The Way We Fall

Chapter 40 (Tigris)

TW: Body horror, fake death. Read with caution.

Tigris wasn't sure where she was.

"Show yourself! Where have you brought me?" Tigris shouted into the empty room. It was identical to the room she'd been in moments ago: made of dark jagged rock with eerie blue sconces glowing on the walls. But there was no entrance or exit. And in the centre of the room, a large pedestal sprouted out of the ground.

The object on the pedestal seemed to absorb all the light in the room, like a black hole of sorts. Tigris' breath lodged in her throat. The object was as dark and glassy as obsidian, cracked with molten golden veins that pulsated with a strange, choking sort of power. The shadows in the room seemed to stretch. When she looked closer, she noticed that the surface of the egg-shaped object seemed to writhe, like it was coated in a rippling viscous liquid as thick as clotted blood and was being touched by invisible hands.

Inkblood.

It was the object of power. She was sure of it. Tigris crept closer, wishing she had her sword on her. Hell, she wished Roche was here with her satchel to safely hold the object. But Roche wasn't here.

Neither was Finn or Aodh.

It was just Tigris.

Just Tigris and a very explosive, very dangerous object.

Sweat beaded on her brow. She had to take it, had to get rid of it for her kingdom. She carefully placed her hands around the base of the egg, lifting it up from the pedestal. Tigris felt a burst of warmth the moment her palms connected with the smooth surface. It rippled, and suddenly, Tigris' face wasn't staring back at her.

It was a body. The inkblood she'd slain in the market.

The one Roche had mourned.

Her throat dried. The divide between her body and her reflection seemed to stretch and fade. Her autonomy and control over her body winked out like a candle snuffed out in the darkest of nights. She was locked in place, slowing getting sucked into the vision.

A figure entered the scene, distorted by the ripples of the inkblood. Tigris watched a shadowy version of herself prowl forward over the body of the inkblood. She knelt, caressing the fallen inkblood's face. Then she was pulling her sword out of his stomach.

There were people around her, watching her yanking her sword away. She squeezed her eyes shut, wishing they would avert their eyes, their attention choking her as much as Roche's words had.

The inkblood's body jerked, unseeing eyes rolling in his head with the movement. Tigris placed her bloody sword beside him, like she was building a shrine.

Then, her fingers plunged into the hole in his abdomen.

Nausea crept up her throat as the warmth of his blood pressed against her calloused fingers, warm and slimy, tacky under her fingernails. Her body moved on its own accord, no matter how much she resisted. The skin of the inkblood's chest bulged and tore as her fingers worked methodically up his chest cavity, past many greying organs. Her knuckles knocked against his ribs, once, twice, thrice. Then her fingers wrapped around something fleshy.

She pulled hard, snapping the tubes holding his heart in place.

Warm blood gushed down her arms as she held up the object of power, egg-shaped and glowing. It seemed to shine in the sun, obscuring the body she'd desecrated so terribly. The blood on her hands flaked off, turning to copper beads. Tigris turned towards the rest of the market, holding the object of power aloft. She'd gotten it. She'd gotten the object of power.

But at what cost?

Their eyes pressed against her. Roche stared at her like she was a monster.

Then her body was her own again.