Origins of Blood (RE)

And so I am left alone. My elbows rest on the table, the fork remains in my hand. The steak still sits half-eaten in my stomach, its juices turned to bitterness on my tongue.

"O beloved son, thou art my kin, no matter where thy roots begin."

Most of the time, I do not listen to the lyrics. They are background, a murmur of divinity veiled in art. But now I do. Line after line, I catch words unfamiliar, slipping past me like shadows.

They belong to the gods' tongue, yet they are not among those my tutor drilled into me when I was young. Words like Sühne and Herzenspein pass through the singer's lips, syllables that defy translation into the common tongue.

The piano bursts into a solo, keys struck with precision, and I make a note to myself—refresh my language studies, once these missions are done. If they are ever done.

My eyes drift across the hall. Paintings line the walls, treasures of Elisia's estate. Some stir something in me, an odd familiarity that whispers as though they were mine. But I tear my gaze away. At my wrist, the watch ticks past three o'clock, nearly one and a half hours until the blade must fall. Until I strike.

I swallow hard. Sweat pearls down my temples, a restless sheen. My stomach twists with urgency, an uncomfortable demand for relief. Too much wine, perhaps. Three cups already, along with four glasses of water—pure, chilled, carried fresh from the alpine streams of Elitra. My body protests, forcing me to rise.

Around me, the banquet continues in careless rhythm. They dance. They laugh. Pretend laughter, but laughter all the same. Hands entwined, eyes glimmering, voices echoing in feigned joy. My brothers, too, dance, their arms around women.

My father sways in slow standard rhythm with my mother, both dressed in formal orange attire. Their smiles curve in harmony with their lips, their presence a mockery that makes bile rise to my throat.

I leave the steak abandoned, left to cool among untouched vegetables on silver platters. As I move between tables, weaving through the small gaps, my eyes remain locked on my family. The truth is undeniable: I lost them before I ever had them. They do not care for me. They never did, and yet the wound aches, raw, even now.

The singer's voice pierces the air once more, accompanied by violins and piano:

"Thou knowest not thyself, wealth blinds thine eye. O son beloved, dost thou know why? Dost thou know thy aim, dost thou know thy need? Why dost thou suffer, why dost thou bleed? O son, O son, beloved son of mine, thy thirst for vengeance arose from our sign. We failed thee, O son, we failed indeed. Justice comes by justice, not by unjust deed. O son, O son, O beloved son, in thee our redemption shall be won."

Each word sinks into me like a dagger, striking where my armor is thinnest.

Fifty heartbeats carry me thirty feet across the floor. For a moment, I see my father's gaze follow me. His gesture is kind, his face stoic, but I know the difference. I recognize the subtle warmth behind the mask, and it tears me open further. It makes my heart bleed anew.

A hundred more heartbeats, and I slip beyond the doors. The hall of paintings falls away behind me, replaced by the cold echo of tiled walls. I enter the bathroom—large enough to rival a commoner's home. My sigh escapes, ragged, and I step forward, unfastening my belt, preparing to relieve myself.

Then I hear it. Not the distant melody of the woman's song, not the rhymed cadences that haunt the hall. Another voice. Rusted and muffled. Uneven. It grates against my skull, stabbing at my mind from the inside. I wince, clutching at my temple as if to claw it free.

But it persists. With every step, it follows me, and then, clear, undeniable—Eriksson's voice. In my ear.

Here. Now. Exactly as I am about to relieve myself.