the three gods of his father. In return, they had taken from him everything.

Seemingly without effort, Tallos had also abided by all the tenets of the Faith, the religion of his fellow villagers: one should be kind and giving to one’s fellow man, one should be clean of mind and body, one should maintain monogamy and faithfulness to one’s spouse, and one must never eat nor burn the flesh of man. There were others, but these were the core beliefs shared by all villagers…and often abided the least by those who proclaimed themselves to be most pious.

And so he watched as the home he built with his wife and shared with his faithful companion began to burn. Great clouds of black smoke billowed as the tar packed between the logs caught fire, filling the sky with the taint of his hatred while he remembered what he had found within.

Why she was still inside when he had returned, he did not know. The door in the kitchen, the one that led to a narrow vine-covered pathway, able to be barred from the outside, remained unbroken. The front door had also not been broken or dislodged in any way. You let them inside? Tallos thought, unable to understand. What were you thinking?

His despair had turned to rage as he’d sat with her on the blood-covered floor, squeezing her cold body in his arms. He would never forgive himself for having left her, but he wondered if he could forgive her for not having done what together they had so carefully planned. He sought more reasons to justify his anger towards her, or at least to explain what to him made no sense. The house was in disarray, but the table he found her on still had objects upon it. Did you not even fight your attackers? Did you enjoy it, you whore?

He rid himself of his spiteful thoughts and shamed himself for even having had them. The men who attacked their village were savages; they could have killed her before raping her. He desperately hoped that was the case. And was he not truly the one who should be blamed? She had all but begged him not to leave, and he’d answered her pleas with frustration and anger. He thought of how fine she had looked the day he left. It seemed her aura of youth had never diminished over their many years together, and now it had been debased and snuffed out in the cruelest way imaginable. He thought of when he had tricked her into baring her breast during a dip in the brook, the many times they so happily tried to make a child, and the work and pride they’d shared upon completing their home. He thought also of when he brought her to meet Lia at the muddy riverbank. The memories tore at him.

Flames leapt to the roof where they danced defiantly, consuming in an instant the thatching that Leona had woven so perfectly as to always keep them dry, even during the worst of storms. The roof collapsed, sending an explosion of embers into the air that drifted with demonic grace. They would be burning now, Leona and Lia. It hurt him to know, but he embraced the pain. He needed their memory erased for his sanity. He needed to burn it out of the world and out of himself, but it would not yet let him be.

As he had sat on the kitchen floor with Leona, he’d heard a faint cry, and, for a moment, he had let himself believe it could be his wife. Putting her at arm’s length, searching for some sign of hope, all he saw was the same lifeless corpse with the smiling wound on its neck. It was no longer the wife he had loved. It was a laughing husk, a horrible reminder of what he’d had and what he’d thrown away, but he was as gentle with her body as if she were merely unconscious as he laid her down, not wanting to leave her. Hearing the cry again, he sunk yet deeper.

He found Lia lying in front of the hearth as he had left her. She was saturated in blood, some dry and some still sticky wet. The bandage he had made for her was not adequate to staunch the flow, and that the trickle had all but ceased was only due to her having so little left to lose. Without the strength left to lift her head, her eyes begged him to fix her. Clinging to life, she looked confused as to why he had waited so long to pull the thorn from her paw, to give her relief. There was nothing he could do to save her, however. She was far worse than he had expected. Even with a flint and quick fire his efforts likely would have resulted only in lengthening her torment. He had only to end her suffering or watch her slowly die, and having had made a promise to himself to never again avoid the path of action, he removed the knife from his belt. But as he saw the dull luster of his small blade, he could not help but imagine it to be little different than the one used to kill Leona. He could not cut Lia’s throat. Loss of blood did not kill as quickly as one might think. It would simply cause her more pain.

“I am sorry, girl,” he’d sobbed with tears in his eyes. He stroked her head where she had no wounds, trying to comfort her as he put his head beside hers. But she had lacked the strength to lick his face. “I’m going to help you.”

Lia’s breaths came rapid and labored as she foolishly fought to stay alive so that he could save her. Unable to bear allowing her to hurt any longer, he hoisted the iron kettle from the hearth above his head and looked into her sad, confused eyes a final time. Images of her as a pup dirtying Leona’s dress on their first meeting barraged him. The horrific injustice too much to bear, he’d screamed out with rage and fury when the deed was done, hoping it would stir the very gods that had forsaken him.

Tallos turned away from the house and the horrible memories sealed inside. With outstretched arms he backed closer toward the inferno. Heat surged from the source and scorched his naked skin, causing it to redden. The fine hairs on his arms were the first to be singed to nothingness, filling the air with an acrid stench. Leaning his head back, he allowed all the hair remaining atop his head to shrivel and smoke, until his scalp was seared, as was the rest of his back, his legs, and the tops of his arms. He moved closer still as flames licked at him, causing his skin to broil and blister. He remained there, listening to the hissing of the boiling fluid as his blisters burst open. Unable to wash out the agony and suffering he had endured with tears, he welcomed the cleansing pain, his only respite, as his vision turned red.