By Andrea Renae
Red belongs to the Strongman. It’s the color of passion and rage, of birth and death—things he alone controls—and to wear it outside his city is to beckon the bloodwatchers’ blades.
Yet my sister and I pass through a field that reddens our jumpsuits like torn flesh.
A sharp crack shatters the night, freezes my steps. I spin to find a broken bone gleaming beneath Brynja’s boot. If her face weren’t painted white, I’m sure it would still mirror the bone’s pale sheen.
I drop to my knees, yank her beneath the dripping heads of grain, and clap a hand over her mouth before her startled cry condemns us. “We must keep quiet,” I hiss. Brynja’s nostrils flare, tears dotting her lashes, and I press my hand harder. “If we want to get over the wall, we can’t get caught crossing the field or the ashlands.” I exhale, fighting for calm. “Keep quiet and don’t let the wheat touch you.”
She points a trembling finger at my cheek.
Releasing her, I dab my neckerchief on the spot. My gorge rises when the linen comes away red—my skin will be permanently stained. I force an unconcerned smile, though my pulse thunders.
“I’ll cover it,” I say, zipping the neckerchief beneath my jumpsuit and holding a white-painted hand over my cheek. “See? Hidden.”
Brynja’s lips press tight.
The night hovers close, as if eager to witness our deaths, and I curl lower below the grain. Pulling out my fiancé’s compass, I press its cool metal against my lips to ease my convulsing heart.
Nothing stirs.
Neck aching, I raise my head enough to see the Strongman’s sword-limbed predators patrolling the ashlands beyond the field’s far edge.
“I think it’s safe.” I stand, legs unsteady, palm perspiring against my cheek. “They can’t see anything in this field. There’s too much red.” I open Gunnarr’s compass, checking that we haven’t strayed from the bearing he showed me before…
I swallow forcefully. “We need to keep going.”
Brynja obeys with wide, unsettled eyes, and the grain stripes our jumpsuits while we walk.
“Livy,” she whispers after a while, barely breaking the stillness, “why couldn’t we wait for a blustery night that would hide our sound?”
“Because then we might have more than this”—I jerk my chin, indicating my cheek—“to worry about.” I pocket the compass and reach back with my free hand, which she grips with icy fingers.
“Why does the Strongman need this field when he already has his monsters guarding the ashlands and the wall?”
I face her. “He planted it to mark all who flee his domain so the beasts will hunt them. The bloodwatchers only see red, remember?” My sister’s shoulders heave, and I crouch, meeting her gaze. “But they won’t be able to find us if we get rid of our jumpsuits before stepping foot in the ashlands.” My lungs hitch, belying my uncertainty. “I promise.”
Her tiny, determined nod cracks something beneath my ribs, like the bone under her boot. I rise and lead her on, our breaths and footfalls quick.
The moons are distant when we reach the end of the field, where I shed my protective layer, untie and discard the neckerchief, and help Brynja. She slips off her boots with her toes and lets the jumpsuit fall. Holding my breath, I lift her from the soiled garment and turn to place her on the colorless ashlands.
“Livy!” She gasps, eyes locked on my uncovered cheek.
I hide the splotch, my neck creeping with gooseflesh. When did I let my hand fall? I dart my eyes to the wastes, relieved to find the two closest bloodwatchers are turned away.
Breathing again, I take Brynja’s hand, squeezing as if to say, No harm done.
Without the Strongman’s color painting us, passing through the ashlands almost feels safe. The rotting, stilt-legged mutations move in opposite directions, oblivious to us, and we choose a path between them.
It isn’t long until one turns and lurches our way—acid-yellow eyes sweeping the charred landscape, blades gouging the earth—and Brynja’s hand judders. I tug, but terror has petrified my sister beneath the bloodwatcher’s shadow. Shaking, I tuck her against my chest with my free hand, hiding her face between the folds of my chemise, and close my eyes until the beast’s ragged exhales and footsteps fade.
“It can’t see us,” I breathe into Brynja’s ear.
When I focus on the path ahead, assessing the wall, my chest constricts. Moments before the enforcers had dragged Gunnarr away to become the bloodwatchers’ meal, he’d handed me his compass, promising it pointed to an escape—and he was right. Ahead, roots zigzag up a fissure in the granite like rungs on a ladder.
“Look.” I point.
Brynja blinks, then jolts forward, eager to escape this nightmare. I follow, hardly believing a single climb stands between us and freedom.
Concerned she’ll find it difficult, I urge her up first, but she clambers two-thirds of the way without slowing.
Thank you, Gunnarr, I think, my eyes burning with both grief and hope. Thank you for saving us. I almost laugh at the bloodwatchers searching for red they won’t find.
Until Brynja slips, cries out.
Moons above, no!
The closest beast cocks its head, raising its hackles. It may not see us, but it can hear, and now that it knows where to find its prey, it lunges to the hunt.
I glance at Brynja, panic clawing my chest.
She won’t make it.
“Go!” I scream through a narrowed throat. Stumble toward the bloodwatcher. Let my hand fall from my face.
The monster hisses at the damning stain, increases its speed. I sprint, drawing it away from Brynja until my lungs burn and I slide to a stop. Turning, I see her vanishing over the wall—and the bloodwatcher raising bladed arms to my throat.
And as it fulfills its purpose, I think how wrong the Strongman is.
Red belongs to freedom.
Rate this story:
(0 votes, average: 0.00 out of 3)
You need to be a registered member to rate this.
Loading...ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Tell us your thoughts!