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Many days proceed like that. We settle into a comfortable routine, and she no longer balks at my every move.
At night, we hunt, finding new ways to bring her into city boundaries to kill more efficiently. She’s seemingly moved past the point of questioning my methods but likes to watch me work anyway.
I think she thinks she’s a light on my soul, though I can feel myself corrupting her every moment we’re together. And that causes a sensation deep within me that I neither like nor understand.
I try not to think about it, just wanting to linger in our current state. I enjoy having her here if I don’t think about what more it could mean. I enjoy how, in the mornings, we eat around the fire, setting up camp in open parts of the forest.
About five days pass, and one morning is particularly stormy. We have to build a makeshift tent, digging the fire deeper into the trench to keep the rains from extinguishing our warmth.
“It’s not always easy, having magic.”
She breaches the silence somewhat awkwardly. Her plate of eggs has stayed mostly uneaten, and I’ve wondered what thoughts are crossing her mind.
“So you’ve explained,” I say simply, not intending to dismiss her.
She brings the fork up to her mouth, savoring the eggs as they move around over her tongue.
“I could never get tired of your meals,” she says. “You’re a fantastic cook.”
I chuckle. “I kill things, and then I burn them. There’s not exactly a science to it.”
She laughs.
“When I first found out that I had magic, I didn’t really know what was happening,” she says, spacing out as the tent whips in the wind, the hails nearly pelting through our line of safety. “There was a boy who always bullied me, and I really hated him so much. So one day, I told him to go away. It was completely innocent. I didn’t mean him any harm.”
I listen intently, always glad to hear some piece of the past she keeps so guarded.
“They found him dismembered in the forest days later, eaten by worgs. Apparently, that wasn’t even how he died. He walked off of a cliff and fell forty feet before the animals found him.”
Children are complicated beings. Their souls are underdeveloped, and there’s no way to discern which direction their lives will steer them.
I long to believe that the child deserved his death. I want to comfort her at this moment.
But I say nothing, just enjoying the sound of her voice in the comfort of our sanctuary.
“So that’s when you knew?”
“No.”
She itches her nose.
“The elders told me I wasn’t responsible and that I shouldn’t punish myself. They said people often blame themselves when bad things happen to our friends. But he wasn’t my friend. I was scared to admit that I was kind of glad he was dead.”
She pauses, taking in the atmosphere and looking to me for reassurance.
“So when did you know?”
“There were countless incidents after that,” she continues. “It was usually a figure of speech I intended harmlessly that left another person or dark elf mangled and mutilated. And that started to hurt me because I think I knew, and I think the council knew, too.”
I just watch her for a moment. Her green eyes seem a million miles away, lost in the memory.
“That’s when they moved me away from the other humans, putting me in my own place on the hill in the village. And then I started to take books from them, and it just became common sense to me at that point. I could do magic.”
She scrapes her fork loudly around on her plate, putting a large piece of egg in her mouth. I desperately want to tell her more about myself, but she doesn’t ask, and it feels out of place to offer.
Then, about a week later, she confronts me with a question.
“So you were just buried underground for hundreds of years?” she asks.
