37. What Remains (Patreon)

“Rosamund.”

He didn’t know how. He didn’t know what. He only knew that his life was in danger, and the form which that danger took. The monster. The shattered doll Rosamund had become, not the happy girl chatting with her father as he flew her away.

In the split seconds before she attacked, Ike froze. He scanned his entire camp, his eyes moving as fast as thought. His sword, lying beside the wolf meat. The pan in his hand, still dripping with the remnants of acid. The shape of the boulder, and the height of it. His legs tensed. Mana circulated through his body, and his breath grew even.

“No, no, no no—”

As her fingers tightened around his neck, Ike threw himself forward, his legs sparking to the knee. Lightning traced after his ankles. Her fingers dug furrows in his neck, and then he was free. Her porcelain hands closed on nothing.

Rosamund screamed in frustration and anger. Pottery screeched off of rock as she chased after him. Ike raced away, bare inches ahead. He leaned forward as he ran, scooping up the sword as he passed it. At the same time, he threw the pan behind him, using it to buy the precious milliseconds he wasted snatching back his sword.

Clang! The pan bounced off something hard, and Rosamund hissed—in anger, not pain. Again, that ferocious fingernails-on-blackboard keen sounded out.

Ike threw himself to the side. Her hand flew past him, so close he felt the wind of it passing. It cut into the boulder like a hot knife through butter, sinking deep. She yanked it free and turned, staggering toward Ike. Her limbs were stiff at the ankles, wrists, elbows, and knees, but swung freely at the hips and shoulders. Her head and neck turned freely, but her back only bent in two places, like a ball-joint doll.

Ike bounced away. At the other end of the boulder, he lifted his sword and waited. He couldn’t cut her. She was incredibly strong, far stronger than him. His only advantage was speed.

Speed, and my wits.

Screaming, Rosamund lunged. Ike kicked off the ground and used his lightning-imbued strength to leap over her, landing on the boulder behind her. Her hand cut through empty air. She growled and whirled, turning to face him again.

Ike eyed her warily. “I didn’t take anything from you, Rosamund. I don’t even understand. What happened? If that wasn’t you, who did your father take away?”

She tensed. Her whole body stiffened, then twitched. Her head twisted, twisted, twisted, further than a human neck could turn. She gazed up at the sky, where her father had vanished.

“He doesn’t need me. I’m a broken toy. So he made a new one.”

A broken toy? What does that mean? “Were you a protector for the real Rosamund?” Ike guessed. Maybe she’s some kind of body double, or bodyguard, or something.

“The real? The real? THE REAL?” Rosamund tossed back her head and laughed uproariously. Abruptly, she fell completely silent. Her head snapped back down, and her glazed eyes met Ike’s.

Ike tensed. He lowered his center of balance, ready to jump. The lightning zapped around his feet, stronger than before. Overhead, clouds began to gather.

“There is no real Rosamund,” she whispered, and lunged.

Ike charged at her in return. He lifted his sword, striking a side sweep at a crack in Rosamund’s arm. His sword rebounded off her arm. Expecting it this time, Ike let his arms bounce with the rebound. Pain still jolted up his bones, but it hurt less. A crack bit through the blade, snaking into its depths.

They parted. Ike whirled.

Rosamund stood dazedly, hunched. Abruptly, she stood upright and giggled. Her hand squeezed the air, blood staining her fingertips. “I found it. Your insides.”

Ike glanced down. It didn’t hurt yet, but deep furrows bit into the gaps in his ribs. Blood leaked onto his shirt. A sick sensation coursed through him, the nausea of a broken bone. He gritted his teeth. Not good.

“Give me what’s inside you!” Rosamund howled, and launched at him again.

Rather than dart away, Ike hunkered down. The lightning flickering around his ankles and calves intensified. The storm clouds roiled overhead, grumbling with a warning peal.

Rosamund grinned gleefully, drawing back her fist. She loosed it, the air keening around her hard earthen hand.

Purple light flashed. Ike kicked himself directly up into the air. He shot up, over Rosamund’s head. Midair, he swung his sword, hooking it around the back of her head. He swung with all his strength, not to cut her open, but to throw himself behind her.

Ike landed. He skidded across the rock, then whirled, facing Rosamund again. Her hand stuck deep into the boulder, and she yanked at it, struggling to free it. “Give it to me! Give it back!”

“You want what’s inside me?” Ike asked. He jogged in place. His mana steadily drained, but overhead, the clouds grew darker.

“Give it,” Rosamund growled. She reached toward him and grasped at thin air, tensing her fingers as if she could drag it out of him from where she stood.

Ike lifted his razor. He reached under his shirt and made a cutting motion, then yanked.

Rosamund stared. She leaned forward, standing on the very tips of her toes. A sticky black tongue flicked out from her mouth, and she licked her lips. “I need it. What’s in you.”

He pulled a bloody mess of entrails out from under his shirt and looked at them, then laughed and threw them into the sky. “Come get them!”