Better Off Dead

Radasanth was quiet in the shadow of the Citadel. The rage from within the walls and the corruption without seemed to have a moat of peace where they never met. Maybe it was the magic of the Ai'brone or even just the respect they commanded with their gifts.

Gifts that had been denied Keril.

He was a squat man, his eyes as small and round as his body. He was wrapped in good cotton - a swathe of clothing that denoted he wasn't rich but certainly wasn't destitute. It was a balance hard to maintain in the city. His hands, scarred and calloused from years of hard work, were wringing themselves and his breath was shallow. It was hard not to cry, but somehow he willed back any tears as he made his way back to the shop not far from the majestic ziggurat.

The potter locked the door behind him and looked around the dim room, bowls and plates stacked neatly on shelves, pottery on display near the windows. A vase on the counter was filled with flowers - white chrysanthemums. As his eyes fell on the blooms, his back bowed just slightly. With a sigh and a shake of his head he walked behind the counter towards two twin doors side by side.

On the right was the door to his studio, propped open and dark. He could still smell the fire in the pit that had been put out before he left. A long day's work lingered in the air with a familiar warmth. To the left, the door was shut and wreathed with a soft glow of a candle that had been lit somewhere behind it.

Keril hesitated only a moment, rubbing grey eyes before he finally pushed it open and stepped through. The little backroom apartment was cluttered in a cozy way. The sink on the right held a bucket of fresh water, bread and fruit on the little table. To the left was his little bed piled with blankets and a small vanity next to it where he washed up in the morning. A partition, a particularly pretty red paper folding wall he'd imported from Akashima, blocked the view from the other tiny bed in back.

The candlelight on the table cast a ruby glow through the partition paper onto the back bed. Curled under her covers, only her forehead and a curled hand peeking through, his sister slept. She was quiet, but now and then the frame of the bed rocked as shivers and spasms overtook her sleeping form. Keril didn't have to touch her to know the fever was back, her skin hot to the touch despite her complaints of bitter cold.

"The monks can't heal you," Keril said quietly. Can't... he thought, No, they just won't.

He turned from his little sister, worry etched on his face as he moved to the table. Well, he wouldn't give up on her, not yet.

From the table he pulled a pomegranate from a bowl. It seemed out of place among the apples and pears that were plentiful. It hadn't been easy to get a fresh one from Fallien, but here it was. The taut red skin gleamed in the light, tempting him to cut it open. From the moment he'd bought it, he wondered what it would taste like, but there were more important purposes for the seeds within.

A knife sliced it open easily, baring the deep crimson juice within, the hundreds of bulbous seeds filling the sections. The smell was divine. The fruit cut, it was time to cast the spell before the delicate, flowery scent of the glossy fruit dissipated.

He spoke the words he'd found, and used the knife to slice open one of his thumbs. It would be hell to work with tomorrow, but it would be worth it. Plunging his blood-coated finger into the flesh, he pressed it in while the juicy beads spilled out around his hand. The juice splattered on the tabletop.

The little room was silent as the grave as he held his breath and waited. Surely there was a force out there more powerful, more benevolent, maybe both, more than the Ai'brone. Without knowing much about her at all, he called on the Night Mother of the Sands and Skies.

Only a few moments later, the locked door to the shop opened quietly and clicked closed.