On the Hills of Eden

“Are you sure this is a good idea?”

Soleiman continued holding his hand out, its blackened, charred and lifeless form laid palm up on the Pallas’ thigh.

“Sure it is,” he responded, Qingxi and Rumi standing nearby to observe the procedure. “It’s already dead, so even if anything did go wrong it’s not like I’d lose anything.”

Pallas still wasn’t sure. Kneeling on the hard rock of the training compound they’d gone to to train under Qingxi, she gently cradled her brother’s disfigured arm; one of her index fingers pointing to where he planned to make the incision with a spare scalpel.

“Alright, look,” he said, trying to reassure her. “It’s not like there are very many blood vessels running through my arm, so even in the worst case scenario there would be more than enough time for me to notice and for you to burst your blood out. It’ll all be okay.”

Pallas sighed, nodding in agreement. Fine, then. If he believed the risk was worth taking, if possibly flooding his bloodstream with her blood in exchange for a chance to regain control over his burnt arm, then she would follow through with the plan.

That wasn’t to say that she wouldn’t burst her blood out at a moment’s notice, though. She knew her brother, and she knew full well that he had a tendency to tow the edge to see how far he could go.

“Alright,” he said, exhaling as he calmed his nerves. “Go!”

His small silver blade slit the hard skin by the vein, and at once Pallas shoved her finger under the flap of exposed, lifeless skin.

It was a miracle his arm had even stayed on up until now. It was highly likely that if he’d even missed a single dose of Edenberries that he would’ve had to make do with a prosthetic for the rest of his life instead. Which was not quite a favourable outcome, given that there were only a handful of prosthetic makers in the world– and not a single one would value their services anything under a King’s ransom.

Pallas forced her blood out of her index finger, feeling as it coursed into Soleiman’s unfeeling arm. It was travelling the wrong way, sure, but that didn’t matter at the moment. All she had to do was saturate it with living blood.

She felt as her sanguine tendrils snaked their way across the dead limb, coursing around burnt bone and desiccated muscle, in between tendons and around fingers. Breathing life and vitality back into the long since dead tissue.

Rumi and Qingxi leaned in a little closer, watching as his shrivelled black twig of an arm slowly began to swell again.

Growing larger and larger. Ever so slowly approaching its original size-

Pallas stopped.

Soleiman looked up at her, eyebrows raised in genuine confusion.

“Pallas?”

“That’s enough,” she replied, pulling her finger from the incision and having her blood seal it shut. “Your arm can’t handle any more.”

He opened his mouth as if to try and protest, though he soon realised the futility of trying to argue with her.

“Alright, then,” he said, pulling his arm away and standing back up. “Let’s see if this works.”

Slowly, but surely, Pallas felt her blood in him fade. The sensation of being within his skin shrunk to a light hum, and her ability to feel what he felt disappeared with it too; leaving only a slight trace of power that she could yet sense and be cognisant of.

Then, calling upon the newfound divine blood that coursed within his burnt arm and the aiding winds of Shafraturriyah that Qingxi had taught him, Soleiman tried to move his hand.

Clenching it.

And then unclenching it.

Each finger whispered quietly as it shifted to and fro, the air that circulated about and guided it along whirring just loudly enough for him to pick up on. Each time he clenched and unclenched his hand, he felt as sensation returned to his arm. As Pallas’ blood became his, allowing him to feel through it– each and every vein and artery and muscle and bone; all moving in tandem to breathe life back into the dead.

“Oh wow,” Rumi said, peering in closer. “It really did work.”

“Does it feel any better than just using Shafraturriyah?” Qingxi asked him.

“A bit, yeah,” he replied. “Before it was like I was puppeting my hand. But now with, well, real blood inside of it, it feels a lot more like normal.”

“And we’re supposed to change the blood everyday?” Pallas asked, rising to join the rest of them.

“Yeah,” he responded. “Or at least for as long as you know your blood can keep its power.”

“Mm,” she hummed. “Every six hours, then.”

She knew she could maintain control of extraneous blood for longer than that.

The longest ever instance of her controlling blood out of her body was when she and Soleiman were seven and nine and decided to play house. They had needed something to act as their dog, and though Soleiman had offered to be said dog, Pallas instead insisted he be the father– all so that they could be a proper family. And so, she ended up creating a little blob of blood that proceeded to follow them around for the next three days.

Granted, that little blob demanded all her attention to upkeep, and she had to disperse it after Rei got upset at her for being unable to do any training sessions.

More realistically, she could control extraneous blood for up to a day. But given what was at stake, she felt far more comfortable with giving herself a three-hundred percent margin of error to work with.

“Alright, that works,” he responded. “Sick!”

“Great,” Qingxi said, clapping her hands together. “Now we can work on you, Pallas.”

Pallas turned to look at Qingxi, her eyes flicking between her, Rumi and Soleiman.

“Ah, right,” she eventually said. “Where do we start?”

“Oh, actually,” Soleiman cut in, stopping Qingxi before she could lead them to where the equipment was. “I’m going to go to the library for a bit, if that’s okay. I saw it on the way back yesterday and thought about checking it out.”

“Sure,” Pallas said, bidding him farewell with a gentle wave. A stark contrast to both Rumi’s enthusiastic double wave and Qingxi’s singular, stationary raised palm.

“Take care, okay?” She said.

“You too!”

The punching bag shuddered, its leathery skin crumpling as Pallas’ fist dug deep into its soft insides.

She drew in a slight breath, puffing her lungs up just a tad bit as she pulled her hand back for a second blow.

“Focus on what it felt like when you first did the bloodburst,” Qingxi said, her arms crossed as she stood by to observe her. “Remember that feeling.”

Pallas huffed, the muscles in her hips and abs and chest all working in conjunction to send her fist barreling into the bag again– knocking it off balance.

Qingxi extended a hand, catching the thing before it could topple onto the rough stone floor of the concourse.

“Try again.”

Pallas gathered herself again, lifting her arms back into position– her knuckles hovering just by her cheekbones and her elbows tucked in close to her chest.

She controlled her breathing, running through her mind memories of the past. Memories of their escape from Porthopolis, of their battle at Minlos. Memories of smoke, of blood and of burning flesh.

Having seared the image of all that was wrong with the world upon the leather of the punching bag, her breathing raced up to a feverish pace, the muscles in her arm and upper body all twitching together in irrepressible enthusiasm.

Her knuckles slammed into the bag, the hook she’d thrown throwing the bag into a wild spin about its leg; its leathers now torn and stretched and oozing with the fluffy down that had been used to give it its shape.

But there was no bloodburst.

“Not like that, Pallas,” Qingxi said, putting her hand on the bag again to get it to settle down. “We’re ladies, not beasts. Don’t rely on your emotions to do your work for you.”

Pallas shuffled back, her knuckles raised once more to her cheeks and her elbows held parallel to one another.

“Recall what it felt like physically,” she added. “What it objectively felt like.”

Calming her breathing once more, she transported herself back in time. She recalled the roiling of her blood beneath her skin and the peeling back of her blood armour, the seconds of suspended time that preceded the strike that sent the Protoataphoi sprawling onto its rotten, foetid hide.

She focused on that thought, remembering the crackles of blood that blasted from her skin and the mist of sanguine power that permeated the cold, moist air of the forest with a heavy warmth.

She lunged forward, driving her back leg into the stone floor as she speared her left fist into the bag. The thing crumpled, folding in on itself in agony as it keeled over and collapsed onto the floor behind it, its thick wooden spine having been snapped even through the foot-thick layer of padding.

And it was completely unstained by blood.

Pallas sighed.

“It’s alright,” Qingxi said, putting a hand on her arm. “Just keep focusing on that feeling. I’ll go get a new one.”

Pallas watched as Qingxi hoisted the broken thing onto her shoulders, her fluffy tail swishing behind her as she headed off to a nearby arbour to swap it out.

Her hands on her hips in dogged determination, she wondered how something so utterly intense and enthralling could be so difficult to recreate.

“Pallas?”

Pallas pulled herself from her reflection, looking up to see Rumi had taken to sitting cross-legged on the floor not too far away.

“Hm?”

“Could I give you some advice?” She asked, tilting her head as they made eye contact. “Since I’ve sort of done something similar.”

“Go ahead.”

She hopped off of her bum, wasting not a moment getting up and shuffling over to where Pallas was.

“Okay, so,” she said, gesturing with both her normal and her fingerless hands. “When I was learning how to control her sword, she always told me that it was very important to be aware of my intentions.”

“Mhm.”

“A bit like what she told you, right?”

“Yeah.”

“And I know how difficult that can be,” she said, the way her palms flowed up and down in synchrony with one another reminding Pallas slightly of her brother. “But what I realised is that it became much easier when I began visualising the movement of all the mana within my body.”

“Right,” Pallas said slowly, eyes narrowing slightly as she began to catch onto Rumi’s train of thought.

“So, I think it would maybe possibly help you,” she continued, pausing momentarily to catch up on a few breaths she’d missed out of excitement. “If you visualised your blood.”

“Hmm,” Pallas mused. “So, everything?”

“Yes,” Rumi responded. “All in the blood in your veins. And you should watch how they move whenever you land a punch, seeing how it changes with how much focus you put on remembering the first time you did it.”

“Mm,” Pallas hummed. “I think I get what you mean.”

Qingxi returned, plonking the punching bag onto the floor with an audible clunking noise as its wooden base struck stone.

And so, Pallas did as Rumi had told her to.

Keeping her eyes open and affixed upon her target, she created within her mind a full visualisation of every drop of blood that coursed through the dense network of veins and arteries and capillaries that permeated every inch, every centimetre of her being. She watched as it shifted, pounding and pulsing with each throb of her heart, rising and falling with each breath she took. She felt as it moved with her muscles, as it responded to every last twitch and tremor that rippled through her tensed arms.

She relaxed herself.

At once, she threw her fist into the flesh of the punching bag, watching as her blood surged into position, moving in coordination with her to amplify the impact– sending waves of energy rippling through the bag.

The pressures roiled within her– a flash in the pan, suddenly emerging just as her fist made contact with the bag.

And there was a small spurt of blood. Just enough to leave a visible stain on the leather and a smear on her fingers.

“Nice!” Rumi said. “See? It worked!”

“That it did,” Pallas said, unclenching her fist as she took a closer look at the extent of the bloodburst– or bloodsquirt, which she saw as more fitting.

“Just keep trying,” Rumi reassured her. “It took me a few hundred tries before I even managed to do anything, so you’re already doing much better.”

And Pallas returned to her training, pounding her fists against the punching bag time and time again; breaking, felling and folding one after the other.

Again and again.