Cereza's Maxim

10 Petalmoon, 2E 222

There was a village here, once. It wasn't anything special, really; simple stone-and-timber houses, humble farms, some hunters and woodworkers. An unremarkable hamlet in the countryside. It wasn't special, but it was a home. That all came to an end in fire, smoke, and cinder about six summers ago. Dozens of lives were brought to an abrupt end by a bolt from a blackened sky, igniting a blaze that too many couldn't escape.

When the ashes settled, I planted a small garden amidst the memories of the fallen. A living memorial of blue ascot, addertongue, whiskerbrush, and fadethistle, herbs with medicinal and aroma-therapeutic value. Ever since, I've made the journey down the old birch road whenever they're ready for harvest.

A panicked shout shakes me from my musings. A girl, young adult if I don't miss my guess, but I can't clearly hear. I slow my breathing and still my conscious mind, focusing my perceptions on nature and her guests. The next time I hear it, I'm certain, she's coming down the old birch road, and a second set of footsteps is behind her. I draw my cloak around myself and hurry in their direction, hoping I get there in time.

Thankfully, they're not far away. I see a woman with a pale, red-blotched face in a tattered cloak running toward the ruins in a panic, her near-white hair waving in the breeze. Her pursuer's not far behind, a disheveled-looking man with a sword at his side, wearing a padded leather vest over a black doublet. I nod my head to the side to signal to the girl that she should get behind me, and in response I receive a scowl from her would-be assailant.

"She's a vampire," the man barks. Despite the apparently lengthy pursuit, he still has enough stamina to be a threat, I can see it in his posture.

"Is that so?" I reply, making a show of glancing over my shoulder at the cowering maiden behind me.

She shakes her head hurriedly. "I'm not a vampire, I swear it!" she cries, her pale eyes casting a pleading gaze on me. But of course, I already know what she is.

"Don't play innocent with me, girl, the proof's right there," the man sneers. "The eyes, the way your skin burns under the sun's pure light!"

I hum, as if considering his claims. "And, if she is one? What crimes has she committed? Or would you say her existence is itself a crime?"

"The McAllisters' baby died after she came to town, what else do you need?" he demands, indignant at my doubts.

"If that's the quality of evidence you have, you may leave," I reply impassively.

"She's a vampire, damn you, and if you're going to protect her..." he warns, reaching for his sword.

I have a bad habit of laughing when I shouldn't, and it happens again here, a dark, sinister laugh. Rolling my shoulders to swing my cloak off my left side, I reveal the sword at my hip. "Did your mother never warn you not to challenge a witch?" I retort, my hand already at the hilt. "Then I shall correct her neglectful error. I give you one final choice: leave this place, or join the echoes of the fallen."

In a brief moment of perfect clarity, I see him reaching not for his sword, but something else I can't make out. On instinct, I draw my blade, its cold edge carving an arc into the air. I feel an impact, steel on steel as the blade passes in front of my neck. He then lunges toward me sword in hand, a smooth and well-practiced motion. His blade finds no purchase, however; I and the girl slipped away in opposite directions. A knife, his own knife, falls from the sky, gouging his shoulder, and as he contorts in pain and shock, my own blade sinks into his throat.

"We need to move him," I tell the girl as I grab his hands. "The spirits here... they do not want him. Take his legs, follow me." She complies, silent and fearful as we walk into the woods, into the new growth woodsmen won't yet disturb. Searching the body, I find a small coinpurse that I empty into my own, but I leave the rest of his belongings when I bury him beneath a pile of branches and leaves. Gesturing for the girl to follow, we go back to the ruins.

There is a simple stone altar near the garden I planted. I see several flowers there, as well as a few coins; it seems I'm not the only one to leave offerings for the lost. I lay a bundle of herbs on the altar, giving up a portion of my harvest to apologize for the blood shed today, then I turn to the girl. "Dear girl, what is your name?" I ask gently.

"Melina! Melina Stillwater!" she answers hurriedly. "Please believe me, I'm not a vampire," she pleads hoarsely, on the brink of tears.

With a soft smile, I take her hand. "Of course not. Unlike those fear-addled hunters, I do know what I'm looking at. Albinism, rare but unremarkable. And even if you were, I'll not kill someone for their existence." I look over the memorials, reaching out to the spirits with my soul, wordlessly asking if I may impose upon their hospitality for just a while longer. In response, I feel a warmth enveloping me for a moment, like an unseasonably warm breeze pushing me toward the old village square. An invitation to remain.

I spend much of the remaining afternoon applying ointments and poultices to the girl. Her face is badly sunburned, and her legs and feet are inflamed from overexertion in her desperate flight. Late in the evening as I prepare a meal of foraged vegetables and dried meats I hear footsteps approaching, and motion for her to stay in the tent. It's a young man, I can't make out his features well in the fading light but he seems friendly enough, with a smile on his clean-shaven face. "Hail, traveler. I've been looking for my brother. I was out in the fields, but I heard he left in pursuit of a vampire?"

"My apologies, but I've not seen him," I answer. "I haven't been able to leave my camp, there's a sick girl I've been tending to."

"I see. Good healer, could I speak to the girl? Perhaps she saw him?" he asks. The sincerity in his tone sets me on edge for reasons I can't explain.

"Unfortunately, she's in no state to converse." Another layer of deception, but hopefully one that will give me the measure of his soul.

"I understand, thank you for your time," the man replies cordially. "I should head back to my camp, then; I am... ill at ease among the ruins." I nod my understanding and he sets off.

The two of us are gone by daybreak, disappearing down one of the old forgotten paths. We cannot tarry; my theft may mask the motive, but the body will be found if his brother lingers. The spirits are often sympathetic to those that have lost family, even family such as this.