Bad Moon Rising (Part I of The Lunar Trilogy)

For Every Beginning

He does not know what draws him north. Perhaps the isolation, as fewer villages means a lesser chance of meeting her again, or perhaps he has simply grown weary of the southern climes. Yet it is north he goes, beyond the growing kingdoms of Camelot, Danafor, and Liones, following the trails laid by deer and wolves when the ones trodden by man reach their end. It is cold, though not the killing chill of winter, and he finds that he cannot sleep; or he forges on to keep warm, counting his snow-muffled steps and the puffs of his breath upon the air. North, and north, through gnarled forest and ancient wood.

He knows this place, doesn't he? But which him, from which life? The one where it all began, he thinks, and his mind is filled with the sounds of slaughter, singing iron and screams, so that he must find a cave to sleep in until his head is quiet. Then he continues on, because he cannot stop, or he risks her finding him once more.

His days are marked by the meals he eats in the evenings; by his estimate, he has had twenty when he reaches the remnants of the kingdom. It is apparent that it was a prosperous place: the stone that makes the walls is finely sculpted, the roads are paved, and a grand building towers in the distance. But it is ruined, the houses and stalls torn to shreds, the ground stained with blood and soot. Everywhere he looks, there are bodies, all with the same look of surprise and fear upon their faces, though, as he drags himself farther in — to find a survivor, he tells himself, but his true purpose is to take anything that will help him survive in the wild — there are weapons alongside men and women with leather armor. He kneels next to one to check, releasing a low breath when the woman's rotting jaw snaps off in his palm. Magic is ripe in the air; is it theirs?

Two things are clear to him as he rests in the broken square: they had fought.

And they had lost.

He drops the jaw back onto the corpse as he stands, wiping his hands on his trousers. More than likely, there is nothing here and he is simply wasting his time, yet . . . His eyes lift to the gates ahead, which before they were ripped down had blocked the road from the city to what is either a palace or a temple. There could be something of value within, whether it be supplies or an artefact of some kind, one capable of breaking curses; or he is not the same person he used to be, the one who would have refused to steal from the dead. Blood from the steps peels in rust-like flakes as he climbs, scuffing away under his boots, but there is more beneath and he holds his breath at the rich-iron scent. At the top is a landing, where giant piles of ash and crumbling wood rest. He inspects one, unsurprised by the fragments of bone within — why were these the only ones burned? — before shouldering through the splintered doors.

There are no signs of battle within, merely death. Whatever happened here, it was merciless and one-sided, leaving nothing but chipped pillars and a cracked floor and an altar that is barely standing behind. That is where he goes, skirting the piles of rubble until he stands before the ornate surface and can run his hand along the engraving at the edge. More magic, but of what sort he does not know, and he frowns as he circles it; then he is at the back, and a square depresses under his fingers with a resounding 'click.'

A panel slides down. Again he kneels, this time to peer cautiously beneath, his hand firm on the hilt of his sword, counting the beats of his hearts as his eyes adjust to the dark. Then he rears back, shaking his head because there is a ghost, yet another thing from his past that has come back to haunt him and remind him of his failures, black hair and green eyes and Meliodas, you idiot, you nearly hit me with that, and the sound of laughter.

But there is no ghost, he realizes when he looks again: merely a girl with pale skin and dark hair, her white dress stained with blood, some of it hers going by the gash at her hairline. For a moment, he thinks she is dead. Then he catches the faint, uncertain rise and fall of her chest and bites his lip. Take her with him or leave her to die?