Judgement Blood: A Celestial's Vendetta

They gathered around the wounded man in despondent silence. There was barely enough space for the four of them, so they huddled uncomfortably with their supplies, skin to skin, sweat to sweat. 

'Gosh, it hurts.'

Ilyas's liver was pressed against something. Maybe a boot, maybe a knee, he didn't care to know, because now they knew what lay ahead. If they continued North, they would be captured, then maybe tortured, or maybe stewed for supper. It's quite unfortunate that the latter sounded more appealing.

The silence wasn't for nought either; it was more of a grim brainstorming session. Cenric was rubbing his temples with his paws, Alexander was unbecomingly biting his nails, and Ilyas was huffing mechanically through his mask, seeming like a still, unnerving statue.

"This uh... this isn't very good," Ilyas whispered after a few minutes.

The other two nodded affirmatively. The agonising man, too, shrugged while on his back with a grimace.

'Well, no ideas then.'

It became quite clear where this encampment had come from. There was a ceremonious spirit to them from what they observed from afar... a triumphant spirit. One that could only mean they had been part of the Eastern Offensive, and had somehow crossed the spine to the West amidst the chaos. 

'This only means we're right. They are probably preparing for a Western Offensive. But no, not now.'

Now he had to focus on their immediate plight. How to pass the vicinity without getting captured. They had entertained the idea of rerouting their course, but that would add time to their journey, which they couldn't afford. 

The wounded man muffled something through the gag, so they momentarily removed it.

He gasped from his mouth, licked his teeth, and croaked, "They're... planning to attack from the West... the West too. The West," he repeated desperately.

The three nodded at him, knowingly, then unilaterally agreed that the man was good enough without a gag.

Alexander and Cenric had already tended to his wounds. Very temporary treatment, of course, but the man didn't deserve all that space anymore.

"Here..." Alexander groaned as he straightened the man so he could rest his back against the tree. "What's your name, friend?" 

The man gulped, then said with a heavy breath, "Henry... It's Henry. My name is Henry."

Cenric straightened. "Well, we're glad you're alive, good sir. May I enquire..."

"Yes, the Nineteenth. I'm from the Nineteenth. It's horrible. Oh, it's horrible."

They all went silent. The confirmation was much too unsettling. Cenric especially lowered his bulbous eyes in sorrow.

But there was no time. They couldn't afford to brood now, because if so, then they could also afford to let their wounds rest, and Ilyas to process the surrealness and gruesomeness of the past week. 

Without a word, Ilyas rose and returned to survey the encampment. 

It sprawled for as far as the rising central command tent in the distance could allow. It blocked the view of what lay beyond. The tents themselves seemed to be made from felt and wood. He could see countless Salivitians moving through the narrow alleyways between them, hefting supplies, carrying the wounded, and distributing... stew. Many of them wore the silver Salivitian helmets, with amber plums hanging limply from the back, fluttering at every breeze and gust of wind. Here and there, Salivitian flags were erected: an Orange rectangle with a black sword pointing upwards, and touching a solemn black helm with its tip. 

Ilyas scowled behind the mask, green eyes dimming at the unholy sight. He could smell it too... that stew. And he had no doubt he knew what the main ingredient was.

'The Nineteenth.'

It was in these moments that Ilyas could feel everything within him ardently yearning and desiring one thing: power. He had to become a Coherent, and fast. He had to learn how to wield a weapon, and-

'Fast.'

As they were now, they had no chance of slipping past unscathed... no, alive even. They were very fortunate to have stumbled upon Henry; otherwise, they would've been in a more dire state. 

So ahead, there are scouts dominating the whole area. Here, a Goddamn encampment with god knows how many Salivitians readying themselves for battle. If we want to get past... Ahhh, this is a headache.'

Now, another pain was added to his already overwhelmed head. What was there to do, really?

'Maybe a distraction, and we sneak away? But how? What could distract a Goddamn encampment for four wounded people to pass?'

Ilyas rubbed the Brass forehead of the mask in frustration, then...

'Oh…'

He froze and paled.

'Oh dear. No. No, Ilyas no. God no. God...'

Someone crawled beside him from the thicket. It was Cenric.

"Anything changed, good sir?" The GentlePug whispered. Then, noticing Ilyas's frozen state, he turned to him enquiringly and asked, "What's wrong? Are you alright? Do you have-"

"Yes," Ilyas muttered bitterly.

'No, Ilyas no. It's dangerous, it's deadly. It's... It's stupid. There has to be another way!'

Cenric's adorable eyes snapped open. "Really?" He whispered. "Oh, please, Ilyas, let us hear it."

"It's uh... It's not that pleasant."

"Oh, our whole situation isn't pleasant, good sir."

Ilyas took a few moments, then said begrudgingly, "Uh, here I go. I'm gonna say it now. Ahhhhhh, Gosh, this is bad. Okay, uhhhhhh..."

***

After they all heard his plan, they sat in silence in quite a contemplative and dreadful mood.

Alexander stared unblinking at the ground, lips tightened and hands scratching his hairless chin.

Ilyas had his hands steepled nervously, a shallow smile trembling on his face, derived more from shame than hope, as he waited for their opinions on his, quite frankly, stupid yet incredibly efficient plan. 

Henry stared at Ilyas, eyes wide in what Ilyas believed was vehement disapproval.

Cenric cleared his throat, seeming the most disturbed out of the bunch, then whispered, "I... I understand your reluctance... uhm... uh, good sir. That is indeed a uh... an ambitious plan to say the least."

Alexander nodded faintly. "I know my bravery and valour must've been touching and all, but I must say, even I... uhm... even I fall quite short on this task. It's too demanding."

"Oh no, I wasn't expecting you guys to perform anything." Ilyas hesitated, then gestured to himself with quivering determination. "I'm the play here. I know you two are Imitators, but you both know that doesn't matter in this case."

Perhaps it was the mask that did it, but after a short bout of silence, with Alexander and Cenric staring at him with gleaming hopeful eyes, they nodded.

'Ahhhhhhhhhhhh. This is gonna bite me in the back... hard. Really hard. Ah shit. Oh boy. Oh dear.'

Ilyas was still sitting down when he felt that surge of adrenaline rattling his insides. His body must've been mad at him, no, very mad, at him for all the torment it's been through lately. 

Oh, be quiet, it's better than being in other people's stomachs, isn't it?! So take my side, you weak, frail thing!'