Hold Your Breath

Date unknown
The Realm of Wyn Avuqua

Loche attends the procession to the stage, keeping his eyes forward. He senses a slight nudge of vertigo when the shadowed audience surrounding him bows and kneels. For a brief moment it feels as if he himself, the bearers of his son and the Fates with the bright lamps held aloft have all risen into the air and now glide a short distance above the ground. Loche chances a quick look to the side at what he can only describe as a religious rite: the riotous throng bowing in reverent submission as God passes through. God. However, there is something much more frightening and profound weighing in his senses. Not an agreed upon ritual or construct, but instead, it is as if each individual body in the enclosure cowers beneath an invisible axe angled just above them.

Loche keeps his head down as he passes Etheldred at the forefront of the aisle. The intoxicated monk is still comatose and splayed on the ground.

The procession steps onto the platform. The Fates set the lighted poles at each corner and kneel at the bases. Edwin’s bier is laid upon a timbered x-shaped halter that suspends his sleeping body at the back of the stage. The guards with Loche descend from the stage and stand just beside the stair. Loche stands with them—Edwin on the far side—too far away.

Cynthia pronounces, “He hath come to us. Behold, our Lord God, Thi.”

Loche notes a reluctance and a mocking smirk as the woman turns her back to the audience and takes a knee before Edwin. She waits a few moments, stands and says to the congregation, “Rise.”

They obey. Bodies lean and heads tilt to get a glimpse of their Maker. Some begin to weep openly. Others tremble.

“Let Thi see the pain He hath caused.” Cynthia shouts. “Bring forth one of His guardians. Bring her!”

From between the fires, Julia Iris appears. Two large captors throw her to Cynthia’s feet. Loche takes an unconscious step toward her—the handle of his umbrella suddenly in his grip. He freezes. Waiting. Watching. His eyes flitting from his son to Julia.

“This one,” Cynthia points, her tone mocking, “is an innocent. Innocent Itonalya. Is there such a thing? But I have learned that this one has never killed—has not yet sought to ease the crawling in her skin that we—we holy people, cause her to feel. Can’t you see?” Cynthia picks at Julia’s jacket with curiosity. She lets her hand graze over the waterproof parka. She pauses at the touch of it, then her hand gathers a handful of Julia’s hair. She says, “Look how calm. Look how docile.”

Julia raises her face. There is no trace of fear. Her dark eyes squint slightly at the towering, armored woman but do not waiver. It appears to Loche that she is attempting to work out how to escape. But she cannot hide the effect of the Rathinalya. Her right hand clutches the key necklace under her shirt and her right leg trembles beneath her kneeling body. The series of Julia’s trials cascade across Loche’s memory. From Rearden’s gunshot wound to Helen’s vicious cruelty, Julia’s newly found immortality has brought little joy. But now what? Loche wonders. What more will she be forced to endure? Can I stop it?

“The pain of exile,” Cynthia pronounces, “is something we have all shared in words together—told our tales to one another, have we not?” She drops a venomous scowl to Julia, and then turns to the sleeping boy, “But mighty Thi, my Lord and Maker, I think it infinitely more powerful to show you the torment and misery you have wrought within us through banishment.”

The two guards grab Julia’s shoulders and arms as she involuntarily flails her body to escape. Both of Cynthia’s hands seize Julia’s face. One clamps over her mouth, the other pinches her nostril’s shut. Cynthia wrenches her captive’s head and crushes it against her armored abdomen.

“Does it not feel like this, brothers and sisters?” Cynthia hisses between her teeth. “Banishment from Thi’s creation? To endure perpetual epochs away from Thi’s masterwork? Does it not feel like this?” The throng is silent, but Loche senses an overwhelming wave of empathetic pain and longing. Tears form in the eyes of some watching—as if Julia’s desperate need of air is a sensation well known among them—but only a metaphoric hint at the real torment they have been forced to endure as they suffered the torture of banishment.

Julia writhes and thrashes, thirsting for oxygen. The white ovals of her eyes are wide in terror.

“This is what we suffer! We, deathless gods through time unfathomable, beholding that which we cannot have!” Julia’s body jerks violently. “And if by some miracle we break Thi’s ancient law, and we arrive here, we cross over, and we taste the salt of the sea, touch the lips of a lover, hear the voice of a laughing child, scent the spilling blood of our enemies—”

The woman’s merciless grip tightens, tearing deeper into her victim’s skin. Julia slowly loses strength. Her resistance convulses and recedes. The two guards let go as her arms drop limply to her sides. Cynthia throws Julia’s head forward and down—her right cheek smashes into the wood slatted stage. Her nose is bleeding. She coughs, spraying blood out in bright red beads.

The struggle between rushing to her aid and remaining hidden starts a hammer-like pressure beating within Loche’s inner ear. He shakes his head attempting to rouse his senses to some kind of order.

“And behold, the suffering of the Immortal!” Julia’s eyes flip open as she heaves in gulps of air. “Our treacherous enemy that, for eons, has starved our lungs from life’s breath—we do not forget! We cannot.” She speaks to Julia, “The sight of your pain is to us like the delicious oxygen you drink in now, Orathom Wis cur!”

Cynthia crouches down beside Julia. “But for this short season,” her tone softening, “we are not banished. For this brief moment in eternity, we will breathe, and we shall taste, and touch. We shall listen to the screams of our enemies, and we shall watch them bleed.”

She appeals to the throng, “Shall we make her bleed?”

The chorus of ecstasy and anger is like a dagger stabbed into Loche’s ear.

Julia struggles to gain her composure. A light white foam envelops the cuts along her nose. Her right eye is swollen shut.

Cynthia raises her hand and the clamor dies again.

“Or shall we make all of our enemies bleed?” she asks simply. She rises from Julia and strides to Edwin’s raised body. “For we are but surrounded by enemies, it seems.” She positions herself behind the sleeping child and stares out to the assembly.

“Some of our enemies we must seek out. We will know them by sight.” She looks at Edwin, “But, as the Fates would have it, enemies are delivered into our keeping without understanding. So often our piteous senses seek outward for adversaries, when in truth, the real demon lurks within.”

The gathering issues sounds of revelation and fear. Loche’s adrenaline surges and his focus narrows on the distance between his son and himself.

A man nearby utters a whispered, “No.”

Others sound out affirmation. “Our Creator is our torture,” one shouts.

A few begin to chant, “Thi is pain!”

A gleaming long-bladed dagger flashes like a spark thrown from between the framing fires. Cynthia raises it with both hands above her head and aims its point downward at Edwin’s chest. She holds the pose and watches the audience. Gasps of shock rush in the air like the sound of sea spray in a storm.

Many things happen simultaneously.

Seeing the suspended knife, Loche’s hand flies to his sword hilt. Just as his body commits to a lunge forward, a hand on his shoulder yanks him back. The heat of a hissing whisper tears into his left ear. “Do you believe in the Devil?” the voice says. “For there she is. Behold the Nicolas Cythe to come.” Instantaneously, Loche notes that the words are spoken in perfect modern English. His head swivels to see another robed man. Within the shadowed hood are the familiar deep brown eyes of Corey Thomas. His breath smells of scotch. “You have friends here. You are not alone. Do not attack yet. Be still. Trust me…”

At the sight of the dagger, a maniacal tremor of both debate and epiphany sweeps through the crowd. One shouts, “It must be done! God hath taken our lives, let us take His! Kill the boy god!”

Another cries, “Stay your hand, O Cynthia! Vengeance will be Thi’s in the end!”

“If He is truly Thi, He will save himself!”

“Kill him!”

For Loche Newirth, reason and hope fade. Periphery blurs. The single instinct to hurl himself to the space between the dagger and his son ignites every muscle. Unable to process Corey’s words, his legs press toward his son. Corey’s grip intensifies and sends flashes of searing white light through Loche’s vision. His limbs paralyze. His mind overloads with helpless fury.

“Do not move, Loche. Not yet. She will not strike. Wait.”

Cynthia holds the sacrificial dagger high and surveys the riotous storm before her.

She cries out, “Hold your breath, brothers and sisters. Hold your breath…”