Judgement Blood: A Celestial's Vendetta

Rain, once again, pelted the damn forest. 

Within a small cave tucked in the side of a small mountain, a palpable, blue silence settled amongst three wounded, startled companions.

One of them was more devastated than the others. A GentlePug held back the folds of his face from trembling while struggling to his feet. 

"Wha-What?" Alexander uttered, barely a whisper.

Unblinking and breathless. "Nineteenth? And Silversun... lost?"

Cenric didn't say anything. His paw reached for his ribs as he tottered to the mouth of the cave without saying a word.

Before disappearing completely, he stopped and muttered with a quivering voice over his shoulder, "Just... Just a walk. I'll be back."

The rain shrouded him in its mournful grey haze until he blurred and disappeared into the forest. 

Alexander was left transfixed, staring at Cenric's empty makeshift bed, processing the news. 

Ilyas understood the gravity of the matter and thus remained appropriately silent. He didn't feel as distressed as the two, having only exited onto the surface almost a week ago. But he also held Silversun in high regard after hearing his feats from Cenric and Alexander. His life depended on the Retreat as much as Cenric and Alexander's, but he was too ignorant to comprehend the full meaning of this.

For example:

'Eastern offensive? I just want to know where I am?!'

Or

'How major is this whole Retreat? How big are our forces? Where are the Salivitians coming from? Is North our last bastion?'

That's when Ilyas finally reached and grabbed Cenric's map. He at least knew they were in the Mediterranean, which wasn't really surprising, but where?

Maps of the globe were very common in the Vault, so he wasn't completely ignorant when it came to the world's geography. He knew the main continents, the seas and oceans, for example, but other than that, he didn't know much.

He knew nothing about the world before it devastated itself. Nothing significant about the events leading up to that catastrophe. Nothing about pre-war cultures and languages.

All he knew were bits and pieces from ancient epics and some mild preserved knowledge about the loudest empires in human history: The Carthaginians, the Romans, the Persians, the Arabs, the British, the Germans, and the Americans. Those were compulsory in the Vault's education institute, but since he never attended, his father made sure to at least acquaint him with their existence. 

He unrolled the map, then...

He frowned.

He frowned deeply and thought:

'Huh?!'

The terrain was both wholly unfamiliar and yet familiar. He'd seen it before, but not as so. 

'Sardinia?!' 

But not really; from the bottom, the land extended into some familiar parts of North Africa, making it seem like an elongated, small continent. 

But that was only the magnified section. At the very top right, a map showed exactly where their location was relative to the rest of the world.

The entire world map appeared somewhat fractured and distorted in comparison to the original. Continents were split. Some seas were larger than they were, whereas some were smaller. Some pieces of land merged, whereas some had extra terrain jutting out of them.

The Mediterranean basin was much larger than it was; that was for certain. It was elongated and vast. From the highest point of Sardinia to what was once the Italian peninsula was almost the same distance as from what was once Egypt to Sicily. 

'Just what the hell happened?'

The world map was a bit too small to thoroughly ponder, so he decided to focus solely on their location...

'What do they call it?'

He read the writing on the top, which was, as he expected, the same language as his.

He was still immensely curious as to why that was. Why was there no variety?

'Serecy?' 

The Sercian continent then. 

Black arrows from the east and west were drawn on the parchment map, all pointing towards the same direction, North.

A thin passage, like a spine running through the continent from the very south to the very north, was void of arrows, indicating the path of the Retreat from all regions of the continent. It seemed that within the elongated continent, the Salivitians dominated all of the east and west, leaving only the centre.

'Ah... Eastern and Western scouts. Makes sense.'

On the very northern coast of Serecy, where all the arrows pointed, was a small circle drawn around a beautifully inscribed word:

'Marianne.'

'Marianne, oh Marianne. Gosh, to be there... What a luxury.'

At the southern coast, drawn X's crept up the spine to signify central regions lost to the Salivites. 

'Oh, this is most certainly a Retreat.'

Most of the major cities were on the Eastern and Western coasts, all under Salivitian dominion. The very few along the centre were also crossed out, leaving Marinna as the last bastion. 

Surrounding Serecy was nothing but an open sea. The colonies and borders of Mathesonia or Sycrusia weren't depicted on the smaller map on the top right, so he couldn't infer their might. 

'Oh well... But finally I know where I am... somewhat.'

There was no indication of where they were exactly at the moment, but Ilyas could make a guess.

Within the northern regions near Marianne, there was an annotation of many trees huddled together, most likely suggesting a forest.

Beyond the forest, slightly further north, valleys gorged their way all the way to a vast, empty expanse. 

'Probably Pelton Valley then the Argian plain.'

Beyond the plain, there was a large lake along the central route, surrounded by a few towns.

Marianne Lake.

Thankfully, they didn't seem to be under Salivitian dominion yet.

'Ah, but who knows. This eastern offensive seems kinda bad.'

And further north, along the coast, lay their hope, the City of Marianne. Unmarred by crosses and arrows. Proud and beautiful even on the map.

'So when the Mathesonians arrive, they'll come from what was once Europe. Or... Europes?'

Ilyas pored over the map a little longer until he heard a shuffle beside him. It was Alexander. He rolled up the map, put it back where he had found it, and sat back, pondering what he had just seen.

'So the Eastern Offensive was along the whole continent, an effort to pressure the spine even more? Is the projected attack on the Twentieth the harbinger of a continent-wide Western Offensive? Just what kind of information did Alexander stumble upon? Wouldn't that also mean...'

Ilyas suddenly turned to Alexander, who was standing silently at the mouth of the cave, "Alexander, sir." He said in a low, dreadful voice.

"Yes?"

"Since we survived the squad they sent for us, and since we know of the impending attack, how desperate are they to hunt us down?"

Alexander remained silent, watching the rainy forest while favouring his side with a slight sideward hunch. 

He then sighed and said, "They would scorch this forest down."

Alexander took a deep breath, swallowed back his tripdation and anger, then turned back to Ilyas. "It's of utmost importance that we leave as soon as possible, my good southern friend. It appears that we'll have a lot of attention, and not for my looks and charm... and the right company."

Ilyas nodded, eyes trembling from a nascent sense of dread. They had a lot to traverse to reach the Procession.

The Nineteenth was gone.

The Twentieth remained. To rendezvous with them in Pelton Valley was all but impossible, so they had to reach them in the Argian Plain before the Salivitians did. 

They were tired and heavily wounded. Weak, alone and vulnerable, but they had to cross it nonetheless.

Their lives weren't just their own anymore; they belonged to thousands. They bore a responsibility that demanded they forsake all concern for their health and selfish disconcertion. 

And even though Ilyas knew no one and had no one on the surface, meeting Cenric and Alexander instilled within him a feeling of solidarity and fellowship with the whole Retreat.

Because to him, Cenric and Alexander were the faces of the whole Retreat. 

"How many Processions remain after the Twentieth?" Ilyas asked after a bout of thoughtful silence.

Alexander shook his head ever so slightly, muttering, "It's a miracle we even made Twenty Processions, my good friend... The answer to your question is none. The Twentieth is the last, and how noble a duty it is to serve as its Western Scout."

Alexander wheeled to start gathering their scattered supplies, prompting Ilyas to stand and lend a hand. The wound on his liver was healing fast, but not fast enough. It still threatened to open and bleed again, but thankfully, the Sanguiniser was a miracle worker. 

Alexander also managed to spare some for his temple, which truly did help. Even his excruciating migraines were less frequent. 

He still stood up with effort, hand tending to his liver, wincing at every muscle contraction, but that was the case for all three. 

"Don't burden yourself, I'll manage," Alexander said. But Ilyas shook his head and started by stuffing their packs of dried meat in the haversack. The toiletries were tended to by Alexander, so Ilyas only bothered with their sustenance.

They worked in silence until Alexander stumbled upon his Brass mask and paused. He stared at it, and it stared back at him. Eventually, he cocked his head at Ilyas and said, concernedly, without arrogance lacing his tone, "Ilyas, if we ever make it out of here, what kind of life do you wish to pursue?"

Ilyas stopped and stared at Alexander pensively. There was an easy answer to that question, but the manner in which it was asked insinuated that there was more. "I will probably look for a Personal Task - a job, I mean - to earn a good living. I'm thinking... a place with a plush bed and amazing food. Oh! And a true green space." 

Ilyas's face slowly lit up as he imagined a life free from all that he tried to crawl away from. "I don't know what to expect from... from Mathesonia, really, I've never been there, but I bet you guys have some pretty good stuff I haven't seen before, so I'm excited for that, too."

Alexander huffed from his nose, seemingly amused and regretful at Ilyas's ambitions.

He didn't interrupt him.

He just listened silently, eyes curling at the prospects of a life that wasn't his. 

It never occurred to Ilyas, since their first interaction wasn't the most pleasant, but Alexander was also on the brink of adulthood. His blue, unhardened eyes, his flawless skin, his slender figure, and childish arrogance made Alexander anyone but someone who deserved to be where he was.

That's when Ilyas thought it for the first time, standing with his black overcoat in hand, talking to Alexander, who was crouching on the ground near his mask, looking like a curled-up abandoned teenager lost in a cave. 

'Why is he here?'

Asking that question regarding Cenric was pointless, but for Alexander... it was more than warranted. 

But he had no right to ask. No right to pry. Not until he was willing to reciprocate.

"So, you want to build yourself a life of peace and happiness? So far from the south?"

Ilyas nodded. 

Alexander stood up, Brass mask in hand. He stared at it one last time, then proffered it to Ilyas with a forlorn smile and said, "Then, it is my recommendation that you do not remove this mask until we reach Marianne. And when we do, make sure that no one associates you with it."

Ilyas frowned, eyes darting between the mask and Alexander, "Why?"

Alexander hobbled to Cenric's makeshift bed to retrieve the small bundle of leaves. "Wherever you may go, whether it be Mathesonia, Sycrusia, the Huan dynasty, or even the north of you're bold enough-" he paused, cocked his head, "I'm not so sure about the south anymore, considering you're not familiar, but my point remains. You will be of interest if you, by the will of the Celestes, make it to Mathesonia alive. They will pester you to harbour their blood, and your life will cease to be yours anymore. You will be a vessel. A political pawn. Your bed may be plush, but your sleep will not."

Ilyas's eyes were unnaturally wide, and his jaw hung open, not because of the warning, but because of one particular thing Alexander said. 

Alexander noticed Ilyas's paralysed shock, then frowned. "I know what I said may be disappointing, but does it truly demand such a reaction, my dear southerner?"

Ilyas could barely hear him because in his mind, something finally made sense. Something peculiarly frustrating that had been prodding his thoughts nonstop ever since his birthday. 

'Harbour their blood?'

Ilyas's open jaw finally shut, then he muttered something Alexander couldn't hear. 

He repeated it.

"Alexander, what do you mean by 'harbour their blood'?"

Alexander's mouth curled as he looked beyond Ilyas to the mouth of the cave and gestured at their returning companion. "I believe that's a task beholden to that boor."

Cenric returned, drenched in rain, but hardened by some newfound, seething resolve. 

How terrible it must be to become the sole survivor of an entire Procession? 

The GentlePug, hobbled inside, sat down against the wall, and sighed. "Not much is known about how Coherency truly works, but one thing remains absolute: Coherency is Blood, and Blood is Power."