Rest In Pieces

31

Xadezhda

Her tent, shared with Malakhai, was one of the few places Xadya could rest with no one else looking upon her. Save for him, of course, but she didn't mind that.

The night was quiet. Heavy silence lingered over them, over the camp they had created for themselves. Xadya rustled against the fabric of the tent as she turned to face Malakhai. His eyes were closed as he lay on his back, one arm tucked underneath his neck for support.

She gazed at him, pale skin and dark hair, longer now and framing his face. Like hers, small spikes protruded from his brows and tattoos lined his face, accentuating each and every feature she had not failed to notice. Arcane or not, he was beautiful.

"If you want something, Xadezhda, all you have to do is ask."

Xadya froze. Malakhai opened one eye and smirked at her. Her mouth hung open at his egotism.

He turned to her, a lazy smile on his face. "You must be hungry, milaczek."

Xadya closed her eyes. "A mystery," she whispered. "It's almost as if the gods need human hearts to keep me in power. I do not understand why."

"Is it only Yzaos?"

"He says the others will come, when I earn them."

Xadya wondered how they had gotten to her. Wondered what they needed her for. Thought that perhaps they were the reason she could not be excommunicated. The reason she was turned into something entirely worse.

"You could be great, you know."

She wrinkled her nose. "Am I not already?"

Malakhai chuckled, shifting on to his back once more. She did the same. "This power could change things."

He was right. She knew he was right.

"Yes," she said, feeling it. A burning, growing from the very pit of her stomach and ebbing through her organs, urging her to move, and quickly. "Yes, I'm hungry."

She had not eaten since the Vorōn. The house, James, Inessa, all had kept her distracted. It was over, though, and they were back in the snow, back in the woods.

This far up the mountain, there were no villages for her to eat. They would have to be creative.

Malakhai pushed the tent flap open, and held out his hand. Xadya pulled her knees tight to her chest.

"Will you hunt for me?" she asked hopefully.

"Condemning me to the grunt work," he chuckled, "or are you afraid of the aftermath?"

Both.

He took her hand and pressed a kiss to her tattooed fingers. "Sit tight," he urged, and then he was gone.

Finally, quiet.

Xadya startled at the voice. This was not Yzaos.

You need not be afraid of the bloodshed, child. You have done nothing except what we have asked of you.

Ōstara, she realized. Goddess of death and war and bloodshed.

Hello, Xadezhda, Ōstara greeted. Yzaos has kept you hidden from us. Not anymore.

Are the others here too?

They will come, in time. We are hungry, child, and you must feed.

Xadya began to wonder if Ōstara had been with her in every village she slaughtered, guiding Xadya's every move until she had satisfied her hunger.