The Darkened War

Ch.44

The skies were painted over with a solemn gray as Calix walked, his hand intertwined with his sister's, whose face continued to flicker back and forth from grave to apathetic. Rust colored leaves fell around them, landing and sticking to the strands of Lucy's silk white hair. With a simple brush of his hand, Calix had tugged them loose and they fell to the ground as he pulled his sister closer. She was so pale—and even while it was natural for his and his sister's skin to lack color, it seemed to be even more ivory than usual, and now matched the white snow that would begin to fall in the next few months. The spring and summer seasons had passed so quickly, Calix only imagined autumn would as well. As if confirming his thoughts, the chilly wind brushed over the bare skin on his arms, reminding him that winter was just around the corner.
    By the time they had reached the center of Antinanco and the tent that used to belong to Analia, Aaron, and Aira—the elders were already gathered inside, talking quietly amongst themselves. Slowly Calix made his way in and approached them, silent and expressionless, before the main elder cleared his throat and motioned for Calix to take a seat. He did so, taking Lucy with him, and then turned his attention back to the older man. The boy's voice was firm and straight to the point when he spoke.
    "You called me here. For what reason?"
    The elder looked at him, taking the time to fold his hands in his lap before beginning, "As you know, recently we have yet again lost our three. Grieving once again for leaders that should have ruled until their old age."
    "I think everyone in Antinanco knows it and is grieving with you. Analia and the others were the best Antinanco has ever seen. It was a terrible loss." Calix faced the elder head on, "As we speak the rest of the cult is already at their funeral saying their goodbyes. So tell me, why am I here?"
    "Because," The main elder said, leaning forward to rest his chin on his folded hands, "The magic has spoken, and already made its decision on our cult's next three. And don't ask us why, Calix, believe me, I don't understand it; but you . . . you have been chosen to be one of them."
     Calix's mouth opened slightly, eyes widening as the words hit him. Already his little sister was looking at him in awe, as Calix muttered, "I have to watch out for Lucy, that's hard enough. How can I be expected to look out for an entire cult?"
    The elder's eyes met his as he said, "Our cult is nothing without its magic. Even in the dark times, it has never made a mistake, and never chose someone, I believe, who was not meant to be chosen. So, Calix, it must see something in you that is worth this position; that is made for it. The magic can see deep inside of us in a way we can't see each other—in a way we can't even see ourselves. It has made its decision, and so it is my responsibility to carry that message on. But I have finished, you may go now. You are free to go and mourn. Or do whatever you wish."
    Calix only dipped his head, before rising to his feet once again taking a hold of Lucy's hand and walking back outside. The skies had only gotten darker, the air windier, and it had started to drizzle just enough that Lucy began to shiver. Taking her into his arms, Calix pulled her close as they started towards where they had already been buried. Calix couldn't bring himself to think of their names or faces; couldn't bear to remember Aira's distant look, Aaron's stubborn scowl, or Analia's furious eyes—and gentle smile,  as he and his sister made their way to the far ends of the territory and over a hill to where they kept the Antinanco cemetery.
    Of course the speeches were over—Calix realized, everyone was already crying by the tombstones. It wasn't as if it mattered much to him. He hadn't been planning on attending it anyway. To listen to a few words of good memories. He already had the memory, and that's all he needed—what would words in their honor do? It wouldn't bring them back, they wouldn't be able to hear the words . . . to smile at them. So really, there was no point.  He wasn't even sure what he was doing here right now, staring at rocks with names carved into them. Even if the bodies were buried underneath it's not as if their souls were connected. They were only empty shells that needed to be disposed of, and this was the most respectful way to do it. Just like the leaders before them, and just like his parents . . . they were gone. All of them were gone. And tomorrow, he would have to move on; they all would. In a year or so, they would be memories, in a decade, they would remain memories—but distant ones. In a century, they would be names on stones, and that's all. It would be like they never existed in the first place.
    He wasn't sure how long he and Lucy had stood there, staring as one by one, the members of his cult left. The crowded cemetery slowly faded into an empty graveyard. Finally, there was one person left, and even they ran off to join their group of friends, leaving behind only a rose on the center grave—Analia's—next to the other multitudes of flowers. It was then Calix finally made his way over to them, the drizzling rain having grown a bit stronger, and was coming down hard enough that it wet his hair. And while he pulled up the hood on Lucy's jacket, he didn't touch his own, didn't have the energy—or the will—to. Instead he just stood in front of the three graves, as most of the flowers left there were blown away by the wind.
    He remembered standing in this same grave yard three years before. People had been crying then too, but he had stayed in the back beside his mother (who had still been alive at that point). Even she had shed a tear over their memory, while she held Lucy, who'd been too young to truly understand what was going on. After all, she had been just a baby when their father had died, when his sickness had taken him. Even Calix remembered him only faintly. But his mother, he remembered, more vividly than ever now as he saw her in his memory here again—a teardrop rolling down her cheek from her eye. Calix hadn't cried like she had at that funeral though; he hadn't thought much of it at all. He never really knew the three who had for years been leading the cult. They had kept their distance, protected the cult like they were supposed to, and then one day disappeared. That's all he knew. Death was only a word then, there for the purpose of describing someone who was no longer with them. But now . . .
    Calix's closed his eyes tightly. Now they were people he knew . . . well, had known. Just days before, he had spoken to them. Listened to Analia tell him of her plan—never understanding how truly real it was till now. He had had this feeling before. It was the same one he had gotten when his mother died. A feeling that drained you, such sadness and loss it hardly felt real, and felt too real all at the same time. It was something he couldn't block out, something he couldn't tear his mind from remembering, and yet, his mind still hadn't fully adjusted to the fact it had happened. He could barely believe it. There were days when he would run home, expecting to see his mother in the doorway, or yelling at him from their tent while preparing a meal . . . but, then he'd remember, he'd never hear her yell again. Never see her smile. And now, his body waited again, this time for someone else—the subconscious part of him waited for Analia's voice. For her to walk up behind him and smack him upside the head; for her to snap at him, to come over grab his arm, drag him away and lecture him. He waited for that hand. For something. Anything. But it never came. He was no longer a boy who was going to get into trouble; he was now responsible for everything and everyone he ever cared about.
    Upon opening his eyes, he returned to reality. Those people he had known—his cult's three—were buried in the ground. And as the rose that had last been placed beside the gravestones blew to follow the rest, Calix watched as Lucy bent down and picked it up. She stared at it with wide eyes as the rain hit it, sparkling as it rolled down off the peddles. His sister began to sniffle, her beautiful crystal eyes creating their own raindrops, and they too trickled from her pale face and fell to the ground with the others.
    "Let's go," Calix whispered.
     But Lucy shook her head, turning to look up at him and said, "My heart . . . it's beating right now. I can feel it." She clutched the rose to her chest. "But one day, it will stop, just like Analia's . . . won't it? It will stop . . . and then . . . I won't be alive anymore."    
Calix's eyes widened, as he bent down, pulling his sister into a hug, "No," He promised, "it will never stop beating. I promise."
    Lucy's eyes had stopped watering; the only sign she had ever cried at all were the teardrops stained on her face. "That's a big promise, brother," She whispered, the wind blowing past both of them.
    Calix only held her closer. "Well you are a big deal to me, so it's a promise worth making."
    With that said, Calix rose to his feet and put a hand on Lucy's forehead. He bit his lip, but kept silent. She was burning up, and silently Calix prayed that the fever wasn't bad. He just needed to get her out of the rain. Taking her hand, a vision of his mother appeared; she was wearing a faint smile. It was the moment she had said she wasn't that sick—that everything was okay. The vision didn't last longer than a second as Calix shoved it from his head, tightening the grip on his little sister's hand as they made their way from the graves and back to their tent. There, the chilly wind wouldn't be able to bite them. There, the sound of the dripping wouldn't force Lucy back into tears . . . or him, even.
    I'll keep her heart beating. Forever.
    As another gust of wind past them, Lucy lost her grip and together they watched the rain kissed rose fly into the distance and disappear. That's the last thing, Calix decided, he would ever let disappear again.