Page 6 of Soul Hate

M y father has a thousand books in his study. The brightly bound leathers form a rainbow stretched across the warm wooden shelves. They contain answers to countless questions, about geography and history and art. There are endless daring tales and sweeping stories. But do you know what none of them are?

Useful!

I slam the book on religious history shut, the gilded title winking up at me in the sunlight. The Founding of the Great Holy States by Ezio Corsetti. Corsetti, one of the so-called greats, was truly prolific at wittering on endlessly. Not to mention his irritating melancholic ramblings about “the breaking of the continent” otherwise known as the Civil Holy War. The continent didn’t break; it was a triumph for all parties!

Three hundred years ago, our entire continent was under the thumb of the Holy States—then called the Great Holy States. But when the established cardinals couldn’t decide on a new Holy Ruler, the Civil Holy War broke out. On one side, the old, previously established doctrine. One where Soulmates were forced to marry, regardless of age, relation, or situation. If they were already married to other parties, they were forcibly divorced. Soulhate fights were a spectacle held in temple for all to watch. If either of the Fated parties refused or rebelled against this, they were executed.

But on the other side was a sect of cardinals lead by Holy Father Benignus, who proposed a more humanist way. He preached that it was wrong for the Church to force people’s hand. That people must have the strength of faith to follow the decisions of Fate, and that the Church should help them instead of forcing and punishing those who refused.

No matter which account I read, including Corsetti’s painfully biased scribblings, the war itself was a brutal, bloody affair. Thankfully, with the help of the resource-rich territories now known as the Independent States, Holy Father Benignus won the civil war. The Holy States relinquished its more violent doctrine and the Independent States got the freedom they craved.

It was a victory for the continent. Not this grief-stricken nonsense Corsetti prattled about!

I toss the tome to one side, collapsing into the soft, sweet grass in our garden. I glare up at the entwined arms of the apple tree overhead, the swelling fruit swaying side to side like rosy bubbles. The fickle shade offered by the tree sways over my face in time with the lazy breeze, and dark leaves rustle like a mocking snigger.

That’s it. I need a walk.

I throw myself to my feet, stomping off. I’m blind to the explosion of colours pouring out from the petals in our flower bed, their sweet fragrance falling unappreciated. The sweat beading my brow goes unnoticed, as does the assault of the setting sun on the bridge of my nose.

There’s only the dread of tomorrow looming like a spectre.

I try to take long deep breaths as I walk over the grass, forcing myself into smooth deliberate movements. I round the corner of a manicured flower bed to a corner of our property my mother used to adore. Standing with its back to the corner hedges is a small circular pavilion. The carved columns stretch tall, connecting the bright mosaic floor with the painted arched roof. The curved stone seating faces a small pond with a tiled edge and the water is scattered with floating greenery, crushed sunlight glinting on the undulating surface.

I ease down onto the stone bench, the knot in my chest building. My fingers turn white as I grip the edge of my seat with my eyes locked on that water. So calm, so gentle. Completely unbothered by the world turning upside down around me.

Frustration coils at the back of my throat. I grab an obliging rock, and hurl it into the silky water. The splash crashes satisfyingly. Water is thrown to the sky to shake the world around it.

Panting, I’m disgusted at myself, at how good the release feels tingling in my fingertips. I need to do it again. Harder. More violently. I need?—

No wait. This isn’t right. The hairs on my arms stand on end. Ghostly nails dig into the flesh between my shoulder blades.

Back straight as a poker, I climb up onto the stone bench of the pavilion. I lean forward, popping my head over the hedges that are caged by stone walls. I look down at the sunken road below to see a vile blond head.

Idris Patricelli.

He’s changed his clothes, donning a lightweight, cream tunic and dark trousers. His broad shoulders are pulled back in determination, his muscled arms tense as he marches towards the front door of my home.

My breath turns to fire and my fingers ache as they cling to the pavilion column like an anchor. Every fibre of my being begs me to launch over this wall and batter his stupid face into the cobbled road.

Idris stops like someone slapped him, his posture suddenly made of marble. He turns slowly to look at me and he’s so tall he barely has to turn his head upwards. His cheek is carved with four crimson gashes, the damage from my nails healing up already.

“How dare you come here?” I snarl, breath rushing uncontrollably from my lungs. “This is my home.”

“I’m not here by accident, Maineri,” snaps Idris, marching closer. “I’m here for you.”

“You changed your mind? You want to fight?” Fate’s Fury, with him here right now, that sounds delightful. Then the memory of Fausta hits me like a boulder and my legs almost go out from under me.

No. No, I won’t do this. I won’t lose myself.

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Idris scowls, folding his arms so tightly he hides his shaking fists.

“Then what for, for Fate’s sake?” I hiss, my very blood boiling in protest. I can’t seem to tear myself away from his golden hazel eyes.

“Did that blow to your head earlier slow your senses? To talk to you. Obviously.” Idris shakes his head, muttering under his breath. I dig my fingers harder into the stone column, clamping my teeth together.

“Oh no, please roll your eyes. Maybe you’ll find a brain back there and realise this is a stupendously horrible idea,” I snap. “You couldn’t give me a day? A single day to process this?”

“This can’t wait. Our fathers struck a deal but I need to know how you feel about it.”

“Feel about it? What a stupid question, perhaps you’re the one who hit your head. I hate everything about this. But then, that shouldn’t be a surprise. You are my Soulhate.” I snarl the last word.

“Yes, it’s all aptly named, who would’ve guessed it?” Sarcasm drips off Idris’s words. He lets out a growl of frustration, bending over his knees to stare at the ground. “Don’t look at me.”

It would be so easy. I could get the drop on him while he’s not watching. So easy to wrap my fingers around his ? —

“Don’t look at me,” snaps Idris again. “It’ll help. It’ll be easier.”

Just looking at him is agonising. Yet it’s at war with my every instinct to look away, to allow myself to be so vulnerable with him around. But I can’t do this if I see him, this thread holding me back is fraying fast. I squeeze my eyes shut and press my head to the stone of the column. I let the ridges of stone dig into my temples for a moment before turning my back to the column. Facing away from him, unable to see him … this is better.

“I came here,” Idris continues with strained words, “because we need to take control of this.”

“This doesn’t feel like control,” I grind out through gritted teeth. I wince as I hear his footsteps bring him closer. I dig my fingers into the stone behind me to stop launching myself at him from my hiding spot. He’s on the other side of the column now, a resigned note in his words.

“We’re both still breathing. I’d say we’re doing rather well.”

“Get to your point.”

“This is our bond. Ours . Your father and mine can make all the deals they want, but they mean nothing if we don’t care. So I have to know, do you want this deal?”

“Do you?” I fire back, not daring to open my eyes.

“Do you really think I’d be fighting this hard if I didn’t want to?” Idris pauses. “I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t serious about making this work.”

I take a deep breath, pressing my head harder into the stonework before answering.

“I won’t let Fate control me. I won’t let Fate turn me into something and someone I’m not. I am not a violent killer. I don’t want to kill you, not in my rational mind anyway.”

Whether I said that for him or myself, I don’t know.

Idris stays silent for a while, before he answers.

“I don’t want to kill you either.”

“So we’re both committed then?”

“It appears so.”

The silence lingers between the two of us for an uncomfortable stretch of time. Nouis’s words come crawling back to me, slithering around my ear as they attempt to take root. Then the words spring forwards almost of their own accord.

“Idris”—I hate the way his name digs hot thorns into my tongue—“you’re not worried, are you? About defying Fate’s will?”

He’s got to be asking himself the same questions right now, hasn’t he? He’s really the only one who could possibly understand what’s running through my mind.

That concept makes me want to throw up before battering his skull as quickly as possible.

Idris gives a deep sigh.

“You didn’t strike me as the superstitious religious type,” Idris answers, with an inflection I can’t start to dissect. I scowl at the accusation, spitting my retort indignantly.

“I’m not. But what about you?”

“I think those that believe Fate will take their satisfaction eventually are looking for an excuse to absolve them of the choice they’re about to make. I think those with stories or anecdotes about Fate taking their vengeance are reading the situation as they want to see it. Every decision has consequences, the majority we can’t foresee regardless of the choice we make. Good and bad.”

“That’s very … considered,” I answer.

“I’ve seen a lot in my time abroad,” is all Idris says in response. I let out a sharp sigh.

“Great. Now unless there’s something else, go away and leave me with some semblance of peace in my own home.”

Idris hovers, the air thick with something else he wants to say. But whatever it is, the words don’t come. Instead the fire in my blood starts to dilute, the hairs relaxing back onto my skin as the bile slides back down my throat. I slowly peel one eye open to stare at the empty spot on the road where Idris once stood. Empty.

I slide myself slowly down the column, curling up in a ball on the hard stone seat. I let my head fall back, taking three deep breaths.

This is going to be a disaster.