Part One: The Aftermath

Chapter One: The Black God's Choice

"Water, water everywhere," I quoted to myself, at wit's end. Trudging through the mud and Gods-only-know what else, I shivered, soaked to the bone. My heart lay like a stone in my chest, solid and cold, colder than the rain puddling in my boots. An odyssey through the grime finally ended when I reached my boarding house and slumped into the building. Even the thought of my bed upstairs could not overcome my exhaustion, and so I stayed in the mud room, leaning against the wall.

Everything was just so cold.

I don't know how long I sat, collapsed against the wall. I couldn't move, couldn't move on. The night's work ran in circles around and around in my head, visions of blood and gore, sorrow and desperation, on replay in my head.

"Cooper? Beka?" Rosto stood in the doorway, a pale ghost against a background of darkness. As he stepped closer, my Dog training kicked in, and to this day I remember how his hair clung in thick, wet clumps down his face, how his feet slid silently across the wood floor, how his daggers pressed themselves against the soaked cambric shirt.

He knelt down beside me, hand reaching up to cup my face. As his fingers ran down my cheek, I realized he was wiping away tears I had not known were streaming down my face. Knowing I was crying only made the tears fall faster, and I choked down a sob as I leaned into his shoulder, hiding my face in shame.

"Oh, Beka," he whispered as his arms wrapped around my shoulders, pulling me closer. His embrace was warm, so very warm; and I leaned into his arms, needing to be closer, needing to feel something, anything at all. I was so cold, so numb.

His arms released their hold on me, and I felt my heart start to shatter at the loss of contact. Just as I was about to completely lose my mind, I felt them come around me once more, behind my back and under my knees, and he lifted me up, cradling me like a porcelain doll, like he knew I could break at any moment.

And deep down, I knew I could just shatter at any moment. All I can hear is Goodwin's voice in my head, "We lose 5 Dogs to the Black God's Choice every year."

I hope I'm not one of them. But tonight….death seems to be warmer, kinder then life.

His footsteps echoed in the long hall, a dark corridor with no end in sight. I swung in his arms, my hands treaded through his silken locks, head in the crock of his neck. I felt him shift me to one side, and I knew we were at my door. I reached into my belt purse and handed him my key, before returning to nestling in his arms, wrapped in a cocoon of warmth on this dark night. I heard my door click open, and Rosto quickly closed and locked it. He strode across my room, placing me gently back on my feet. I kept my eyes downcast, meekly standing there, my hands still on his shoulders.

"Gods above, Beka, you're soaked," he murmured. His fingers found their way under my chin, lifting my gaze to look into dark eyes, crinkled with worry.

"You are too," I murmured, but he ignored me.

"We've got to get these cloths off of you, ok?"

Annoyance sparked in my chest, "I can take care of myself."

He looked at me with a gently mocking expression, "Really? Just how long were you sitting in the hallway, anyway?" I gave him a blank stare. We both knew I didn't know.

Rosto waited for a moment; then sighed. His hands ran down to my tool belt, untying it from around my waist, and then reaching down to the bottom hem of my shirt, pulling it up over my head. I looked at my dirt covered hands, and noticed how sharply they contrasted with the pasty white of the rest of my skin. I looked down, and the bruising over my torso was nearly as black as the grime coating my palms.

All the while, Rosto continued to strip me down to my underclothes, tossing my wet uniform onto a chair.

"Do you have a towel here?" he gently questioned. With a grim humor, I noticed he spoke with the same tone my brothers did when they were attempting to calm a panicking horse.

"Yah, over in the dresser." He walked over to get it, and I followed close at his side. Rosto stopped and turned, looking me in the eye.

"Beka, do you need to talk, beca…"

"No," I cut in. "No, everything is fine. Absolutely fine."

He shot a wry look to me, "Because you're handling this absolutely perfectly."

I glared, "Not all of us have killed so much we can smile at breakfast without a glimmer of guilt." Even as I said it I'd known I'd gone too far. Fear, exhaustion, and frustration had made my anger sharp and my tongue sharper.

Rosto had his back turned to me, his shoulders tight, hands fisted before his on the bureau. "Because we're friends," he started, throat constricted with anger, "and because I know your head's all messed up right now, I'll let that go." At this he turned on his heels, and his eyes bore down on me, "But if you value whatever there is between us, you won't risk making a comment like that again." Walking out the door, he shut the door solidly behind him.

I sank to the floor. What had I done?

The knife sat on the table in front of me, polished and sharp. It's a good blade, I thought to myself. I admired how the gentle curve of the mahogany handle accented the hard lines of the blade. Modest engravings cast stark shadows across the pommel, the etched words of good luck twisted, adulterated by the darkness. I hadn't bothered to light a candle, and the faint moonlight coming in my window provided a meager defense against the gloom.

The blade shines, so bright. It glows in a room that devours the light. Who would have guessed that not three (four? five?) hours ago blood had marred its smooth surface, worked its way into the cracks in the wood handle. The blade had struck out of the man's chest like a gravestone thrusts out of the ground, disturbing the clean lines of the horizon.

How did the blade get in my hands? When did I move from sitting on the floor to crouching in the windowsill, where I could see the world cast into black and white, drained of color? When had it stopped raining? I looked at my wrist, so small, rivers of blood pulsating beneath a fragile layer of skin.

Even in this monochromatic night, blood would scream with color. I could picture the red streams moving down my blade, the crimson stains that would grow on my floor. The thought of death was surprisingly beautiful, a chance for me to escape. No more pain, no more crying.

I cast my gaze out over the city, my part of the city, with all of its chaos and order, bakers and butchers and beggars, all in one strangely beautiful conglomerate. Who would take care of my people? I put my blade down.

They need me. So I will stay.

But I need help.