Black Blood

-B2- Chapter 13

I begin our long story. From how we arrived at headquarters to the point where we are now. Every little detail, every death and every night is included in my story. It is neither a fun nor short story.

I wish I could make Alisha happy with our adventures, but reading from her face, it brings up other emotions in her. Her blue eyes shoot from shock to pity. A few times I think I see tears glistening in the blue, clouding the colour. A smile can come off here and there but there aren't many.

The moments when me and Celeste feasted on endless amounts of beer and whisky in the taverns are moments I even cherish. The moments when the nights seemed eternal and the days were slept away. The moments when we had long deep conversations about the past on the backs of our horses and even the moments when Celeste seemed to regain her magic bit by bit. All the moments recur in my hour-long story.

Alisha does not disturb me with a single word. Sometimes she gets up, grabs a cup of tea and sits down again. As soon as I reach the end of my story, six cups of tea have gone through and my mouth still feels like a piece of dried-out wood that has been lying in the summer sun for weeks.

The chance to tell someone what a ride my life has been is like a bag of sand that has hung on my shoulders for months and is now falling off. The acidity and pain will remain for a while, but the relief lets it be the best feeling in ages.

'And now I sit here,' I end my story. Alisha has the white cup clasped in her hands. The blue seems to have become emotionless. She brings out a silent sigh, pushes the cup forward slightly and sits up straighter. Several times her mouth opens and closes again without words.

'I would like to be angry with you, really. Your plan is absurd, anything but moral and dangerous. This is not the Novak I know, nor the girl whose wounds I have cleaned. Yet I am not surprised. That this has succeeded you so far and that Franders has not yet been on your doorstep is no coincidence. People believe in the black witch as if it were a religion,' she replies sighing after minutes of silence. Slowly she rises from her chair. The white dress sways behind her as she makes her way to the bookcase on the other side of the room. This was not the reaction I expected to get. I could already see myself standing outside, sleeping in the cold night.

'What are you talking about?' I ask referring to the story she is talking about. I know the story by name but its content and connection to us is a mystery to me.

'You know the story?' she asks as she grabs a large book from the shelf.

'Vaguely,' I reply just as I interpret her reaction to it. She carries the book to the table and drops the half disintegrating pile of papers on the table. The papers are yellow. The letters almost illegible because of the faded ink. The strings holding everything together are frayed and have breaks. She lays the book open on perhaps the oldest piece of paper. That you can still make a story out of these faded letters is a wonder to me.

'The story has been around for four generations. The story of the Black Witch was born during the aftermath of the War of the Red Forest. The war between wolves and vampires was so fierce that the mages had to intervene. They had to take magic from Yang to put a stop to the bloody slaughter. King Livus tackled the two camps heavily until the mages prevailed. He had taken away Yang's magic but strengthened him at the same time. Everyone feared a resurgence of the two spirits. For years, everyone feared that Yin and Yang were going to escape from their prison at any moment. There was a tension in the air that could be felt by every layer of the population. An attack by the two spirits would not win anyone over after the war. No living creature or piece of nature could start anything. Werewolves and vampires would never again join hands, mages were no longer loved by their actions and the other peoples wisely kept their distance. As the cities were rebuilt and nature began to recover, hopeful stories also began to hit the ground running. Each people got their own so-called hero who was bound to defeat Yin and Yang. Yet the story of the black witch was the one that was passed on the most.' With those words, she points to a piece of illegible text. The cursive letters are not only faded but also in an unrecognisable language.

'She who is born in prosperity, she who lacks nothing. She with a soul of ruby and the blood of twilight. She without a beating heart. A woman cloaked in black will make the gods shuffle their cards. The woman in black makes heads bow, hearts stop and legs move. She brings death and life. She brings peace after war,' reads Alisha. I try to understand what she is saying. With many folk tales, the true essence is open to interpretation; this one is no different. It says a lot and at the same time nothing.

'So you claim that people think this is Celeste? That this story has kept us from being caught in the last few months?' I ask mockingly. Alisha smiles and nods.

'I am very sure this is the reason,' she replies as she slowly closes the disintegrating book.

'I don't believe in folk tales,' I contradict her entire story.

'Nor is it about whether you believe it and whether it is true. It's about people believing it and helping you for that reason. Yin and Yang is a strange story that may sound like a folk tale to the younger generation. We have never seen the two fish either. They might as well be a folk tale.' There she touches a chord I didn't know was there. The story of Yin and Yang is one of the first you are taught as a child and the first story parents tell alongside the usual fairy tales. Where the two fish are only the nymphs know and where the nymphs are no one knows. I sigh deeply and stare at the dark brown veins in the wood.

'The blue and red moon were folk tales too,' I say more to the table than to Alisha. This conversation brings up the question of when a folk tale stops and reality begins. If you have not seen something with your own eyes, does that mean it is a folk tale? Does that mean it doesn't exist? Fairy tales are folk tales but have a kernel of truth. The elves live in the forest but have no wings. Little Red Riding Hood went to visit grandma but was not rescued from the wolf's stomach. Sleeping Beauty did not sleep a hundred years, she turned out to be dead.

'Yes and now we're sitting here,' Alisha answers my earlier comment against the table. I look up, stare at the blue eyes and find the final puzzle piece. The blue eyes, the almost white hair and the ivory skin. Finding my blue counterpart has never been a priority. It was that fly on the wall we had to go after at some point.

Who it should be shot through my head often enough. The books and stories were clear that it had to be a woman. A woman with a connection to a night rider. That it could be Alisha never crossed my mind, but as I sit here I realise again that the gods are playing their own game.