“Sympathy for the Devil”

[Magdalena]

Closed to Arsène

Sati had always despised the snow. Sweeping across the land in rains or storms, it cast the face of her home in a crude mold of ice, turned everything into a shoddy sculpture of what it once was. It robbed the blood of its living warmth, it buried worlds. The feeling, however, was not one of passion, was not all-consuming, threatening to swallow her in its dark, rapacious flames. No, hers was hatred that would never thaw, as cold as the world that had first shaped it. Hatred from a chilled heart, and for that she despised herself just as much as the snow, if not more.

Yet, if she loathed the curse of winter, then that of water came in a close second. The smell of brine rose in warm and humid winds that weaved into her hair, disheveling. This was her second week on the Molinari, a ship full of escapees whose only means of survival was flight from the civil conflicts that were ravaging the face of Salvar. This was also her second week, escaping the harsh cost that came with this deceptive survival.

On one side of the coin was the price of noble blood. Here, there were nobles by name, only not by wealth: without it, they had been unable to buy a ticket onto the larger, cleaner and safer ships that had left the rime-bitten shorelines, and had no choice but to fall in with the riffraff of the Molinari. Only a fool would think that the barriers of lineage could ever hope to fend off the oppressed and their vindictive hands – cutthroat hands. On the other side of this coin was stained with the blood of a woman, the blood of a priestess. Two weeks at sea, and hands that killed had become hands that invade, hands that violated. As there had been noble blood spilt, there had been virginal blood as well. Screams that tore the night, in the throes of death and rape.

“One and the same,” she whispered, wrapping willowy arms around her legs, holding herself tighter. “After all is said and done… one and the same.” On this voyage, she had seen the eyes, had felt them skitter across her dress, crawl over her skin in dreadful caresses – had felt those eager eyes disrobe her all too avidly. Desire burned in them: to feel her flesh, her lips, the silk of her fiery hair… to grip them and tug onto like chains to a collar. “As they have done to so many before me.” Yes, she had heard the cries, and this night they yearned to hear hers, to feel the spilling of her dual blood. “Men, death and rape… one and the same.”

Pushing herself off the railing, the priestess rose above the shadows, one hand shaking on the gunnel. The briny air was thicker as she stood, the salt pulling her scalp taut, almost till it cracked. Looking beyond the ship, she saw only ripples in a spill of darkness, an expanse of watery ink and dead mists. A few days ago, she could still see a cracked ridge of ice from Berevar, a line of distant ice floes bordering the cold northlands. Though on the other side, she could not yet perceive her destination, still couldn’t see the green and thriving shores of Raiaera, Sati knew they were close. She knew, because a feeling rang deep in her heart, the feeling that her sister’s presence was growing stronger. Sapna, dear Sapna had gone ahead before the civil war had erupted, to investigate these elven lands. The woman had her reasons, but her departure had left the priestess next to empty. It wouldn’t matter for long, because they would be together again. No matter what, she would survive until they were reunited again.

Even if it meant being the last one alive, when the keel hit land.

Something had caught the corner of her eye, trawling her from those gloomy thoughts. Not far off in the distance, barely shrouded by a screen of gauzy mist, was a vessel of some sort: Coronian, from its solid yet gilded craft. Slightly smaller than the Molinari, it wandered on dead waters, its mast broken and the sails in tatters. She considered informing the captain, but after a while, she couldn't care less about stranded vessels or ghost ships. And even so, they already seemed to be veering towards the wreck. Sati turned away, but quickly returned her eyes to the broken ship, as if she'd seen a ghost upon its deck. It was almost unnoticeable, but she could have sworn she'd caught the glimpse of a man, his figure as broken as all that surrounded him.

Mists moved to engulf the vessel, a slow drifting motion upon black waters. The priestess shook her head, and quickly lost interest in the whole affair. "You already have the living on your mind. There is no more room for the dead." The priestess finally walked away to find refuge on the other side of the ship.

She ignored the faint wails in the distance, the lament of a violin that knew only how to weep.