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A body is made of bone and flesh, 206 bones lined outside with tendons and muscles. Twelve rows of ribs contain a significant portion of the seventy eight organs belonging to the human body. A heart lies at the center of the body, continuously circulating blood into the body’s veins. While the bone marrow in the center of every bone creates the blood to be circulated. This blood travels all over the body, to the brain, the feet, the hands and head. Blood, it was the most crucial piece of any body, it fed and encouraged every part to continue working. Oxygen was a close second, a more demanding mistress. A few seconds of Oxygen loss could be deadly, this was what made hiking, high altitude activities, so dangerous. There were more deaths to humanity’s own breathless ego than any animal. Blood was forgiving, malleable, in a way Oxygen wasn’t. The human body could lose four litres before death, splattering such an important assets across the ground uncaringly. If treated in time, other blood could be transfused, what could’ve been a foreign threat was accepted as if always a part of you. Even remaining in the body for up to three weeks afterwards. Of course there were signs before the stage were that was necessary.
Typical symptoms of blood loss were a distantness of thoughts, lightheadedness and weakness, too long without blood and the brain would give up, simply shutting down and then so would the lungs, the organs keeping you alive. Blood loss is caused by an internal or external factor, perhaps injury or a body’s inability to circulate blood. The heart would in result, generate more and more blood to compensate. Usually it would be noticeable before the body reached the point of no return, feet would become red and inflamed, swelling from the overflowing amount of blood stuffed into a small space. Hands would become ice cold, clammy as if dunked in a vat of frozen water, yet they’d shake and sweat as if in blistering heat. The head would swim, fog blurring even the simplest of thoughts, perhaps seeing hallucinations or doubles. These symptoms were rare, most people had veins capable of constantly squeezing and forcing the blood to travel in an even amount. If they didn’t, then they’d still have fair warning in advance, blood loss is not instant nor is it subtle. The body does not die quietly, even during suicides, the body fights to survive. It is why the drowning man opens his mouth to breathe, only to inhale the exact same crushing threat he’d been avoiding.
So why, was his heart so silent and dull? Why was his body so still and serene, he was cold, so incredibly cold, yet he didn’t shake, didn’t sweat. This was not the false warmth the brain conjures before fatal frostbite. The thumping of heart against chest that had been his quiet comfort through the years, a silent guarantee. A heartbeat was the basis of society. The doctor first checks their patients pulse, the do-gooder presses fingers against the wrist. Lie detectors strapped around the limbs, constantly checking the pulse for a sign of panic or momentary calm. Animals could hear the heart thumping, what decided one as a threat or an ally or simply another animal safe to walk past. Therapy animals would use the heartbeat as a signifier as when to start and complete their job. A doctor would send him to a morgue, the good civilian would sigh, perhaps let out a few tears at the person they couldn’t save. Would dogs bark at him, or would they become fearful? Unknowing what to do in front of this paradoxical threat. He lacked the barest essentials of being alive, for without the pumping of a heart then there was no blood, no brain, no organs. Yet his eyes could blink, his mouth could move and his brain could think. He wasn’t alive, to be alive was to breathe and bleed, yet alive in most contexts was used as a precursor as sentient. Did that decide him as something less than sentient, less than a person and less than an animal.
When he was ten, his older brother had snuck him out of the manor, taking him by the hand into the far edges of the garden. This was a rare event, a first that he was young enough to desperately hold close. Though he belonged to a family of seven, his five brothers did not behave as he saw the commoners outside the windows do. It was however incredibly typical of noble families. Siblings were competition, the best of the best would be elevated, while usually the eldest took over the main family line, an impressive younger siblings could overthrow them in extenuating cases. This lead to an odd upbringing, as the siblings split into factions. The two youngest were often partnered, too far away in age to be any real competition. He envied them, for their freedom, laughter was rare inside the manor, but if it were to exist, the culprit was likely them. The three eldest were a faction of their own for how solitary they were. The eldest could not interact with the younger as that would dull the competitiveness of their jealously. They were to strive higher, not remain complacent. He was the second eldest, and his brother even just one measly year older, had never interacted with him openly behind closed doors. Yet, he could always tell he wanted to, there was a longing to him, that reasoned this rule breaking was forewarned. He never planned on reporting his brother, nor denying his request. He could admit there was a longing inside him too.
He had never been so close to the forest before, rarely let past the hedges or outside at all. His time was to be spent indoors, his education valued above all. Yet that night his brother had taught him many new things, the only one he had intended to teach however was how to catch a rabbit. They’d nabbed some carrots from the kitchen and rummaged through the trash for a box. While his brother fidgeted with the box and some wire, Scott had been tasked with finding a nice even stick, with flat edges able to stand up straight, but not one that was too long or thick. He had wandered deeper into the forest outskirts, trees were messier, dirtier than he’d imagined, their bark was peeling and infested with bugs crawling all over them, they looked nothing like the trees he’d grown so used to in the courtyard. He had faltered at the thought of getting too near the infested trees, a disgust running through him at the sight of all the little ants, but it was strangely pretty, the tree and its inhabitants. He couldn’t imagine this nature trimmed down and purified, it was exactly as it was meant to be. This ugly beautiful tree had offered him the stick he needed and he returned diligently with his prize, it didn’t have any ants on it but its bark was just as pale and sickly, it was perfect.
Setting up the trap didn’t take long and frankly at the time he hadn’t understood the mechanics behind it, he’d been too afraid to ask, his tutors would never accept such an uncivilised activity and he feared his brother holding a debt above him. Knowledge was the currency the house was run on and he feared floundering before he had firmly dug his feet into the ground. He thinks now, that his brother would’ve answered any question he asked, even the stupid ones. A rabbit had approached the trap, after a mere fifteen minutes of waiting, long enough for the woods to have forgotten there was once two children foolishly poking around. The creature had crept forwards slowly, leaving the safety of the forest due to the trail of food left across the ground. Its eyes were a deep red with enlarged pupils, its fur a dirty grey that seemed to darken the further down its body. He hadn’t yet known what dried blood looked like against fur, that matted texture and black dampness, oh he had no doubt anymore. It moved with a limp, a flinch with every little hop. So small and so slow, it could’ve been cute, the type of pet you let rest in your lap in blissful silence. Perhaps that’s why all those years ago a rabbit had actually appeared, a dark truth he hadn’t understood until he was older. The rabbit was injured, too injured to hunt in the day, finding food easily accessible to its hiding location, it had desperately chased its own chance of survival, falling deeper and deeper into the trap. If it didn’t manage to find food, it would be weakened severely until it was picked off, animals in the wild didn’t often have the grace to heal injuries, not a rabbit as solitary as this one. It hadn’t inspected the carrot with enough caution, diving forwards with a tired hunger. The box had crashed down, the stick, the wire, the carrot and the rabbit crashing under it in a heap.
The box was still. There was no panicked noises, no bucking against the box, just silence. His brother had eventually found the confidence to lift the box only to flinch away, but the damage had been done, their crime had been uncovered. He’d stared, blankly as his brother puked with brimming tears. The stick, the one he’d picked out, that perfect stick, it had toppled in the crash. Impaling the rabbit in the eye, it was so deep in, he’d held that stick in his hands and he knew just how far that stick had traveled, nearly poking out the other side. It had tried to run, its feet caught in the mess of wire, it was what had caused it to be at the perfect angle to be stabbed. The carrots at its feet were blood stained, and the usually vibrant green grass was turning a sickly red. His brother had shoved the box back over it, leading Scott back into the manor with a vow to never speak of this again. He hadn’t a speck of blood on him but he could feel it, almost surprised at his clean appearance in the mirror.
When the crime was discovered the blame ultimately fell on a servant boy who’d coincidentally also snuck out that night, they called him a psychopath, a cursed child. The child and his family had been exiled from the manor ashamed, a petty crime but reputation was what mattered. He had heard laughter a few weeks later, that they’d been chased out of town too. The rumours had been too great and they were painted in the blood of the animal they hadn’t killed. His brother after the incident had taken the words to heart, the confession of his crimes had made it into his will, when he ultimately succumbed to his sickness, leaving Scott as the eldest and heir of the family. Those hateful words were never thrown at him after death, he was a poor child with too big of a heart. Nobody called him a murderer, nobody cared at all. There was no justice for the family that had been ruined, the child that had been accused baselessly. Nobody mentioned them at all. The crime hadn’t mattered in the slightest. That was the final lesson his brother had managed to teach him. No person, no animal, no plant or beast, none of them would matter in the end. What made a crime unforgivable? Was it the act of killing? Yet they killed bugs and plants easily, was it the ability to stand and walk and talk? Yet they killed farm animals all the same. The answer was sentience, and a narrative. Killing a human, it could be excused, what did they have in front of them, were they a good person, how much were they worth? Did you feel guilt, did you save someone, or did you do it out of malice and spite. Crimes only mattered in the way things could be twisted, and the same could be said for life.
What basis did he have to survive now? The narrative claimed his death when his throat was torn open, to be blinking and speaking afterwards would contradict his earlier statement. A monster was what was left of his death, but monsters cannot die as they never truly lived. They stole and destroyed, ravaging lands and killing people without guilt or remorse. A monster was alive, because to be alive was to be able to be killed. A plant was alive, it ate and grew and then it died, while lacking the common forms of sentience humans assumed it held some, otherwise it wouldn’t be alive. To breathe was to be alive, to be alive was to be sentient. To be a monster was to be unthinking and cruel.
Clearly something was wrong with that logic. He wasn’t alive, but he was, something dead did not move, his body was light in a way that outshone any feeling he’d felt before. His chest could go up and down mimicking breathing but there was no intake into the lungs, his muscles moved, yet his lungs didn’t. Something was inside his skin, puppeting his corpse into moving once more, pulling the strings to make each thought flare and each finger twitch. Was it him or was it something other? His brain held all the memories he’d called his but a brain without blood couldn’t think. Was all he was, this new form or new creature, a manipulator of a corpse free to peruse a brain to its heart's contents. Were they his, or was he him? It reminded him of parasites, the ones that attach themselves to animals or bugs and force them to kill themselves so the parasite can consume the body. Or perhaps the parasites that took over the body completely, the ones that coined the term ‘skin-walkers’ due to their unnatural movements and unseeing eyes.
He remembered those theories of clones and teleporters. If a teleporter was to be invented then how logistically would it work? To remove and add something in another location, was to remove particles from the universe and replace them in a nearly identical sequence. But if you were taken apart and put back together were you still the you you’d been when you first entered the teleporter, or were you a clone created on the other side? Did it matter, you had all the same memories, the same body and the same will. But the original, it had ended, its mind was stopped and it wouldn’t think again, even as its clone continued on in life. You would never know you weren’t the original, never understand the truth of the technology or how many you’d taken the life of. A Theseus ship except built by the clones of the dead, eventually every original particle would be replaced, you logically couldn’t be the same, but did that change you from being you? After all, the answer to the riddle was that no matter how much was replaced it would remain Theseus’ ship as long as he owned it. Did he remain Scott Goldsmith, replaced and reborn as he is, if he simply claimed to still be that identity? Is there an amount of pity he is meant to hold for the him that died, that stopped existing, a guilt he should feel for continuing his claim of the name? He lacks any proof, no blood to test and his body was one of a monster, not the person they’d known.
The common opinion in the manor after the eldest son died, was that Scott Goldsmith had changed. He hadn’t changed intrinsically, his body was the same, the way he spoke and behaved was identical from before. If his body was The Ship, then his changes were more akin to the swapping of rotting floorboards, the adjusting of the sails. Not enough to have changed identity, but noticeable to those with keen eyes. It was held in the little things, the servants had whispered, he adventured the courtyards more often, throwing himself into studies with a bigger passion, even mastering duelling to an extent even his siblings couldn’t compete. His grades had heightened the curve, leaving his siblings completely and utterly in the dust. But that wasn’t what the gossip had focused on, no those mutters were more focused, more observant.
‘He interacts with his siblings less, and— when his name appears in conversation I could’ve sworn fear crossed their faces.’
‘He only practices duelling during my charges’ lessons in the leftmost building, I swear he makes eye contact whenever his strikes are a bit too vicious. It’s a threat to the other sons, I swear on my life!’
‘He’s always been cold— but now… I feel afraid. It’s not distantness anymore, it’s— apathy. Something isn’t right.’
It was funny that they thought he hadn’t heard every last whisper. They thought they understood his motives, his determination, they were wrong. It was his siblings that understood the most, in the most primal way, the top of the hierarchy was doing something dangerous, mind your own business. Knowledge, physical skill, he had trained himself in everything he could get his hands on. He wouldn’t die in a sickbed, surrounded by people who’d misshape his words for their own agenda. His crimes, his actions and his intent, it would all remain as was and if they encountered something they couldn’t understand, then he’d teach them to leave it alone. He would never die to an assasination, allow himself to become a martyr, he would never die to a common sickness able to be avoided with minimal education, he would never fall to the changing web of life and allow others to spin the web around him. His words would be ugly and harsh and true, filled with others shame and embarrassment, statements so utterly blunt there was nothing to do but accept it. He was not his older brother, he was better and if he could in this current moment, he’d say that exact thing to his face.
He is cruel, he has never disagreed with that statement. He is cruel and manipulative and selfish, the perfect Goldsmith heir. Better than his siblings, competitors as they were, even they wouldn’t argue against that claim, no they’d agree wholeheartedly. It is this cruelty that he inflicts upon himself, he will not mourn the him that was or may not be. He will continue life unknowing of the truth and never digging deeper because underneath all his musings, there is one thing that matters to him both of them. It is surviving in comfort and removing any discomfort from his life. It is his family motto, when he inevitably returns which he must do, they will no doubt harass him into doing what had been done to him, to them. He will only agree once he figures out the pros and cons. He is not a selfless man, he will not share something that benefits for free and if it is something that harms?
The more the merrier.
Because if there is something Scott appreciates more than comfort, it is fairness. An eye for an eye, because if he must be blind then everyone else must be too. It is why with these claws and these teeth, he refuses to become a tragedy, a victim or a mistake. He had been attacked and power had been thrusted into his hands unknowingly. He’d pay back everyone, everyone that decided he was something to use, something to shape and understand. He would kill who he wants and use what he has, to escape in this state of not-dead. If a curse inflicted upon him unwillingly makes him worthy of death, if conversing with the people he once was like made him a traitor, then there was only one solution.
Devastate them both.
Nobody holds his allegiance and he certainly owes no debts. He will not thank his murderer for giving him the tools of revenge. He will not apologise to these strangers for being changed, unwillingly and permanently. The fae believe that thanking someone for a service admits a debt, even if the service was unasked for, thrust upon them without consent. They will twist your words until their victims are forced into servitude, all without telling a single lie, untruth or bluff. This is why he, Scott Goldsmith does not lie, does not promise. He answers vaguely, truthful statements obscured by things he doesn’t know, tricking far better than any lie. The power of words is a weapon only nobles have discovered, one he has trained in longer than any sword.
So mark his words, let him promise to the world as truthful as any knife. He will return home, with or without the weapon forced into his hands. He will do so with bloodstained teeth regardless of his humanity or not. His enemies will remain buried here, stakes in their hearts stabbed a hundred times over, for every bit of pain they have unfairly inflicted upon him. Beacons be damned, he will forge his promise into the stars, forcing fate to bow to his whims.
This, he swears.