On the Hills of Eden

“But Sir!” Rumi pleaded, still hugging Qingxi softly from the back as the Kitsunite man tied off the last bandage. “We have to get back to the inn, we can’t stay here!”

“Why?” He asked, an eyebrow raised at her as he placed the small bottle of alcohol and the several rolls of bandages he’d used to fix Qingxi up back into his pouch.

“We have something there we need to protect,” Soleiman managed, he too having a massive set of bandages rolled up around the sealed gash on his right shoulder. He had been leaned up against the leg of the house's cloth-covered main dining table, his head lolled and his consciousness beginning to fade as the pain-dulling effects of the prior adrenaline rush began to wear off.

“The bulk of the reinforcements from the Main Shrine aren’t here yet, though,” the man countered. “It’ll be five or so minutes, at most, before they arrive. Can’t you just wait?”

“No,” he struggled. Alas, that was all he could muster.

The man opened his mouth, the fabrics of his long pouched sleeves gliding against the blood-stained wooden floor of the house they’d stopped in– some ways downstreet from the cafe and on route to the inn.

“Alright,” he said, rising to his feet and gathering his pouch about him. “Stay low.”

He hurried out of the house, a sudden surge of speed enshrouding his form in a slight blur as he leapt up onto the roof.

“Alright, Rumi,” Soleiman said, fighting to get onto his knees as he shuffled closer to the two of them. “You get that side and I’ll get this one.”

“Do you need me to carry that spear for you?”

“I… yes, please.”

Rumi grabbed the strange whirring Instrument they’d gotten from their previous encounter with the insurgents, checking that the axe and hunting knife had been properly stored on Qingxi’s back before hoisting her up alongside Soleiman.

“Okay,” he said. “Let’s-”

There was a sudden deluge of noise, and a rain of arrows fell upon the street directly outside of the house– their raindrop-like shadows fluttering by the open windows of the house’s facade.

The body of the man fell back onto the street.

“...Shit,” Soleiman said.

“They’re already onto us?” Rumi asked, head whipping back and forth between Soleiman and the street.

“The first Kitsunite defence must’ve failed,” Qingxi said, her body awkwardly hanging in place as Rumi and Soleiman froze mid-carry.

“What do we do?” Rumi asked.

“We…” he trailed off. “We have to hide.”

Rumi and Soleiman slowly lowered Qingxi’s body back to the ground as they shuffled over to hide under the main dining table.

Soleiman shuffled in first, Qingxi following suit before Rumi finally lifted the cloth over her shoulder.

As she did so, a group of insurgents ran into view of the windows, running to closer inspect the body of the fallen Kitsunite and to collect the arrows off of the ground.

Rumi jolted, almost banging her head against the table as she rushed to get herself hidden.

But she paused. Because one of those insurgents looked awfully familiar.

One of those faces, shrouded in shadow, she once shared a meal with.

A meal of bread and butter.

“Mr Ebeid?” She whispered to herself, half-emerging to get a better look at him when she suddenly felt a resistance in her left elbow.

The shaft of the spear she’d tucked into it was fighting against her.

She turned back, eyes wrapping around to see as its spearhead scratched against the underside of the table– spinning in place, and spinning faster and faster.

It was whirring.

“Rumi!” Soleiman whispered.

Frightened and unsure of how to stop it, she released it from her elbow, letting it fall onto the wooden floor.

But when she looked back up before disappearing under the table, the insurgents looked back.

“Rumi, get in!” He whispered, Qingxi tugging her along.

“Oh, shit,” she breathed, eyes still transfixed on the insurgents now descending upon the house’s door. She freed her right arm from the two of them, using it to grab the spear off the floor. “Stay hidden!”

“What-”

The table cloth fell back onto the two of them as Rumi rose to her full height, the door caving in to the mighty swings of a lumber axe just as she did so.

“Show yourself-” Mr Ebeid yelled, suddenly cutting himself off mid roar as his eyes landed on the small figure of the Solean girl- at least two heads shorter than himself.

“Rumi?”

“Mr Ebeid?”

“What… are you…” he trailed off, his axe slowly lowering to the floor in confusion. “That spear… you did that to our man?”

“No, Mr Ebeid,” Rumi said. “I… It wasn’t-”

“Stop, stop,” he insisted, gesturing with his axe to keep the other insurgents out of the house.

Though, she could still spy the vague figure of an archer poised to drive an arrow through her skull in the corner of her eye.

“You were with them all this time?”

“Sir, I’m just staying here,” she responded.

Under the table, Qingxi and Soleiman laid themselves on the ground, very gently lifting up the hem of the cloth covering to peek their eyes out and to prepare themselves for an ambush.

“Solean,” he said, taking a step forward. “Do you know what they did to my son?”

“N…no? Sir?”

He fiddled around a bit, sticking his free hand into his pocket to draw out a neatly folded piece of worn-out yellow parchment.

Soleiman squinted his eyes.

He unfolded the piece of paper, holding it so that Rumi could see its contents for herself.

“They shot him,” he continued anyway. “Charged him for trespassing, killed him without a word of a warning.”

“Oh… goodness…”

Two Kitsunites suddenly slid into the street behind Mr Ebeid, their blades immediately clashing with the dozen or so men stationed outside the house.

“And to think that you sat at my table,” he said, entirely oblivious to the shouts of the men and the screams of their blades outside. “And had the gall to eat my bread, to hear my tale…”

“Sir, no!” She pleaded, stepping backwards as he creeped towards her. “I’ve told you, I’m a traveller!”

“And a shopkeeper too?” He asked. “One who killed one of our Instrument bearers all on her own?”

“I-”

“How could-”

“She didn’t know!”

Soleiman scrambled from out under the table, the piece of parchment he had found at the Library held out in his hand.

“Soleiman?” He asked, stepping back in shock, eyes still darting between the pleading look on his face and the table he’d somehow appeared from.

“I found this letter, just like yours!” He said. “From the library, up the street! I was going to turn it in to the Head Maiden so she'd take care of it!”

Mr Ebeid squinted his eyes a little.

“The… Trumpeter’s?” He said to himself, pulling his head back and relaxing his brows. “So you really are travellers?”

“Yes!” Rumi cried.

“Then… then how did you-”

The cloth cover shifted about again, and this time Qingxi emerged from out under– struggling to get to her knees and her entire body wrapped in thick layers of blood-stained bandages.

Mr Ebeid jolted momentarily at the sight of her, almost immediately calming down when realising that she was no Kitsunite.

“A… Chitite,” he said to himself. “So that’s how.”

The struggle outside soon faded away, the mob of men overwhelming the two Kitsunites and forcing them further downstreet.

“Why… why are you even here, then?” He asked. “Why stop by at Hibara Shrine, of all places?”

“We’re just stopping here as a resting point before we head further north, to the edges of Houzen,” Soleiman replied. “The plan was to get there so we can start helping with the whole bestial situation.”

“I… I see,” Mr Ebeid replied. His eyes suddenly glossed over, falling onto the floor as his axe slowly rested at his size.

The man fell entirely silent, enshrouded in his own thoughts.

The shouts of men suddenly came back into earshot, and they could hear as metal clanged against the stone floor.

“Well, damn,” Mr Ebeid sighed. “Just stay here-”

The body of the archer that had once drawn the arrow and aimed it at Rumi’s head came tumbling into view, sliding across the street. And atop of it, was a person– their white chiton stained red by the blood of both they and the men that once stood in her way.

And she held out a finger gun.

“Pallas, no!-”

Soleiman winced, warm blood splattering over his face and arms as he raised them to shield himself from the impact.

He opened his eyes, the silhouette of his sister emerging through the doorway appearing first in the vision.

The sight of Mr Ebeid’s bleeding, severed head was second.

Soleiman slammed shut his eyes, turning away as Rumi fell to her knees.

“W… what? What happened?” She asked.

Soleiman cursed to himself.

“Did you use your emotions again?” Qingxi asked, slowly shuffling forwards.

“Well… yeah,” she responded. “I had no choice! Using my emotions with Rumi’s technique was the only way-”

“Okay, okay,” Qingxi said. “I’m not blaming you for anything.”

Silence fell over the group. There were no shouts from outside, nor any sounds of metal on metal. The men were dead, and so was Mr Ebeid.

“We… we should go now,” Pallas said, holding Qingxi up as she looked back at the dazed Rumi and Soleiman, the latter of whom took the crumpled piece of parchment from the corpse’s hand. “Before the mob comes back.”

“Alright,” she continued. “Come on-”

She turned back to see a man in the doorway.

Except... no. It was no man. It was a boy. Not any older than Rumi.

“Y… you killed my brother,” he said, his voice quivering almost as violently as his arms, the sword held in his hand wobbling back and forth aggressively in turn.

Pallas let go of Qingxi, letting her rest against the table again.

“Stop-”

“Drop it.”

There was a silence in the air, the light of the outside sky reflecting periodically off of the unsteady metal of the kid’s blade; its beam of light flickering across her blood red irises as she slowly approached him.

“Drop the sword,” she said.

The distance between the two of them closed to a few metres, and the boy promptly shuffled backwards– surrendering the doorway to her before halting once more.

The warmth of the outside sky once more shining down on her blood-covered sweat-soaked skin, she bored her eyes into the wavering figure of the boy- his knees shaking so hard he looked as though he were on the verge of collapse.

“You cannot kill me,” she said. “Drop the sword, and I will let you leave.”

They stared into each other for a moment, the boy’s gaze so fragile she could see as his irises shivered in place– desperately fighting off the urge to break and to flee.

“Drop-”

His eyes flickered upwards, glancing at the roof overhead before quickly returning to her.

She turned her head upwards in turn, stopping herself as the boy suddenly threw himself at her.

She grabbed the blade mid-thrust, pulling it to her side as the boy suddenly threw his arms around her– ensnaring her.

She kicked away at his legs, desperately trying to force him off without having to seriously injure him.

But as their shadows suddenly began to grow crisp and defined below them, she placed two fingers against his abdomen.

The beam of blood burst out of the boy’s back, his grip around her suddenly failing.

At once, she forced him off of her, spinning on the spot just as she heard a man above her spit a Plataic obscenity.

She dodged to the side, the cloaked man and his silver claymore enraptured by glowing veins of gold that drifted along its blade sinking into the path by the doorway.

She surged back towards the man, bursting his lips open with her fist before grabbing his weakened hands and showering them with blood. She planted her foot against his abdomen, pulling against his hands as she stomped him into the floor, falling onto him the moment he hit the stone to wrap her fingers about his spindly neck.

“Gah, shit,” the Hashashin gasped, his blood-covered hands uselessly clawing away at her forearms. “Soteira-”

She forced her hands down on his neck, cutting him off.

“Y…you’re no better,” he gasped, thrashing his body as she kept him pinned against the earth. “Killing civilians fighting for their livelihoods… just because you’re the one who stands to-”

She tightened her grip.

He gasped, his face now visibly turning purple.

“To lose something… now…” he managed. “You’re a hypo-”

She suddenly let go of his throat, shoving a hand reinforced several times over by strips of blood-soaked blanket into his mouth.

“The last thing I want out of a Hashashin’s mouth,” she hissed, venom and vitriol oozing out of the word ‘Hashashin’. “Is a lecture on morality.”

Blood armour surged into place all over her arms once more, and the man’s lower jaw was torn from its place, a strip of flesh stretching all the way from his chin to his chest following after it.

The man soon fell still, and she threw the strip of flesh back onto his body.

“Alright, come on,” she called out to her fellows, Rumi being the first to emerge. “Let’s go!”