Undo.

The screams of the child entered Tic's head like an explosion and brought him to his knees. How could it come to this, the life of a child for his? Agony swept up inside of him, rushing the blood to his head and throwing him off balance. He grasped the edge of the wall and looked to the ground as it swayed dizzily before him. He let himself fall and buried his face in the ground, closing his eyes but not going unconscious. He struggled to keep his mind alert as he allowed the fainting spell to pass over him. The waves of dizziness finally subsided, and he raised himself against the wall, opening his eyes to a blurry scene of fiery chaos.

Villagers were fleeing in every direction. Buildings were burning; fire and smoke bustled from the windows of shops and homes. Smoke filled the air, shading the world in grey and black. The guardians hurled flaming discs toward the village houses, which erupted into fiery explosions as they collided into walls. Tic could see it all happening in front of him, like a surreal dream, unreal and untouchable. Somewhere beyond the smoke-filled air he heard the collision of metal upon metal, gunshots and electricity. He saw the forms of black-clad figures fight, fall and flee from a pink-haired figure dashing to and fro, swooping upon her victims and slaying in single swings. Men were shouting, women were screaming, and somewhere amongst it all, a little girl was burning to death.

Though he wished he could not see it, he was drawn to the writhing mass of cloth, flesh and fire. His eyes were wide in a trance-like stupor, trapped onto that nightmarish vision, as his feet carried him toward it. The stench of charred skin had already reached him, churning his stomach in sickness. A warmth writhed within his chest as if his heart had caught aflame from the very sight of the girl on fire.

This was not where he imagined his life to turn. He could bear it no longer. His life and what control he had over it seemed to perish in those flames. Nothing would ever be the same. Nothing but the aching inside his heart that rose within him from the moment his heart learned to feel. That would remain forever; a scar, a gift, a desire to undo the wrong. The power to undo wrong. The power to undo death itself.

The guardian was already dead by the time Tic reached him. Dead from Miraye's sword. His eyes were shut and he appeared to be sleeping in the fire, holding his ragdoll to ease him into a sweet dream. Both he and his doll were cloaked in flames, their bodies whistling and cracking like fresh wood in a campfire. The girl was was nothing more than dead; her body was a mass of blackened flesh, crumbling and peeling the skin from her bones, melting away into nothingness. That is, until she opened her eyes.

The crystal clear blue of her eyes appeared dramatically radiant against the backdrop of molting flesh. The eyes widened at the sight of the boy leaning in toward her. What little strength that was left inside her was used to raise a withered black hand, as if to touch the boy's face. Without thinking, Tic laid his hand into the flames, slipping his fingers around the girl's. He leaned into the fire, flames licking his unscarred skin, so hot he could not feel anything but the girl's body as he slipped his arms around her and tore her from the corpse that bound her.

And when he did feel the pain, he did not scream, only closed his eyes and held the burnt doll in his arms. And even as the flames caught onto his clothes, he did not struggle, he did not throw himself to the ground. He stood up with the flaming black creature and walked to the pool of village drinking water. Each step he took was an eternity of pain, peace and death. There was fire, but something else was raging, something so unbearably hot that it did not feel like fire at all. Something so unbearably painful that it had become painless. Something he had felt before.

His eyes rolled upward, as if pulled to the sky. His heart tightened and relaxed, each beat alive in his chest, pumping something purer than blood through his veins. It overflowed and saturated his flesh, until every inch of skin was imbued with the immaculate touch. Looking down he saw the crystal clear stare of the girl in his arms, her skin as white as a dove's, as he pulled them both into the pool.

Army of Me.

Beyond the wall, men of the village were pelting stones and rubbish at the Guardians, who unsheathed their weapons and let their staves fly. Villagers climbing up the platform fell quickly as electricity shocked them to the ground. A brave villager had managed to get his hand around the hostage girl's ankle before shrieking and falling unconscious to the hiss of a stave. Angered, the Guardian holding the hostage threw the girl to the floor of the gallows stage and drew a large vial of black liquid from inside his cloak. He popped the cover and yanked the child from the ground. Holding her by the hair, he poured the grease over the girl's face, who whimpered and coughed, spitting the black substance from her mouth. The Guardian poured the grease until the girl's clothing was slick with it as well, then grabbed her by the collar and whipped her out in front of the crowd. The girl's tiny body dangled from his grip, feet kicking at the air hopelessly above the heads of the villagers.

"Villagers!" he cried above the ruckus, rattling the girl above the crowd like an undesired doll. The villagers immediately fell silent, defeated by the sight of the child doused in candle oil and the electric staff that hung threateningly near the hem of her dress.

"Are you audacious enough to risk the sanctity of your noble village? What men are you, I ask! What man would open his doors to terrorists and murderers? What man would let a child die to protect the life of a fugitive? You can still spare her!" He paused, waiting for a response. The crowd started murmuring, glancing to each other with suspicious and frightened gazes, as if they expected to so-called fugitive to reveal himself right there at that very moment.

The Guardian clicked the switch to the electric stave, which slowly powered up to a resonant hum. Small blue bolts of electric charges danced around a black globe, which crackled and sparked at the end of a metal staff, just beneath the girl's feet.

"What man would let a child die..." he screamed into the crowd, "to protect himself!" He threw his head around and watched the crowd, snarling. "What man, I ask! Show yourself, you coward! You are no man!"

The Guardian fell silent and waited. The villagers' started whispering to each other in panic. A haughty voice rose above the murmuring crowd, stating simply:

"You're right."

The villagers fell quiet and dispersed from source of the voice, leaving a gap in the crowd. A small girl stepped forward, throwing her hood back.

"I may not be a man... but I am no coward."

All onlookers went quiet, staring at the small girl in the crowd. The Guardians murmured amongst themselves. The lead Guardian knew it was her the moment he saw that atrocious rose-colored hair. The rumors were true after all. Looking down at her, he laughed.

"Sorceress. What a pleasant surprise. So pleased to finally meet you," he snarled. "Have you met Zenia?" He gestured the girl he held forward, who whimpered loudly, crying pleas at Miraye.

Miraye felt hatred boil like liquid fire at the base of her spine. She did not respond.

"And where is your friend? Have you come to hand him to us?" The guardian asked.

"What a useless cause," Miraye scoffed. "For such a useless boy."

The Guardians stared at her quizzically. She walked slowly toward the platform, her hands clasped together neatly, and continued speaking, looking up at the sky in thought.

"You don't want the girl who destroyed half a city? Who killed half your politicans? Who almost, but didn't quite... murder Larkin the Shrike?" she spoke with a grin.

The Guardian grunted. "We are aware of your accomplishments, witch, and surely would have pursued you had you not been presumed dead by his hand."

"Then why bother with the boy? I'm the one you want, and I'm right here."

"This is no time for heedless games, witch!" shouted a guardian.

"Take the girl, forget the boy! She's worth more, I'm sure!" whispered another.

"Are you a fool? She's killed thousands..."

"Silence!" yelled the lead Guardian. "We have orders, and we cannot disappoint the King." He looked toward Miraye, licking his lips. "And though your dead body is quite tempting...

"Hand yourself and the boy to us," he gestured to the child, "and she, and her village will not meet the same fate as the towns before us. The burning will end. The suffering will end. Maybe we will even... spare your lives, for a fair exchange." The Guardian's eyes fell downward upon Miraye's body, his lips curving into a terrible smile. "What man would abandon such a... fair exchange?"

"What man," she whispered. Blood sped through her veins to her fingers, the heat of madness rushing through her spine. Visions of that sandy-haired boy shattered before her eyes. Her pupils dilated and irises swirled, shifting colors into a ferocious red.

"What man... " she repeated to herself. She shut her eyes and pressed her fingertips together. The air around her hands appeared to darken and materialize into a red mist. She smiled peacefully, as if in prayer, then let out a bloodcurtling scream.

Eyes red as the sun, she lept onto the gallows platform wielding her scarlet sword high above her head. She lunged at the Guardian, swooping her weapon down upon him in an instant, but stopping just as fast.

The Guardian had pulled the girl in front of him just as she struck, holding the girl as a human shield. Miraye's blade hovered less than an inch away from the side of the girl's wet face. The hilt of the blade remained still in Miraye's firm grip, unwavering, but its tip was hidden deep inside something else. She leaned in toward the guardian and whispered into his ear, asking him his very own question. "What man... would let a child die to protect himself?"

Miraye withdrew the sword from its fleshy hilt. A red stream of blood gushed from the side of the child's face, where it missed her by inches, and landed directly into the Guardian's heart.

"Fool," he whispered.

The Guardian squeezed the child against his bloody chest and threw himself from the platform to the village floor. His voice cracked and gargled as his mouth filled with blood and he screamed his final orders. "Burn... everything... and spare no one."

He pressed the electric staff into the little girl's dress. Holding the girl tightly against him, both he and the girl caught aflame.

The Bystander.

"I'll deal with you later," Miraye said coldly and sprinted toward the village center.

Tic turned and fell against the wall, looking away in disgust of himself. Just like that, he was left to hide again. No more than a mere spectator to the battles he should be fighting himself. How weak he must be, he thought. Miraye was the only person to risk her life for him, and yet all he could do was stand back and watch. He pressed himself around the corner wall and followed the girl with his eyes. She hooded and disappeared in the crowd of village men pelting the gallows stage with rocks.

Be it.

She coughed.

She tried to hold it in since she had entered the small room. When finally she heard a door shut not too far away, she let go. Quickly she had bent over the sink with a hand over her mouth and she coughed. When she finally stopped coughing she let go of her lips.

Miraye stared at her pale complexion in the mirror situated where her body was hunched over and heaving. There were black splotches on her chin and lips that had appeared when she swung her hand back. She looked at her palm and the same foreign substance lingered on her fingers. She didn’t want to think of why this happened. She didn’t want to recall the dream she had. She didn’t want to remember that this had all been under the influence of a curse.

She slipped to the floor and rested her forehead on the edge of the tub. Her chest moved up and down in normal pace but her heart was speeding. Her head was quaking. She closed her eyes and coughed again where she could feel things coming out of her throat. She covered her mouth once more, coughing until all was at calm.

Soon after, the trickles of cold water tracing down her skin had erupted her flesh into bumps. She was awake now. She was alive. And she dipped her hands into the liquid where she cleaned her face and let the natural air dry her features.

When she opened the door, only the numb silence welcomed her. The boy, she had already guessed, had gone out. No matter, she thought. She didn’t want to see him after the weakness he had shown, she thought as she dressed.

“Good morning, Gaston,” she accosted when she had gone down stairs. The tavern keeper was cleaning a few mugs and gave her a nod and went to his work. She in return went to fetch the broom and sweep any particles away but was distracted when the bell above the door jingled and the door opened. Miraye didn’t like the presence she had felt despite not even knowing who it was that entered. Instead she slipped behind the counter and waited, listening eagerly to what ever would be said.

“What can I do for you?” she heard Gaston ask.

“From King Larkin,” the other one announced – it must’ve been a guardian, “we have been sent to look for this boy.”

The rustle of parchment echoed.

“I can’t say I’ve seen him,” the bartender said sounding very genuine as she guessed that he handed whatever it was back after looking at it for a moment.

“He’s also been known to hang around with a witch. Neigh high, unusual rose hair.”

“Well, if I do see them, I’ll be sure to report it as soon as I can. Now if you please, I must prepare for the day and if you would be kind to step out –“

“Hold on,” the guardian snapped. “We’ve also been given clearance to search the premises.”

Miraye held her breath and pressed her back against the counter as their heavy steps circled around the room. She was trapped. As they came closer and closer she could feel herself starting to panic. From the corner of her eye she could see the toe of a boot and quickly her eyes flashed green. The guardian stood before her, his eyes searching through her. But as soon as she expected the worse, he walked away.

Peeking from her space, she wondered what gone on.

“All clear. But just to let you know, if the boy doesn’t hand himself soon… be prepared for the worse.”

And with that, the guardians had exited. Unbeknownst was that her eyes had gone back to its usual brown when she slumped on the floor and gave a sigh of relief.

“Are you alright?” Gaston asked, lending a hand to help her up. “What happened?”

“I don’t know. I could’ve sworn he saw me. But… it was as though I became-“

“Invisible?”

“…Yeah,” she said staring at her hands. “I guess so.”

After a pause, she looked up. “Did you see where Tic went? I don’t like what I just heard and something in me is saying I should go find him right away.”

“He went out heading towards the center-“ But to Gaston’s surprise, she had already vanished.

Miraye watched everything from a distance. Her eyes still kept Tic in clear view the whole time but there were moments where she had to keep herself from running up and stopping everything. She felt disgusted. So Larkin had stooped as low to bring the whole town into this for one boy. There was something else clicking away in his mind if this was his means of getting things back the way he wanted.

Slowly she withdrew from her alley and made her way into the crowd. Even though pink hair would stick out in the crowd, she had successfully managed to steal a black handkerchief and covered her head. She was now behind Tic who was still unaware of her when he flinched and his body automatically moved forward. Miraye grabbed him by the shoulder, hissed him to be quiet and gingerly dragged him back into another alley where everything was still seen and heard.
“What on earth are you doing?!” she snapped, pushing him against the wall.

“I- I can’t stay here… I need to hand myself in-“

Miraye stopped, staring at him in disbelief. In the deepest corners of her soul, anger bubbled. Tic stared at his feet, a mask of confusion and fear on his face.

“I need to… I need to… hand-“

But before he could finish his sentence, she slapped him across the face with all the force her body could muster.

“Don’t you DARE!” she scolded, holding the collar of his shirt and raising him a few inches above the ground. “Don’t you even think about it! I didn’t die so that you can go back to him – we didn’t fight so that you can give up so easily!”

All of a sudden a commotion broke a few yards away. Miraye dropped Tic, staring out into the platform. Villagers were attempting to fight against the Guardians.

“I’ll deal with you later,” she said coldly and sprinted to the scene and started to fight with the villagers.

Gimme shelter.

“We have been cursed.”

The words etched themselves onto the walls of Tic's mind and sank through. They registered slowly in his brain; his first instinct was to consider it absurd, but the gravity in Miraye's demeanor spoke more truth than his doubt could deny. Before he could even begin to question the authority of Miraye's valiant decree, she had shut the door and left him alone, sick to ponder. Even if she had remained in the room, he didn't think he could've asked anything more than, “By who?”

But he didn't need to think of who it was.

He didn't want to, either.

Looking away from the door Miraye had disappeared behind, he turned his glance to the pile of clothes on the floor. His mind was utterly blankened by a race of thoughts. He glanced to the open window and the breaking daylight behind it. The tavern they took refuge in no longer felt like a safe haven for them to bid their time any longer. How long were they going to keep hiding? Their destiny awaited patiently in the world outside. He gave an uncertain glance to the bathroom door again, deciding Miraye would be fine if he slipped out for some air. The streets wouldn't be too busy at this hour, he assured himself.

He reached down to the pile of clothes, and dressed himself eagerly.

Outside, the temperature was perfect for refreshing the senses and clearing the mind. In the sky, the moons were hidden by the grey clouds that loomed gloomily over the land. The chilly yet soothing morning breeze whipped through his hair as he stood outside the tavern, holding and rubbing his arms in a slight self-embrace. Miraye's words replayed in head for a moment, sounding more and more like a death sentence. And it made too much sense that a curse would cause him to have such an unlikely nightmare. Certainly Miraye had dreamed similarly, but her violent spasms bothered him deeply. What else could this curse do to them? He didn't want to think of it. With a sullen sigh, he turned to look around the barren street and wondered just how early he had risen. He didn't expect there to be many people out… but he didn't expect there to be none, either.

Casting a wary glance behind him, he pulled the hood of his tunic over his head, and made his way out onto the empty street.

A walk would be better to ease his thoughts, he assured himself, even if the street's eerie desertion irked him. He started on his way to the center of the village, hoping to see at least some of the villagers there. Perhaps it was Seventh Day; the day of the week when labor was probihibited (all except slave labor), and the denizens of each city were ordered, by law, to use the day to rest and worship the Seven Moons. He hadn't known, since he never practiced anymore, and since he had lost track of time ever since he had been captured…

A strange thrill ran through him at the thought. He paused in his footsteps, feeling an unusual sense of deja vu, but quickly forgot it when a distant scream shook the air. Head upright, he fixed his stare ahead of him. The scream had come from further down the road. Sooner than he had time to forget it, another scream reached his ears. Fear suddenly gripped him, telling him to turn back.… but something even more powerful told him to keep going, and his feet carried him forward.

He neared a corner, hearing the screams rise in volume as he came close. When he turned the corner, his heart sank; he found where the villagers had been, but it didn't seem they gathered for a good cause. They crowded around the platform that stood in the center of town, looking tired and distraught. Their expressions were unmistakably marked with unease; some held each other, looking onto the platform in fear, while others looked away, shaking their heads gravely. A woman, whose beauty was lost to the ugliness of tears, was gripped tightly by a man who might've been her husband; she was wailing and thriving in distress, her cries heard high above the soft murmur of the crowd. On the platform, a group of men stood. Two men were standing at the front of the group. One was holding a long roll of parchment in front of him. The other held a little girl by the hand.

All of them wore uniforms of pitch black. On their waists, they wore sheaths to electric staves.

Tic's eyes widened. His feet lost their movement, unable to take him neither forward nor back. Captivated by terror, he could do nothing but watch.

The man with the parchment unrolled the paper completely, raising another hand to silence the onlookers. The villagers complied immediately; even the crying woman quieted her sobs to mere whimpers. He cleared his throat, then read from the scroll:

“In concern for the well-being of The Nine Cities, our King and Master Larkin Shrike has ordered to him the return of Tic Synkrat Ideo, committer of illegal craftery and attempted murder. Any village holding in its name over three hundred persons is punishable by one death should the criminal not be produced." He paused, glancing to the little girl on his left, then continued: “Selection of the punished is at the discretion of The Royal Guard."

He rolled up the scroll, pocketed it and peered across the crowd, allowing his words to sink in.

The crying woman resumed her bawling, her cries reaching the pitch of hysterics. She finally broke free of her husband's grip and ran for the platform. “Zenia!” she cried, reaching for the girl, who stood quietly with the uniformed men. The hiss of electricity suddenly burnt the air, sending a small flare of light. The sobbing ceased immediately. Something hit the ground with a thump and the little girl screamed. A man ran forward, kneeling to the ground and taking the unconscious woman into his arms.

“It's very simple,” the Guardian spoke to the transfixed crowd, returning the smoking stave to his sheath with impassive ease. “Hand over the boy,” he smiled, taking the now struggling girl's arm into his own, “And little Zenia doesn't get hurt.”