This piece is an excerpt from a short story inspired by duality and contradiction. Fantasy has always been my favorite genre to both write and read, so this piece was a joy to create!
Asha tugged at Anjali’s silk skirts pleadingly. “Please don’t leave again, Ani! You’re always disappearing in the night!”
“I’m sorry, Ash, but you know I have special responsibilities. We’ll do something fun tomorrow.” Anjali smoothed back her little sister’s hair before handing her off to the nursemaid.
Anjali made her way to the dining hall to attend to her subjects. The common folk that flocked to see her fell to their knees and stretched their hands toward her, all hoping to be blessed by their resident saint. The long banquet tables were lined with diyas, and flowers of every hue were strewn across the tabletops and floors. The heady perfume of petals and spices wafted through the air. Anjali padded through the aisle of worshippers every night, touching the foreheads of those whose souls called out to her. Something in her could feel pain and sickness in others, and her own magic rose to heal them. A simple touch was enough to bless illness away.
Satisfied that her little sister and worshippers were taken care of, Anjali turned her mind toward the events to come. She made her nightly pilgrimage to the Holy Grove in her private gardens. The haven was forbidden to all, even her dear sister Asha. Anjali came to an enclosure of trees surrounding an altar and a perfectly round, reflective pond. She placed a flower she’d crafted upon the stone altar and knelt before the water. She whispered in an ancient language, the ground humming with the energy of her words. Once her spell was set, she rose to her feet. She turned away from the pond and looked up at the moonless, star-speckled sky above her. Then she took a breath and allowed herself to fall backward.
She fell into the clear water without disturbing its mirrorlike surface. As she sank further into the darkness, she felt herself change. Her sage-green dress deepened to black, and her baby’s-breath crown turned to one of foxglove. More disturbing than her sartorial changes were the shifts she felt within her. The rot and poison she kept locked within herself bubbled to the surface. Her powers itched at her fingers.
Anjali emerged from the pond, bone-dry and hungry. She looked upward and saw a pitch-black sky illuminated by a single blue-white moon. She made her way through her gardens to her obsidian palace. The heavy doors swung open as if by their own accord.
Anjali drifted to her study, where a leather-bound ledger sat upon her desk. Its pages were covered in names, all written in black and accompanied by red-ink checks beside them. There were seven new, checkless entries since the night before. She mentally recorded the names and set off toward the first name on her list.
Elenore Hutchinson. Using the name as a tether, she passed rows of small, quiet homes before coming upon the one she knew undoubtedly held Elenore. Anjali gave the door three swift knocks, the trademark call of the Harbinger of Death, a signal that allowed families notice to compose themselves for her entrance. The door opened to reveal a small, pallid woman. She wordlessly stepped aside to let Anjali within. The dimly lit abode was host to several children, who arranged themselves in a line, breaths bated.
Anjali saw no sense in making the affair any longer than it need be. “Elenore.” She stated the name with no explanation, for they all knew what was coming.
The girl could not be more than thirteen, her eyes deep blue and full of life. A dreadful mix of excitement and disgust ran through Anjali. She put the feelings aside and beckoned the girl forward.
“Elenore Hutchinson, you have been marked for death. You may say your farewells.” Anjali had delivered those words countless times, learning to swallow her emotions from shaking her voice.
Elenore eventually disentangled herself from her family’s embrace and sat before Anjali. Her power singed at the prospect of exercising itself on this girl. She gently cupped Elenore’s face in her hands. Elenore’s lip quivered, but she did not cry as Anjali often saw grown men do when faced with death. She almost regretted having to take this girl’s life. Almost.
Anjali closed her eyes. She was washed in coldness as she spilled her magic into Elenore. She envisioned the heart ceasing to beat, blood stagnating in the girl’s veins. Only when Anjali felt Elenore’s body go slack in her hands did she open her eyes, gently slumping the lifeless body back against the chair. An acolyte would arrive soon to collect the body and see to the burial. Anjali nodded briefly to Elenore’s sobbing mother before leaving. She put a mental check next to Elenore’s name before setting off for the next person on her list.
When the first rays of light began to illuminate the sky, Anjali was exhausted. She returned to the pond, placing a lock of hair from one of her victims upon the altar. Taking one last look at the slowly lightening sky, she fell backward into the water.