Clay and Ash

By: Griffin Cobb

Ailwyn trudged through the damp marsh. Ultar, her sundered town laying burnt just beyond the hill. Pale remains of grass soaked up the red sky, sunset fast approaching. 

For months, she’d known of her home’s fate. She imagined it to be a relatively quick demise. Without her or her wife, the town didn’t have many who could put up a fight. Looking towards the ruined walls of the village, she could barely see the charred skeletons of houses. Once, Ultar had been known for a striking silhouette. Now it lay flat, shadowed and clinging to the ground.

Ailwyn couldn’t muster much grief. Her excursions on the battlefield had provided much more gruesome sights. She’d left this town with her entire soul invested in revenge, no part of her had remained. 

But that was true everywhere. She had seen to her vengeance, and was now left with nothing. Close to nothing, at least. Though her world had little left to offer, and she little left to offer the world, she could still seek closure. A send off to those she had abandoned. Her mother, truly. With no weapon in hand, she wasn’t sure what more she could be, and so she’d chosen to be an end. 

It wasn’t impossible for any in Ultar to have survived the attack, but it wasn’t likely. Ailwyn didn’t believe she would find her mother alive. She wasn’t sure she wanted to, in honesty, for she wouldn’t know how to answer for her abandonment. No, all she could hope for at this point was that the body was intact, and she could provide a proper funeral.

With a heft, Ailwyn clawed onto the dry hill, lifting herself out of the muck. Mud muffled the clinking of armor she wore, and a small pouch tied to her belt nearly pulled free. Discomfort melded into frustration. Each step tore at the ground, scattering earth and root back into the marsh. She loathed her lethargy.

She hated these outskirts as well when she was a child. Insects that swarmed the still water would infest any who ventured close, and her young self couldn’t stand the buzzing, nor the dirt. Dirt covered one’s skin from the light of god, her mother used to say. For years she scrubbed herself raw bathing every night. The air had stung.

Ultar stood before her, larger than she remembered. As she approached, red light scattered across her grime-covered face. This area hadn’t seen rain in nearly a year, the fires from its demise still finding fuel to char. The front gates still loomed, though they now wore scorch marks and were left wide open. In front of them, a singular pole stood, shoved into the ground. Ailwyn refused to look at it, keeping a distance before walking into the entrance.

She had not been home since joining the militia, hunting the very same marauders that first killed her wife, and would later burn her village. A band of miscreants that, in a time of dwindling resources, decided to take what they needed as they pleased. They were all dead now. A final stand one month ago pushed their remaining forces into a valley. Ailwyn had risen to commander at this point, and organized forces to encircle the enemy. Those that wore the orange arm bands of the marauders learned to cower when facing her. She personally saw to the final slaughter. If any had somehow escaped, fear would forever shackle them in hiding.

Inside the walls, the atmosphere felt hollow. No bodies visible through the decimated buildings. Ailwyn could feel a foolish hope bubble in her chest, but quickly swallowed it. She’d spent months fighting the marauders; had seen their work first hand. Wherever you tried to hide would just become your tomb.

 The only life left were some still smoldering fires that clung onto the last pieces of lumber. Smoke and mist laid heavy on the ground. Ailwyn had come to enjoy the smell of burning wood, the strong odor helpful for covering the scent of burnt flesh. 

Despite that, the emptiness of the streets was more eerie than if the carnage was apparent. Ailwyn stopped, hesitant before deeply inhaling in the hopes of some sign of decay. Nothing came of it. Embers of hope would continue in her heart if she couldn’t find physical proof of the masacre, so Ailwyn diverted from the path to her mother’s home and made way towards the nearest residential district. 

Lumbering through cobbled roads, Ailwyn eventually arrived at a familiar building, the storefront and home of a florist she used to frequent. 

When she was a child, she’d visited Wilhelmina frequently, a naive but hopeful part of her wishing to one day become a florist. Flowers had been the most beautiful thing to her, and she’d often sneak out to pick wild ones for her mother. Wilhelmina would help Ailwyn arrange them, give her some twine to wrap them, and occasionally provide some of her personal blooms. Her mother would berate her for sneaking out, but the flowers would always end up in the center of the house, before they wilted and Ailwyn would pick more. Besides her mother, flowers had been beauty itself. Then Ailwyn met her wife. Then there were marauders. Even the flowers had been burned away.

Half of the florist’s second story had caved in, crushing some of the level below it. Support beams jutted through the wreckage, and the outside was coated with dried soil and shards of porcelain pots. Ailwyn could see decayed remains of flora strewn about. 

The front door frame still stood, and coming out of it were three, large dogs, mated and emaciated, working to pull a corpse out of the home. Though mangled and decayed, the leather gloves were enough to identify Wilhelmina. Ailwyn froze, but not before one of the dogs locked eyes with her. They dropped a limb from their jaw, slowly stepping over the body. Drool poured onto the streets. The other two quickly followed, three beasts now preparing to pounce.

Instinct overtook and Ailwyn turned on her heel. Barks roared out from behind. Adrenaline surged to cover her exhaustion as she darted towards the nearest building still somewhat intact. The dogs would outrun her if she gave them time, she had to hide. To her left, what she knew to have been a butcher appeared to be standing. Most importantly, it still had a door. Ailwyn dashed in before slamming the door behind her. The hinges had nearly given out, but it was a shield none-the-less. She held it up by the doorknob and braced it with her shoulder, steadying her breath. 

For a moment, the barking grew quiet. All was still as Ailwyn stifled shallow breaths, before a tremendous force slammed into the other side of the door, knocking her back slightly and tearing off what remained of the hinges. She pushed back, but not before two muzzles could squeeze through the frame. They snapped at Ailwyn’s legs, wedging the door further and further open. Trying not to lose leverage in the process, she tried to kick and knee at the snapping jaws. But unfortunate timing resulted in one of the dogs biting behind her armor, digging into the back of her knee. Ailwyn cursed and tried to set her leg back, though she couldn’t straighten it all the way without opening the wound more. Crimson seeped onto the floor. The dogs barked faster— food. The blood invigorating them. But so too did it awaken Ailwyn. Her head thumped, and fire spread through her veins, the only feeling that had been keeping her alive burning once more. Rage.

She dug her heels into the floor, leaned back, before slamming her entire weight against the door. One head wedged between the frame and Ailwyn cracked with the impact. As whimpers spilled out, Ailwyn continued to crash against the door, again, and again, and again. Eventually the whimpering stopped, but Ailwyn couldn’t. Again, and again, and again, until she pushed against the door only for it to meet the door frame instead of skull. She stilled, then leaned the door back slightly. She saw one mangy body, viscera and shattered bone for a head. 

For a moment, exhaustion creeped back in, and the ringing in her ear subsided, before being replaced by a low growl. There had been three dogs. She turned to a wall she hadn’t noticed was partially collapsed, the second of the mutts stumbling over. It leaped onto the still standing counter, where a chopping block sat empty except for a butcher's knife. The dog snarled, looking between Ailwyn and its brutalized brother. Part of its hunger now replaced with fear, it hesitated. Ailwyn didn’t. She ran straight for the dog, closing a fist around its snout before it could snap at her. The other hand reached for the knife. She twisted her elbow to push the dog on its side, raising her other hand before cleaving into its neck. No howl of pain came this time, a single strike silencing the beast. But Ailwyn continued to slash until the knife stuck into the wood. Ailwyn hated how ugly survival was, but part of her needed it. The horror fueled her fight. 

She let go of the knife and leaned against the counter. The room was silent again, broken only by Ailwyn’s heaving. Rage faded with each breath, and her consciousness returned. With it, confirmation of her worth. An attempt to bury a friend turned into slaughter. Wilhelmina had used her tools to cultivate, to brighten homes and mothers’ moods. Ailwyn lay amidst obscene gore even for a butchery. 

She sank in the silence for a time, before it was broken by another growl, further away this time, back outside— the last dog. Ailwyn raised herself back up, then grabbed the knife. She unwedged it from the counter, then stalked out the door. If she could handle just one more filthy dog, perhaps she could lay to rest Wilhelmina’s body. She could atone for something, at least. Abandoning this town as it lived, death was all she had left to serve.

Outside the door, she saw the dog, back turned to her, stalking towards the body. Ailwyn stepped forward, then perked her head to the side. Down the road, she saw a small figure, standing. A child? 

Another step forward, Ailwyn winced. The gash on her leg was deeper than she’d thought. She was lightheaded. Looking back, the child was still there, silhouetted against the fading sun. The dog stalked closer, the death of its brethren now making it question the worth of fresh meat. Ailwyn wrestled with the same question. She needed to send off Wilhelmina. The child could be a distraction. Less carnage at the hands of Ailwyn. She matched pace with the dog and slinked behind, waiting for it to take off. The child was too far away for Ailwyn to make out details, especially with the sun surrounding her. This was better. She wouldn’t have to watch. 

Closer and closer Ailwyn inched to the body, the dog still seemingly trying to decide which prey to go after. Just as she reached Wilhelmina, however, the dog turned and snarled at her. It wanted the body. 

With a running leap, it flung itself onto Ailwyn. She braced against it, but her injured leg gave out, sending the two to the ground. The pouch that had loosened in her trek through the marsh now flew off out of view. Jaws snapped around the arm with the knife. Teeth clanked against the armor, but some found their way through to flesh. Ailwyn stifled a cry. 

More blood. Closer to death. Closer to an end she thought she’d already reached. For a moment, she thought to take this answer the world had given her. Die to a mutt the way the rest of her city had. But her heart now burned with a desire to atone. Despite her battles and bloodshed, wars were not over until the dead saw the same peace the living did.

She reached around the mutt's giant head and grabbed the knife with her other hand. Ailwyn slashed it across the back of its neck, pulling her arm free and then wrestling the howling body onto its back. The knife raised high, glinting against the waning sunset like a fire. Ailwyn brought it down into the chest of the beast. It struck bone, but didn’t kill the dog. So she raised up, and struck again.

Ailwyn wasn’t sure which strike did it. Sunlight and blood coated her senses. When she felt aware once more, the knife had chipped against the stone, her own fist deep within the still chest cavity of the final mutt. 

Before the thoughts of guilt could return, a squeaky, childish voice rang out behind her.

“Baba, Baba! Look, look, it’s someone!” 

A much older voice, like a pen on parchment, responded. “Malysh, calm yourself. Dogs wander here.” 

Ailwyn stood up from what was left of the dog and turned to see the young girl, no more than ten, standing a few paces away from Wilhelmina’s corpse. Her hair was black, wavy and matted, and despite the gruesome scene her amber eyes shone with intrigue. She looked from the dog, to Ailwyn, Wilhelmina, and then back to Ailwyn.

“Did you kill the dogs?” asked the girl with an eerie sense of enthusiasm. Before Ailywn could respond the girl shouted back, “Baba the dogs died! This lady killed them over here.”

Behind the girl, an old woman stood, hunched and wrinkled. Her eyes were as gray as her hair, and she looked as if she was constantly suspicious of something around the corner.

“Malysh, no yelling, I am right here.” She looked over at Ailwyn. “You, dog killer. Who are you, where are you from?”

Ailwyn couldn’t respond. She stood, silent, glancing back and forth between the strangers. Hope once again burned as it crawled up her throat. People, alive. She didn’t recognize them, but Ultar had been large, and she’d been away for months. More might have survived. Her mother…

And she had chosen to protect a corpse rather than those that still breathed. Ailwyn swallowed the hope again and buried it. Still chasing the dead, abandoning the living. All this death and she had not changed. Mixed with the blood loss and exhaustion, this was near enough to bring her to her knees. But she persisted. She didn’t truly want to, but some part of her, as it always had, kept her persisting. So she let herself stay standing, and faced the two new townspeople.

 “I am Ailwyn,” she said. Her voice was hoarse, she couldn’t really remember the last time she’d spoken out loud. It hadn’t been since the final hunt. “Militia Commander and Hunter,” she added. It felt uncomfortable to use titles with so little sense of self, but the military will instill anyone with habits.  “Ultar was my home, before the hunt.”

The young girl—Malysh, she’d been called—looked towards Ailwyn with wonder. The old woman, Baba, continued to look suspicious. Baba said, “This town is home no more, massacred.”

“I, I’d heard,” Ailwyn said. “I’ve come back to scavenge what I could find, offer a proper funeral to those I knew.”

Baba scoffed. “Waste of time. In dirt or above dirt, dead are still dead.” 

Something about that Ailwyn couldn’t understand boiled her blood. “We don’t bury, we burn,” she said, but Baba turned and sneered, not caring for the difference.

Malysh still looked at Ailwyn with glowing eyes. “Baba has food, you should come with us,” she said. Ailwyn couldn’t remember the last time she’d eaten, but all that had just happened twisted her stomach. 

Still, the thought of food emphasized her hunger. She looked towards Wilhelmina’s body. “Let me finish my business,” she said. She’d just come for her mother, but to ignore another body already at her feet, she owed this entire town too much. If she could, she’d set all of Ultar ablaze, returning her home to ash. 

“That’s okay,” said Malysh. “I’ll wait for you down the street.” She turned on a heel and skipped ahead, shouting after Baba. The jovial nature of the child felt out of place in the town of death. It made Ailwyn more uncomfortable than anything.

Pushing aside her shock and confusion at the unexpected encounter, Ailwyn spent the next hour searching for and finding various cloth scraps still left after the pillage. She used two to bandage her leg and arm wounds, then continued to pilfer until enough scraps covered Wilhelmina. She reached to her side for the pouch she kept, only to grasp at nothing. Frantically she spun around before spotting it several paces away from the dog corpse. She brought it back over to the now wrapped corpse. The pouch was rigid leather with a cork at the end, perfect for holding oil. Many in Ultar carried these, used to light a number of things on fire, but mainly the dead. Ailwyn had only ever seen it used when her mother helped burn the horses who had died from disease. Cleansed are we all in ash, she would say. 

She doused Wilhelmina’s body, then took a nearby rock and struck it against the butcher's knife. A spark flew onto the grave, and the florist became engulfed in flames. Ailwyn muttered a prayer under her breath. The prayer was to no one and meant nothing—Ailwyn didn’t have the faith to make it anything more—but habit and exhaustion barely lead to reason. 

Ailwyn couldn’t spare much more oil, but such was the price to atone. Eventually, Ailwyn stood back up, and in the middle of the road saw Malysh standing, barely visible against the now sunless sky. She carried with her a small lantern, a candle in it’s center. The only other source of illumination now was Wilhelmina, and the only source of heat, Ailwyn realized, as she walked towards the child.

The two began walking towards the city center. Malysh kept skipping forward before stopping and waiting for Ailwyn to catch up. She’d tried to muster the energy to ask questions of Malysh, though uncertain the child had any useful answers, but instead Ailwyn was bombarded with curiosity. 

“So you came from here?” Malysh asked.

“What do you mean?”

“This place is your home right? That’s what you said earlier.”

“Yes, I was born and raised here.” Ailwyn sighed. “Though it hasn’t been home in some time.”

“Why’d you leave?” Malysh had skipped ahead, looking at Ailwyn from ahead. The lantern light against her amber eyes making it as if they were glowing.

“To join the hunt.” Ailwyn wasn’t sure how much this child knew of the marauders or militia, but it felt pointless to try and sensor herself.

“What’s the hunt?” Malysh asked as Ailwyn caught up. 

“Several towns formed a militia to hunt down the marauders who had been plaguing our lands.” Memories of Katya, Ailwyn’s wife, ran through her mind. When she arrived as Ultar’s original appointed knight. When they met during Ailwyn’s first week running the stables instead of her mother. The many nights they would ride together outside the town, briefly forgetting all but each other. The one night Ailwyn decided to not go for a ride, instead tending to the stables with her mother. The next morning, when she and the town found Katya’s head mounted on a pike outside the front gate.

Ailwyn looked up to see Malysh once again far ahead, eyes glowing against the lantern light. 

“So you joined to kill them?” said Malysh.

Ailwyn met her eyes. “Yes.”

The two eventually arrived at a mostly intact market stall in the central circle, where Baba sat on an overturned crate stoking a fire made of wooden utensils and other scraps and rubble. 

The old woman did not look at the two, but said “Malysh, sit. Other child, sit or leave.”

Malysh skipped over to the opposite side of the fire where a tattered blanket laid, with a small clump of something Ailwyn couldn’t really see until Malysh picked it up. It was a sewn toy. A dog. Straw leaked out of one of its sides, and its brown color seemed to be a result of time rather than intentional design. 

“Sit or leave. Standing isn’t option,” said Baba again. 

Ailwyn sat at the edge of the fire. The warmth slowly soaked through her armor and eased her chill. Baba reached to her side before handing both Malysh and Ailwyn a cluster of vegetation, edible roots and leaves. She ate none herself. 

With the warmth and food, sleep called to Ailwyn relentlessly. Moments after eating, Malysh had already fallen asleep, a blanket folded around her and stuffed dog clutched tightly. But questions rang too loud in her head for Ailwyn to sleep just yet.

“Who are you two?” she asked a still awake but silent Baba. “Where are you from? I’ve never seen either of you within Ultar.”

“You ask too much questions,” Baba said. She remained silent for a time, but Ailwyn continued to stare at her. Eventually, she matched Ailwyn’s gaze. Her eyes were almost completely clouded over. All Ailwyn could see was the reflected flames.

“We are from North. Dratzik.” Ailwyn had heard of the town. She’d traded horses to them during her work at the stable. “Small cluster of farms. Marauders burned it years ago, one of their first attacks.” Katya had been sent to Ultar in response to Dratzik’s fall. Ailwyn’s chill returned.

Baba starred up into the night sky. “Survivors gathered and fled to nearby towns. They kept burning. The girl and I are what remains. Now we’re here. Already burnt, works better.”

Despite Ailwyn trying so desperately to let her hope wither on its own, the two being outsiders killed what small part of her heart wished someone from Ultar survived. True, they had survived a marauder attack, but years ago the monsters were sloppy. Ultar burned at the height of their cruelty, and Ailwyn had let it.

“You are knight, child?” Baba asked, still staring at the sky.

Ailwyn sighed. “I don’t think you could call me that anymore. I was a part of the militia, joined two years ago.”

“Yes, but you were knight here, no?”

“How did you know?”

“You said Ultar was home. No commoner joins militia and survives.”

Though Baba gazed at the sky, Ailwyn felt like the woman’s eyes were drilling through her. “I- yes. Before I left, they appointed me knight.” 

“Appointed, what happened to old knight?”

“She was killed. The marauders caught her on a patrol on the outskirts.” Ailwyn hadn’t talked about Katya since her death. For the first time in recent memory, exhaustion and rage were pushed aside, grief settling into her stomach. Like a child, she hugged her knees to her chest.

Baba continued with questions. “Why you? What makes you knight?”

“I ran the stables before, kept me fairly physically able. And there wasn’t much need for horses when no one wanted to leave the village. I was what the town could spare.”

“Boredom and strength all knight needs,” Baba said. Ailwyn couldn’t tell if it was a question or a statement. She also didn’t realize tears had begun welling in her eyes. She looked up so that they could fall away. In the sky, she saw stars speckled across the night, though the fire’s light washed some out. 

As they both looked up, Baba eventually said “It is good you left. If you stayed, tried to be knight— you would be dead too.” 

Ailwyn agreed, and she hated it. She seethed silently, unsure what else to say, or if she wanted to say anything more. That hatred bubbled until exhaustion took over, and Ailwyn fell asleep.

In sleep, Ailwyn dreamed of her mother, teaching her how to brush a horse's mane. Then of Wilhelmina, arranging flowers in a vase Ailwyn had snuck out of their house. Katya’s smile as she handed Ailwyn a ring. Then her death. Then the town council appointed Ailwyn as Katya's replacement. Her mother had argued against it into the night. That same night, Ailwyn snuck off, abandoning her town to track down those who’d taken Katya away from her. The news that weeks later that Ultar had fallen, defenseless.

Ailwyn jolted upright, her clothes stuck to her with cold sweat. Her head pounded in time with her rapid heartbeat. Slowly, she tried to steady her breath, and eventually the ringing left her ears. She looked around to see the fire now smoldering embers. Baba and Malysh were wrapped in their ragged blankets, asleep. It was still night out, the moon now at its zenith. 

She needed to find her mother. Quickly and quietly as possible, Ailwyn tried placing some of her armor back on. In attempting to wear her gauntlets, a pauldron lost its balance and struck the ground. The crash echoed into the silent night. Ailwyn winced and looked over to the two. Malysh stirred slightly, but after a moment rested back to a still sleep. Feeling like the process was taking too long, Ailwyn gave up on her armor and just grabbed the butcher's knife.

Her mother’s house, her home, was north. It was close to the stables, where her mother and eventually Ailwyn had worked. As she walked through the silent city, memories she’d avoided for years flooded in. Brushing horses and cleaning hooves. Clean bathes and raw skin. A loving smile and imprisoning expectations. Her mother wasn’t a harsh person, but whereas time would erode the largest mountains, her mother would remain unchanged in mind, spirit, and body for the most part. The last she saw her mother, she had been nearly sixty, yet not a gray hair shone through her near black hair, nor a smile through her tight lips. 

As she approached the north wall, stiff and sore, Ailwyn caught the faintest glow of orange emanating from the street. Her heart froze. A fire. Once again hope pressed against her chest while her mind tried to quell it. Buildings could still be burning, surely the marauder’s hadn’t turned everything to ash. There was hardly rain in Ultar, so it would make sense the inferno had survived in small patches. But Malysh and Baba were alive. They’d set up a fire. They’d found food. Her mother could have done the same. Lords, her mother could be alive.

Ailwyn, for the first time she could remember, let hope simmer within her. It wasn’t more than an ember, but it wasn’t immediately doused. Instead, it pulled her towards the glow, slowly. For each step, Ailwyn’s heart beat ten fold. By the time she turned the corner, her amber eyes glowed like flame. She would see her mother. She could forgive her. She could be forgiven.

And there she was. A large campfire blazed behind, fueled by large beams of wood that had once supported homes. Against it, her mothers black hair still stood out, as if it absorbed light itself. Her angular features were still apparent, though sunken. Eyes had faded in color, though Ailwyn couldn’t see them as clearly, as they had rolled back into her skull. She wore the same smock she’d worn the night Ailwyn had left, though it laid loose, spilling out across cobblestones. Her mother laid on her side, gaunt and unmoving. Dead.

Ailwyn would never atone.

The once ember of hope became a vacuum, cold, even against the night air. The sinking pit in her stomach was so quick, she became slightly disoriented. So much so, that she had completely ignored the three figures surrounding her mother’s body. Ailwyn clutched the knife. More dogs? No, these were larger. They were hunched over, and the fire obscured their features, but they were human. All that Ailwyn could make out was orange cloth tied around each of their arms. 

The three marauders seemed to notice her at the same time. They each scurried around her mother’s body, still hunched and defensive. Their movement was unnatural, and as Ailwyn caught glimpses of their faces, covered in ash and blood, she questioned whether or not they were still human. As she processed all that she’d witnessed thus far, however, questions and concerns fell into that same pit in her stomach. All pity, guilt, and exhaustion burned away as well, all overtaken by the same inferno of rage that she’d unleashed on the last group of marauders. Ailwyn let out a roar before charging the men, knife in hand. 

The three seemed to recoil at the sound. To call them men was questionable. They guarded themselves as beasts would. Ailwyn had never thought them to be any different. In a moment, she had reached the group. One bolted away while two dashed around and tried to claw at her from both sides. Ailwyn lunged forward to slash at one, but her leg wound slowed her enough for the marauder to side step, then crash into her. She would have been knocked to her feet, if it wasn’t for the second marauder slamming into her back. Ailwyn felt a hand jab into her side, nails like claws, tearing flesh. There was no cry of pain, however. She had no more of that.

As the one in front of her tried to bite down on her, she slammed a fist into his back before pushing him to the side. She used the momentum to spin around and slash at the one on her back, this time hitting her mark. The knife cleaved across his stomach, blood and entrails following its path. The marauder stumbled before Ailwyn kicked him onto his back. The first marauder rested on all fours, preparing once again to pounce on her. Behind, the third looked to be just watching, waiting to see if it should run or not. Ailwyn would not give it the option.

The first marauder hissed before it jumped towards her. Despite the dog fight earlier leaving her injured, it had prepared Ailwyn’s reflexes. Using her good leg, she dashed to the side as the marauder flung itself into an empty space. Another step, and before it landed, Ailwyn grabbed at what hair it had left. The force of its lunge pulled back its head, leaving her knife to swing into its neck. It shore through about half way before Ailwyn pulled it across and out. The marauder fell, head now perpendicular to its body.

Ailwyn looked to the third, ready to dash towards it. 

“Ailwyn?”

She paused. Up the street, where she’d entered, Malysh stood, bleary eyed, dog toy in hand. At the same time, the marauder looked towards the child. All of a sudden, all Ailwyn’s rage melted to fear.

Voice, hoarse, and softer than she would have liked, Ailwyn said, “Run.”

Malysh looked confused, still unphased by the gore and horror around her. 

The marauder ran towards her.

Ailwyn sprinted forward.

A hand wrapped around her leg. She toppled forward, head hitting cobblestone. She looked back to see the disemboweled marauder still clinging to life and now her. She kicked and freed her leg, then sunk the knife into the thing's skull. What little life remained now gone. 

Malysh screamed.

Ailwyn turned and scrambled to her feet. She raced towards the street entrance, quickly coming across the marauder, once again hunched over, ignoring her presence. With the momentum of her spring, Ailwyn plunged the knife straight through the final man’s skull, sending him toppling against stone. 

Breath, heavy breathing. The large fire crackled from behind. Ailwyn kneeled down to a still Malysh. The small child was pale, dead. Her neck now bore teeth marks, and amber eyes now stared ahead, hollow. 

Ailwyn sat, still as the dead. She hadn’t changed. Ultar carried one more body because Ailwyn tried to chase the deceased. There was no atonement. There was no forgiveness. Ailwyn was damned. Perhaps she’d always been, continuously living despite others dying. Life was damnation. 

Grief and rage and fear left her. All things left her. Ailwyn was empty, nothing more to keep her stepping forward.

But nothing keeping her from standing still.

She reached down, gingerly scooping Malysh into her arms. Together, they walked over to the fire, light shining across Ailwyn’s amber eyes. She leaned over and placed the young child’s body onto the pyre, flames licking across her arms. Ailwyn gave no reaction. 

Her mother was next, what was left of her, that is. She leaned against pillars, next to a child she never knew, and a child she’d forgotten.

Despite everything, Ailwyn sat the marauders within the pyre as well. They were flung into it, behind Malysh and her mother, but they too would be cleansed.

Ailwyn walked around and kneeled in front of the pyre. She watched as the bodies charred and flaked. The smell of burning flesh and wood mixed into a new scent, unfamiliar. The heat beat against Ailwyn’s skin, but she welcomed it rather than the cold. Mud still stuck within her garments from the marsh baked into clay against the heat, now rigid in its shape.

Staring into the fire, watching as family and enemy turned to ash, Ailwyn saw as the soot and flames swirled together. Shapes formed, danced. Either the pyre came alive or her consciousness exaggerated life, but forms of horses ran across beams like dirt roads. People danced with dresses made of ash. Ailwyn saw her mother and wife weep and embrace as Katya asked for her blessing; Wilhelmina denying Katya’s payment, giving her their wedding bouquet for free; Her and Ailwyn dancing, bathed in the light of the setting sun. 

She saw the past, where she was a child unscathed, obsessed with dogs and loving flowers. She saw futures. Her mother, old, shorter, still smiling. Her hair had finally gone gray, and her eyes had slightly clouded, but she still bore a deep smile. She saw the present. Herself, born of flames. Hollow, but flowing, no longer rigid. Ash brushed against her cheek.