Crimson Sin

Content/Trigger Warning:

This story contains dark fantasy elements and mature themes, including: graphic blood magic and body injury, violence, mentions of death, self-harm, and plague; psychological trauma such as grief, despair, guilt, and loss of identity; morally ambiguous actions including theft, violent impulses, and personal sacrifice; and familial conflict and emotional distress.

Hatred. Pure hatred. It coursed through Aravere’s body, through her very soul.

“What is happening to me?” she muttered.

The blood in her palm seemed alive. This was not entirely surprising. Aravere had always known her blood held power, the ability to heal. She’d been told about this gift as a child, though she had never been desperate enough to use it until now. The revelation that her blood acted differently when used this way didn’t unsettle her. In a strange, comforting way, it made sense. But the hatred surging through her veins; that she had not expected.

Her eyes flicked between her palm and her brother’s limp body. Ribbons of blood still threaded from her hand and into Lucas’ skin, vanishing as though his body absorbed the blood. The more blood she gave him, the stronger the hatred inside her grew. Hatred for those who hurt him. Hatred for the choices forced upon him. Hatred for their parents, who had given them such a meager life. Hatred for the world itself.

Were these Lucas’ feelings? Was her blood carrying his emotions back into her?

Lucas stirred. The crimson ribbon snapped back into her hand, the cut in her palm suturing itself shut. Aravere knelt at his side. He was whole and well again, yet the hatred remained a part of her.

“Arie?” His voice was weak, but his old nickname for her warmed the air.

“I’m here, Lucas.” She clasped his hand and smiled through welling tears. He was all the family she had left, and she had pulled him back from the brink. Relief swelled in her chest, but it was tainted, eaten at by the gnawing hatred she couldn’t shake.

“How do you feel?” she asked, wary. If she had suffered a strange consequence, what if he had too?

“Honestly? Better than I have in years. Decades. I can’t remember ever feeling this good.” He laughed, a sound of pure relief. And he meant it.

“Nothing feels… off?” she pressed, furrowing her brows.

“Nothing. I don’t know how to explain it, but I feel lighter. As though the weight I carried in my mind, my spirit,” he paused, “it’s gone. I can just let it go.” He smiled, eyes glistening. “Truly, sister, your gift is magical. Just like Aunt Jezalyn’s.”

It was a gift, passed rarely through their family’s women. To have two living bearers in the same generation was unheard of. Perhaps her aunt could explain this disturbing side effect. The hatred still simmered within her, almost painful in its persistence.

“Perhaps it’s time we paid Aunt Jezalyn a visit,” she murmured.

-----

The shopkeeper turned his back. Aravere’s hand darted forward, slipping a crystal pendant into her pocket. She exhaled, frustrated with herself, then stepped outside where Lucas waited with his ever-present smile.

“Did you find something for Aunt Jezalyn?” he asked, bright as always.

“Yes,” she answered gruffly, rolling her eyes. Five years had passed since she healed him and the hatred still burned in her. Lucas, meanwhile, met the world with aching optimism; something she hated almost as much as the world itself.

She had healed only one other person since Lucas: a young boy, beaten nearly to death and left on the roadside. It turned out he had been a thief. After saving him, Aravere felt a compulsion to steal and she indulged it often. Not out of need, as the boy likely had. She and Lucas earned enough with their services, traveling from town to town in search of their aunt. But she couldn’t stop herself. The day she discovered her new proclivity to steal, she vowed never to heal again until she found Jezalyn.

Months after Lucas’ recovery, they had reached their aunt’s cottage only to find it empty. Neighbors provided rumors of her whereabouts, and the siblings had chased those whispers all these years. At last, they recently received fresh information that promised they were close. Aravere tried to hope, but the hatred in her heart choked every spark of optimism.

It was as if Lucas could sense her thoughts. “Please, sister. You must believe we’ll find her. And with finding Aunt Jezebel, we will find an answer. I promise.” Lucas drew her into an embrace. She hadn’t been able to hide her changed demeanor from him and had confessed what happened when she healed him just days after. He carried guilt like a wound of his own and vowed to seek a cure for her burden.

She hadn’t, however, told him about the stealing. She wasn’t sure she wanted him to know or if she even cared.

-----

As they passed through the gates of the town, Aravere felt her heartbeat quicken. She was close, so close, to the knowledge she sought. Answers about the ancient magic that ran through her veins.

“Perhaps we should stop by the local inn,” Lucas suggested, a hint of curiosity in his voice. “They may have information about Aunt Jezalyn’s residence.”

Aravere nodded, and they made their way there.

“Healer? Witch, more like. That woman has the touch of the devil about her. People are never the same after she touches them,” the innkeeper spat.

That sounded about right to Aravere. She had always been hesitant to reveal her own powers, fearing she would be cast as a witch if anyone besides Lucas knew.

Seeing a couple of townsfolk glance up from their tables, she lowered her voice. “We understand what she is,” she said, “but we have questions only she can answer.” She decided it was best not to reveal their relation.

“You best keep your distance,” the innkeeper warned. “There are no answers that devil-woman can give you.”

Aravere felt her hate bubbling up. Who was this man to deny her destiny?

“Listen here, you decrepit old ma-”

“-Thank you very much for your time, sir. We’ll be on our way,” Lucas interrupted, gently ushering her toward the door.

As she turned to admonish him, Aravere noticed one of the men who had looked up while eating tumbling after them. “Excuse me,” he called out, “were you inquiring about Lady Jezalyn?”

A glimmer of hope stirred in her chest. “Yes. Do you know of her?”

The man smiled with a lightness that reminded her of Lucas. “I owe that woman my life. The townsfolk are skeptical of her, but she is a worker of miracles.” Of course he had been healed by her. Aravere couldn’t help but wonder what burden her aunt had absorbed from this man.

“Would you be able to show us the way to her home? We heard she lived here and have urgent need of her,” Lucas asked, a hint of desperation in his voice.

The man’s lightness faltered for a moment. “Unfortunately, she has not been seen in a fortnight. The townspeople… they see the miracles she delivers, but fear the changes it brings. All of us who have been healed by Lady Jezalyn have indeed changed; but not for the worse! She cured me and others of the plague, yes, but also of the maladies of our hearts,” he said.

Aravere exchanged a knowing look with Lucas. This affliction, this curse, was shared among those who bore the gift.

The man continued, his tone tinged with sadness. “With every person she healed, it seemed to weigh heavily on Lady Jezalyn. She was prone to acts of rage and violence. This only grew the suspicion of her witchcraft. I’m afraid she was eventually banished from the village.”

“Thank you, sir. This information is useful,” Aravere said, keeping her composure despite the swell of hatred she felt toward him. She had hoped for nothing more than confirmation of her curse. And this man had delivered it.

As they turned to leave, the man reached for Lucas’ arm. “The road west, into the woods. Try there. That’s the way she left, and there are rumors she still resides there. I can’t say if it’s true, but perhaps it’s a start.”

Lucas braced the man by his arms and thanked him. Seizing the distraction, Aravere slipped a few coins from the man’s pocket, her lips curling in a brief, guilty smile.

-----

Wandering through the forest for hours, Aravere and Lucas were beginning to lose hope. It seemed they would be met with yet another dead end in their search for answers. Just as they were about to give up and return to the village, a haphazardly built shack came into view in the distance.

They hurried toward it, noting the rough boards and uneven frame. It looked recently constructed. The man in the tavern had made it sound as though Jezalyn’s banishment was recent. Perhaps this was her new dwelling. Hope stirred between them.

Aravere stepped up to the shabby door and raised her hand to knock, but froze. The anticipation twisted her stomach. She had longed for answers, yet feared them too. There was every chance she would not like what her aunt had to say.

Lucas offered her a soft, empathetic smile. “Here, Arie. I can do it.”

She let him take her place, relieved.

His knuckles rapped against the wood. From within came the scrape of movement through the gaps in the walls, followed by a ragged cough. Aravere and Lucas exchanged a look; whoever was inside sounded far from well.

At last, the door creaked open, and there she was. Their aunt.

Jezalyn stood pale and gaunt, her hair unkempt, her clothes threadbare and torn. Her eyes held only contempt, nothing of the warmth of the woman they had once known. Aravere grimaced, her heart sinking. Was this the confirmation of all her darkest fears?

“Children,” Jezalyn said flatly, as though she had been expecting them all along.

Lucas, ever the optimist, swept her into a hug. “Aunt Jezalyn, we’ve searched for you for so long. I’m so happy you’re okay,” he said into her tangled hair, voice brimming with joy. As though she were anything close to okay.

“Yes, yes, I’m sure,” Jezalyn muttered, pushing him away. “Come in. We have much to discuss.”

Aravere hesitated only a heartbeat, casting one last glance over her shoulder before stepping inside.

-----

“What gift?” Jezalyn scoffed at Aravere’s question. “This is no gift! It is a curse. A curse for others to exploit until those who bear it are sucked dry.”

Aravere flinched at the venom in her words but refused to give in. “But, Aunt Jezalyn, surely it cannot be all bad. We help others with this power, after all.”

“Help?” Jezalyn’s laugh was bitter. “At what cost? This power is ancient, Aravere, older than any record in our family. It was born of a pact with a demon, duplicity of the cruelest kind. Our blood magic feeds that demon, wherever it dwells. And, as is the humor of demons, it does not only heal wounds of the flesh but the hidden afflictions of the soul. To take another’s suffering, you must take a piece of it into yourself. Their sins. Their vices. Their darkness.” Her tone carried the weight of resignation, as if she had long since ceased to hope for escape.

“I had guessed as much, though not the source,” Aravere admitted, her voice trembling. “But surely there must be a way to break this curse, to turn it into something we can truly use to save others?”

“No, child.” Jezalyn’s answer was firm. “This curse was never meant to save the world. It was meant to save those you love, at your own cost. That is the balance, and it cannot be broken.” She lifted a hand, sharp and final.

“I cannot accept this!” Lucas burst out. “So she must carry my hate all her life, simply because she wished to use her power for good? To help someone she loved? There has to be another way!”

“Enough!” Jezalyn’s voice cracked like a whip. “Where do you think I have been all these years? I have searched for that answer for decades. There is none. If you wish to be free of this curse, there are only two paths: death, or acceptance.” She rose and crossed to the narrow window, staring out at the bleak forest beyond. Aravere and Lucas sat stunned, hollowed by the weight of her words.

When Jezalyn spoke again, her voice was low, frayed at the edges. “You can survive with these demons, but only if you find a reason to endure them. It takes every shred of willpower I have not to kill you both where you stand. I have healed too many. Absorbed too many sins. The woman called Jezalyn is already little more than a memory. And yet… I fight. I fight to preserve what remains of her. That is all that’s left to me.” She turned, tears brimming in her eyes. “Make your choice, Aravere. Make it before too much of you is gone. For once you are lost, the decision will no longer be yours to make.”

Without another word, she turned to the hearth and set water to boil, leaving Aravere and Lucas to sit in silence, each heavy with the truth they had come seeking; and the burden it carried.

-----

“Aravere, come quick!” Lucas shouted.

She stirred from the makeshift mat she had pieced together for their stay and rushed to his side. He was kneeling over their aunt, who writhed in her bed, crying out in pain.

“What’s happening?” Aravere gasped.

“It is my time, sweet child,” Jezalyn whispered between ragged breaths. “The plague I once drew from a villager never truly left me, no matter how I fought it. I have given too much of my blood… there is nothing left to heal myself.” Relief flickered across her face, as if death itself were a mercy.

“But, Aunt Jezalyn, you still have so much life ahead of you! You cannot leave us like this; broken, a fragment of who you once were.” Lucas’ voice cracked, and he began to sob, the weight of it all too much for his tender heart to bear.

“As I told you,” she murmured, voice thin as paper, “I am no longer that woman. The best I can do now is pass from this world before my darkness consumes me.”

This couldn’t be real. Aravere’s chest tightened. She had so much still to learn, so much still to hope for. The vibrant, luminous woman she remembered did not deserve such an end. Not as a hollowed shell, not as a corruption of her true self.

Her blood began to stir, reaching outward as if answering her thoughts. Aravere remembered Jezalyn’s warning: this gift was no gift at all. A curse. A burden. But she could not accept it.

“No. I will not let you die like this, Aunt Jezalyn!” she cried, seizing a shard of glass. She cut her palm, crimson welling, and pressed her will into the blood.

What came forth was beyond anything she had ever known. Not one ribbon of blood but hundreds burst from her palm, weaving and lacing over her aunt’s body like living veins. Then came the torrent: every pain, every sin, every darkness Jezalyn had taken on over the years surged into Aravere. Fire coursed through her veins, searing her body, mind, and heart all at once. She screamed.

“Aravere, no!” Lucas cried, helpless at her side. But there was nothing he could do. She held onto consciousness as long as she could, before the weight of it dragged her into the dark.

-----

When she awoke, her aunt stood before her. For a moment Aravere thought she was dreaming; Jezalyn looked young again, her skin luminous, her eyes soft. She was almost the aunt from her childhood.

Jezalyn smiled faintly when she saw her stir. “I cannot thank you, nor repay you, for what you’ve done. You’ve done more than heal me, you have freed me.”

Aravere only stared, numb.

Lucas approached, worry etched in his face. “Aravere, are you okay?”

She rolled her eyes. “I don’t need your concern, Lucas. Both of you, please leave me.” Turning her face to the wall, she refused to see the look the two exchanged before slipping quietly from the room.

-----

She lay in silence, staring through the cracked window beside her bed. Her body felt heavy. Her hate pulsed sharper. Her fingers itched for theft, her heart for cruelty. Grief and despair throbbed in her chest, tangled with an insatiable hunger to take life.

And yet, there was something else. A glimmer. The echo of her former self, faint but undeniable.

Her aunt had told her: once you are lost, the choice will no longer be yours.

She would not let her shadow-self endanger them. Better they hate her absence than suffer her presence.

That night, when she heard their heavy, even breaths in sleep, she slipped silently through the window. She would exile herself, as Jezalyn once had. But unlike her aunt, she would not fail. She would harness her hate, her impulses, and turn them into fuel. She would scour the earth for a way to end this curse.

And one day, when she had triumphed, she would return to them; whole, and unshackled.