Origins of Blood

Elliot's POV

"Kill them all—Golden Reaper—Kill them all."

—Elliot Starfall

I hear it all the time. Golden Reaper. The words cling to me, whether I walk, eat, or sleep. They do not let go. It is not only their echo but the feeling that I can never escape them. An indescribable sensation—like when I was a boy.

Back then, I dreamed of a circle rolling endlessly up and down. Each turn sent a twist through me; it did not hurt, but it suffocated, as if air was clogged in my chest without ever finding release. Absurd, but true. With every turn, the weight grew heavier, the suffocation turning stronger.

The circle rose and fell quicker and quicker, until my body gasped for breath without breathing at all. And when I woke, the dream vanished, leaving only the ghost of suffocation behind. It haunted me for a month after my parents died, and since then, never again.

Golden Reaper. The words banish the air from my lungs the same way; I hate it.

"Eos!" A sharp voice cuts through. My sight spins. The ground swims beneath me, my mouth opening in a silent scream, one that mirrors the call of the Golden Reaper inside my head.

"Eos!" Again. My left hand trembles, blue blood dripping from my palm. The voice circles the room, familiar yet unplaceable among this family of Blues.

"Eos!" The third time it comes as a roar. My head jerks upward, vision twisting. Gene flashes before me, Cham shouting. Gene rushes past, his boot smashing into a table, sending a Blue flying like a ball, pinned against the wall by a cascade of newspapers.

Turning again, the world snaps back into focus with the rush of blood. My left arm moves of its own accord, legs spreading, and my breath ragged; a thin sword whistles past my ear, so close it cuts the air itself.

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Ducking, I lunge forward, the same rapier stabbing where my skull had been a heartbeat before. My hair trims under its edge, strands falling like dust. My body acts faster than my mind can catch up with.

"Eos, to your right!" Gene's voice this time. His hands clutch the Blue he kicked, his arm drenched crimson and azure, slick with blood.

I spin right—pain lashes my ear, pierced as the other had been in the sewers back then. Moving closer, I raise my left arm above my head. My body jumps, foot snapping outward, my shoe half-loose as it cracks into the attacker's face.

Sweat burns my eyes. My heart drums thunder. The only sound that cuts through is Gene's fists slamming into the other man in the room. Memory floods back.

Another place to stay. Another family slaughtered. That was the plan. Right. But why does my chest knot at the action?

The man before me steadies himself. His build is lean and muscular, unlike most we've fought, and he wields a weapon—not a gun, not the crude arms of police, but a rapier, thin and sharp.

His eyes dart to the side, to Gene, who towers over his crippled companion. "Sam?!" he shouts. His long hair swings as he turns, gaze locking on the man Gene has broken.

The one with teeth knocked loose. The one whose eyes roll back, brain rattling in its skull. Gene looms above him without any guilt.

At the chance, I charge him, but all I see are his tears, his brows furrowing a heartbeat later.

His arms quicken, the blade moving faster than thought. Flesh tears. My groan escapes before I can stop it. I hasten to the right, sliding on my knee across the stone floor. I twist left, halting just before the rapier would have skewered my heart.

Instead, the blade slices through my left arm, through the edge of my chest. Burning pain flares, sharp and raw, but I push into it, following the line of the blade itself.

Rising from below, I lock myself into the path, so that even if he lifts the sword higher, it cannot drive deeper into the side of my chest, cannot pierce the vulnerable hollow of my armpit.

Pow!

My left fist snaps forward as suddenly and brutally as a gunshot. His head does not break, his skull does not cave, but his mouth flies open. Two of his teeth snap free, blood spilling down his chin. He exhales raggedly, weak breaths escaping like steam.

Pow!

Still not enough. Merely a dent in his cheekbone,

Pow! Pow! Pow!

I hit him again, and again, my fists weak but unrelenting. Each strike is more frantic than the last, every punch a release, every impact hollow and pointless, until arms grab me from behind and wrench me to the side.