Filling the Days

[Jaxen Marveet]

Chapter 14: Spikes and Shit

The last thing Ashtaroth thought before darkness took him was not fear.

He was pissed.

They dragged his body down all the same. And when they did, it was ruinous. Blood was the least of it. Bone jutted through his chest in pale, jagged spears, and what had once been vital organs spilled free in wet, obscene ribbons. The Aiel woman was unlikely to be disturbed, annoyed likely, but bothered? Unlikely.

But it was like hauling a limp doll. If there had been life left in him, it lay buried deep beneath meat and shattered sinew. What the Aes Sedai would not be able to glimpse, however, was the tendrils that bound soul to form. No spike forged by mortal hands could sever those.

For Ashtaroth, it was like being buried in ash. Hot. Smothering. It poured down his throat and packed itself behind his eyes, clogging thought itself. His first awareness was a flicker within that choking gray. A streak of black that fractured suddenly, bursting into a storm of flakes like cursed snow. They settled around him on an infinite swirl of nothingness.

Then they moved.

A million pieces became a billion. Maggots of shadow writhing upward, clawing their way along his soul, tugging, chewing, claiming. Then came the sound. A shrieking chorus, a thousand-thousand screams braided together and carried on winds that did not cool, only fed the heat until it climbed beyond agony.

And within that symphony of torment, he felt it.

A rope. Thin. Burning. Infinite.

His soul seized it with a grip hauling with such savage force that for one dizzying instant he thought he might tear himself free of existence altogether. It was exquisite. It was power. It was eternity brushing his fingertips. 

With a snarl that had never passed mortal lips, his soul clawed its way back.

The view was dark at first, seen through eyes black as beetles, faceted and wrong. There was pain. Oh, there was pain, but it meant nothing, not while the Great Lord’s fire raged through him, igniting soul and sinew alike.

Slowly, color bled back into the world.

Shadows sharpened. Spikes resolved themselves into stone and iron. At last, a face swam into view: a woman with dark hair and full lips parted as if speaking. He heard nothing at first, not until the howling winds finally fell away and left only the echo of his own heart beating drums inside his chest.

His hands came next. His palms dragging across his torso, finding ruined cloth clotted with gore. The blood did not drip. It sank, seeping back into his flesh like rain vanishing into desert sand.

He rose too quickly. Unnaturally so, but only to disappointment. The Great Lord’s power had done its job, but none remained for him to wield. His throat felt filled with gravel when he spoke, voice rasping into the dark span of the bridge where Samóch had vanished.

“I will tear him apart,” Ashtaroth growled softly. “Limb from limb. I’ll scatter what’s left to the four corners of the world.” A thin smile touched his mouth. “Let him try to heal from that.”

A deep breath and tilt of the chin became the curtain that separated Ashtaroth from Jole. After a moment spent savoring the images his imagination so kindly provided, he tugged his shirt down rough and carelessly and turned to assess his companions.

“You’re welcome,” he said, bowing with all the dignity of one who deserved all the accolades of a job well done. Then he pushed past her and leapt into the river without another word. If he was going to reek, might as well be of trout rather than of blood and shit.