Before Cruel Eternity

[and_by_the_tree]

Fandom: Sound Horizon
Album: Seisen no Iberia
Character(s): Layla, Shaytan
Warnings: death, dying

Complete.
Before Layla the beautiful daughter of the night, there was Layla the girl. Before the girl who drank the bitter poison called cruel eternity, there was simply a happy girl, who in a blink of an eye ran and withered under the moonlight.


Before Cruel Eternity

I. Before fear

Before Layla the beautiful night's daughter, there was Layla the girl. Before the girl who drank the bitter poison called cruel eternity, there was simply a happy girl, who in a blink of an eye ran and withered under the moonlight.

Before the Layla who ran away on bare feet, not knowing but fearing, there was another Layla who never knew what it meant to be afraid.

-o-o-o-

"Layla! Come here!"

A little girl of five skidded over the ground in her haste to obey the command. Even at this age, she was already wearing the veil that her father's religion dictated that all women wear. With the veil hiding much of her face, anyone who chanced upon father and daughter at the settlement would think that the child was pure Moor, with no Iberian blood in her.

Of course, Layla didn't know all this, but she was excited to wear the veil all the same, as long as it meant that she could go out and play. She had refused initially, but with the sun and sky calling to her, she couldn't maintain it for long. She had graciously donned the veil when her father playfully threatened to leave without her, and for the past hour she had been running circles around the poor man.

The tall man knelt down and caught his daughter before she could run straight into his knees and bounce right off. He swept her into his arms and carried her up before turning to another equally tall man next to him. "Come, say goodbye to Uncle."

"Bye-bye, Uncle," Layla obediently said in her slightly unclear child tones.

Her uncle obligingly smiled and nodded stiffly in acknowledgement. "Goodbye, Layla. Brother, remember what I told you…"

"I know it very well," Layla's father replied with a hint of annoyance in his voice. "Do not worry, I am fully capable of taking care of my family. And I would appreciate if in the future, you do not speak of these events in front of my Layla."

His brother reluctantly agreed. "I understand. Farewell, brother, and good day."

"A good day to you too." With that, Layla's father set the girl back down on the ground, and hand in hand, they made their way back.

Of course, Layla didn't understand a single bit of the conversation that took place between her father and her uncle. She didn't know why her mother couldn't come out and play with her father and herself, beyond the usual "Mother is busy" excuse that her parents insisted on. And she certainly did not know the intense disapproval that her uncle and his family showered on her father, because despite their objections, he went and married her mother anyway.

No, to Layla the world was simple. There was her father who was a constant playmate, and her mother who took care of everything else. Then there were the twisting alleyways of the settlement that were such a joy to run around in, and the sun that made everything look bright and attractive. Simply put, it was a perfect life for the little girl.

Layla couldn't resist the impulse to jump and skip and even try to twist out of her father's grip and make him chase her through the winding streets, but for once her father's grip was firm, and he didn't let go. Layla didn't mind though, she was content to just try and receive an amused smile from above, which was all she really wanted to begin with. For any five-year-old, walking the entire distance from the centre of the settlement to the edges would have been tiring, or boring at least, but for Layla it couldn't be any more fun, what with her fruitless attempts to escape and take off over the fields and stone pavements and into the labyrinth of alleys.

And such was the Layla that arrived back at the house that she lived in, breathless from giggling but no less energetic. The moment her father's grip on her tiny hand loosened she took off into her mother's arms, laughing all the while. Her mother winced visibly at the impact, and spared her young daughter a quick comment before turning to her husband.

"Layla, you're all sticky! What have you been doing?" When the only response she received from the girl was more giggles, she turned to the girl's father with a much more sombre expression. "I heard about the raids from Abla…"

"I know about them," Layla's father said heavily, sitting down on the mat that Layla had just trod over with her dust-covered shoes. "My brother spoke of them as well, when I met him just now."

"Then -," began Layla's mother.

"You should not worry so much," Layla's father cut his wife off. "We will cross that bridge when we come to it. In any case, we still have the cellar."

Layla's mother blanched at the mention of it. Meanwhile, Layla, bored with the lack of attention, wriggled her way out of her mother's embrace and took off into the back of the house in search of better things to do.

"Layla!" Her mother sighed in exasperation. "How is it that she can have so much energy?"

Her father merely chuckled in response.

-o-o-o-

That night, after Layla had nearly driven her mother mad with frustration with her refusal to be coaxed to sleep and spent a long time demanding stories before she would fall asleep, the sound of horseshoes clacking on the stone pavements woke her parents. While little Layla slept on, oblivious to the impending danger, her father quietly slipped out into the night to find out who exactly rode those horses… And if his wife would be in any danger.

Their settlement largely comprised of Moors at its centre, but closer to its edges, like where their house stood, it was almost an even mix of Moor and Iberian. Not that the two religions ever mixed. Any contact between the two was bound to be frowned on and those who chose to intermarry, ostracised. Such as in the case of Layla's father and mother. Her father's family remained polite to their in-law, but refused all contact. Her mother's family had disowned her, but she chose to continue practicing her faith in spite of that, praying to a God whom she believed would look on her choice with kindness.

Not that the five year-old sleeping soundly would know any of this, but from the minute she could speak she was taught to respect both religions and believe in them as one and the same.

Layla's father returned home, and one look at her husband's face told his wife all she needed to know. Wordlessly she left to gather water and blankets and candles for their stay in the cellar. Layla's father bolted the door and went to retrieve his daughter.

Layla awoke just as her father was about to enter the cellar with her cradled in his arms. She looked at him with bleary eyes. She could barely make him out in the dim moonlight shining through the slots that passed for windows in this settlement. "Papa? Where we going?"

"Shh, Layla. We're playing a new game now. Whoever makes the most noise loses," her father whispered conspiratorially, all the while manoevering through the door so that Layla didn't hit her head on the doorframe.

"But I want to sleep!" Layla wailed, and her voice was so loud that her father feared that the raiders would make a beeline for their house.

However, he didn't panic. "Ah, you just made a lot of noise. You're going to lose," he said in a singsong voice while keeping his volume down.

Layla was immediately silent. Her father took this chance to settle her on one of the blankets and wrap her snugly in it. "The best thing to do now is to go back to sleep," he told her, smiling even though she couldn't see it in the dark. "That way you won't make any noise."

He couldn't see his daughter, but he could hear her snuggling deeper into the blanket as he expected. He was about to leave the cellar again in search of his wife, but she met him at the door. He quickly ushered her in before shutting the heavy cellar door with a definite thud.

Feeling his way around carefully in the dark, he settled himself beside the sleeping form of Layla, his back against the wall. His wife sat on the other side of their daughter and wrapped another layer of blankets around the three of them so they would all be warm.

Although he strained his ears, he could no longer hear the horses or their riders, and he hoped his meant that they had gone elsewhere. Not that he wished their presence on any other innocent Iberian family, as much as they hated him. The raiders came every now and then to flush out any Iberians, and most of them learned to keep themselves hidden after the first time they came. Similarly, Iberians from outside the settlement caught any Moors who had the bad luck to be wandering on the outskirts when they came. It was normal for Layla's father, but not for Layla, for the last time they came, she was but a child of barely one who slept through the entire incident.

Layla stirred, startling him. "I don't want to play game anymore," she complained in her breathy voice. "I want to go back." Her voice carried an edge of discomfort, and the slightest beginnings of hysteria.

Layla's mother wrapped her daughter in her arms. "I'm sorry, love, we can't go back yet," she cooed soothingly. "Try to sleep, alright?"

"I don't want!" Layla wailed, and she sounded dangerously close to tears. She was also getting progressively louder, which was another reason to worry.

Her father felt in the dark for her face, and patted her cheeks gently. "Now now, this doesn't sound like my brave Layla. Where has she gone?" he asked teasingly.

Layla's voice went quiet, but in the silence that followed her laboured breathing could be heard.

"Do you want to hear a story?" her father continued. Layla made no response, but after a moment he felt her nod vigorously.

"Alright then, a long long time ago," he began.

"I want new story," Layla interrupted demandingly.

Her father couldn't help smiling in amusement. "I haven't told you this one before. A long time ago, God gave a wise sage a blue stone, in order to seal a demon of fire. The demon fought long hard, but lost. In the end, he was sealed in the blue stone. The sage then hid the stone so that no one could ever free the demon. Till today, the whereabouts of the stone is still unknown."

He had expected Layla to cheer, or say that she liked the story, but what she said was completely contrary to his expectations. "Demon is sad," she said. "What did demon do wrong?"

His Layla had taken him by surprise, but he had an answer anyway. "Maybe he killed a lot of people, or threatened them." Although, he wanted to add, people do the same things too.

"Demon sad," Layla repeated, and he felt her shift until she was snuggled tight between both her parents.

"Maybe one day he'll be free again," her father said comfortingly, and stroked her hair gently. "Maybe he'll be saved someday."

There was no reply from his Layla. She had fallen asleep despite the discomfort of the cellar.

"I've heard this story before," whispered Layla's mother. "My mother told it to me when I was younger."

"I see." Despite the hate that existed between the two religions, there were many things they had in common. It was a pity that they couldn't see it.

In the small room, Layla slept on, not knowing that outside her little circle of peace, there were others who were being beheaded, others who knew fear that the little girl did not.



II. Before pain

It was an unseasonably warm day in the settlement. In the outskirts where a small house stood among many others, few could be seen outside under the blistering sun. The heat indoors was stifling; outdoors, it was suffocating.

A girl of no more than fourteen peered through the shutters of the small house anxiously. Waves of heat rose from the stone pavements, distorting her view of the world outside. She stood on tiptoes, craning her neck as her eyes sought to find the one figure she wanted to see the most.

At the age of fourteen, Layla no longer went out as frequently as she did when she was five. It just wasn't appropriate any more. As long as she wore the veil that identified her as one of her father's people, it was frowned upon for her to be walking outside too often. So it was natural that over the years, she began spending more time indoors.

And in some ways, it was better indoors. There was still her mother, who was always there, and on days like this, there was an added advantage. Since no one could see her, she had pushed her veil back, revealing her long dark hair. It was slightly cooler without the heavy cloth over her head and neck. Besides, she wanted to have an unobstructed view of the street.

Still, it could be frustrating. Especially at times like this. Layla put her hands on the ledge and pushed herself up, willing herself to look further down the street. Her father was still not back for their midday meal. It wasn't strange, considering that as a shepherd, he had to tend to his flock first, and on a day like this the sheep would be sluggish and reluctant to move. Still, he was later than he would be, even taking into account the weather, and Layla wanted very badly to just run out and look for him.

She couldn't, though, as much as she wanted to. She wasn't allowed to go out without her father, and in the future, her husband. It felt stifling at times, but whenever she looked at her mother, she reminded herself that she was lucky that she got to leave the house at all.

At fourteen, Layla knew about the circumstances of her parents' marriage, but she saw nothing wrong with it. To her, it was baffling that some would accuse her parents of sin. Still, she kept those thoughts to herself, understanding that not everyone shared her point of view. Not now, when Moors and Iberians glared at each other when they thought the other wasn't looking.

"No sign of your father?"

Layla started and lost her grip on the ledge. She managed to recover her balance before crashing ungracefully into the ground. "No, mother."

Her mother pursed her lips. "The food is getting cold."

Layla cast a glance at the table before turning back to the window. "It's just the weather, mother."

"He's never been this late before," replied her mother before returning to her work.

Layla didn't say anything, just continued looking out of the window.

-o-o-o-

By the time the sun started dipping towards the horizon, Layla was no longer keeping vigil at the window. She was alternating between pacing around the house and running to the window every time she thought she heard something. The food lay untouched; neither Layla nor her mother had the appetite to eat.

Layla briefly considered running out to search for her father, but it was unlikely that she'd get far before she got caught. Not only would that get her into trouble, it would give her father one more thing to worry about when he got back.

If he got back. The heat had let up, and the light was waning, but there was still no sight of her father. Various scenarios played out in her mind. Did he slip and fall and break his leg? Was he trapped out in the fields by a wounded sheep? Or the worst of all, was he waylaid by Iberian soldiers? She sincerely hoped that it wasn't the last, but if it was anything to do with his work, why hadn't her uncle at least come to inform them about it? Even if her uncle disliked her mother, he could have at least told them so they would know what was going on.

Layla was so deep in her thoughts that when the first whinny was heard, she dismissed the warning that it carried. Her mother, however, was much more alert and she immediately jumped up and ran to the windows, peering through the shutters like Layla did for the past few hours. Her face paled upon seeing the scene outside.

She went to Layla and tugged at her veil. "Love, take this off. Quickly." Without waiting for a reply she began pulling the veil off her daughter.

Through the gap in the shutters, Layla could see men, bearing the cross on their chests, riding on the horses. Behind them, men and women and children stumbled, dragged in the horses' wake, with their hands bound together by ropes. Ropes that led straight into the palms of the men on the horses. Layla froze in shock, completely not cooperating with her frantic mother, who finally succeeded in removing the veil and was now pulling a thin chain over her daughter's head.

"Stay here," was all her mother said before she rushed out onto the streets, along with many other Iberian neighbours. Layla could see them crowding the streets, following the bright red tracks left by the horses and their entourage. Dimly, she thought she heard someone shouting through the din, about how the "time has come to take back our Holy Land", but nothing made sense to her at that point.

Her mind not working, she raised a hand to the cold weight on her chest, her fingers tracing it over and over. She felt sick when her frozen mind finally registered that it was a cross. The same cross that the horsemen had emblazoned on their chests.

-o-o-o-

Without knowing why, Layla followed her mother out onto the streets. The stone pavements were slick with a red fluid that she knew must be blood, but her conscious mind couldn't, didn't want to accept it. Without her shoes, her bare feet slid and slipped over the wet pavement, forcing her to concentrate on her route. Those were children she saw being dragged along by the horses. Her subconscious noted that none of them were Iberians. Her consciousness refused to see it as anything more than a coincidence.

Stumbling and slipping along the trail of carnage with her head down, Layla nearly ran into a large Iberian man. He didn't react in any way, and Layla finally looked up to see a crowd around the horsemen. They were shouting something, that much she knew, but she didn't know what they were saying. Her mind was entirely focused on finding her mother in the crowd. Surely her mother would have some explanation for this madness, because Layla didn't know what was going on, and she wanted to know. She needed to know.

Weaving through the crowd looking for her mother, Layla noted that all of them were wearing the same cross she now did. All of them were Iberians, like her mother. With a final squeeze, she found herself at the front of the crowd, looking right at the proud horsemen, the nonchalant horses, and the battered gaggle of prisoners. The stench of blood and dirt hit her, and she gagged. With that action, her mind finally unfroze and she understood what the horsemen were shouting.

"We will take our land back from those infidels! We will slay each and every one of them, and send their souls to burn! We have come to liberate you!"

Liberate? How was this liberation? Layla's eyes ran over the prisoners' faces, searching for the one that she hoped would not be there, the one that she knew must be there anyway. For a moment, her heart leaped when she couldn't find him, but then a woman was led out of her line of sight and she saw him, weary but not bloody, and she was glad for that. Her mind seemed to be functioning slowly again, and she would have run forward and hugged him, if it weren't for the fact that he held up a single finger.

Stay there, it seemed to say, so she did. Nothing could have moved her at that moment. Even as he was led away from the group of prisoners, she stayed still, her right hand clutching the cross over her chest tightly. Only her eyes moved, tracking him as he was led to an armoured man with the cross. The naked sword in his hand reflected the waning light of the sun. At least, the clean parts of it did. The rest of the sword was covered in the same red fluid that decorated the streets, that covered the pile of bodies lying at his feet.

Her father's lips moved soundlessly. Don't look, they said. Layla obediently shut her eyes, following but not comprehending. With her eyes closed and her ears oddly disconnected from her conscious mind, she could pretend that she was back home, counting quietly as her father and mother hid and waited for her to find them. She could pretend she was five again, hiding in the cellar and waiting for a story.

The sickening thud brought it all back to her, though. With the definite sound everything came rushing back to her. The stench of blood, the screams and moans of pain, the sharp edges of the cross cutting into her hand, the rough stone pavements cutting into her feet… It was just too much for her. Without opening her eyes, Layla's mind shut down and she passed out.

-o-o-o-

It was yet another warm day in the settlement. Not a soul roamed the streets, though the reason for it was debatable. The heat could be blamed to some extent, but the girl producing soldiers' uniforms under the shelter of her home would say that the general tension in the settlement was to blame as well.

After what she called the "incident", things never quite went back to normal. The Iberian soldiers who had entered the settlement that day tried to take the entire place, but were met with strong resistance from Moorish warriors. As a result, more than a hundred families had to evacuate when their homes were set on fire. The fire cleared a huge swath of land through the settlement, in what was now no-man's land, splitting the Moor from the Iberians. No one would think of entering no-man's land and leaving alive. Archers from both sides were on guard at all times.

Layla folded the completed uniform and placed it in a basket. It wasn't as if she wanted this job, but they had to keep themselves fed somehow. With most of the able men drafted into the Iberian army as soldiers or smiths, it was up to the women to handle the work they left behind. Layla's mother joined the other women in farming, even as she ordered Layla to stay home. Layla had found a way to make herself useful by sewing uniforms for the army, and between the two of them, they were able to make enough to keep themselves going.

It wasn't as if the events of two years ago had faded completely either. Sometimes, she would dream of that day when she watched her father walk to his death. In those dreams, she would be shock-still, as she was on that day, then something inside her would snap and she would scream for him to run. When she finally woke up, she would be drenched in cold sweat, her muscles stiff from continuous tensing, and she wouldn't sleep again for the rest of the night. Even so, at sixteen, Layla knew better than to let grief rule her. There was still her mother, who hadn't let her husband's death stop her from taking care of her daughter.

It wasn't an easy life, but it was manageable. Layla missed her father dreadfully, but she was sure that he would have wanted her to keep living meaningfully.

Layla carefully placed the needle into the sewing kit and shut the box. Then she picked up the basket and left the house, to deliver it to the uniform master's and receive some dry rations in exchange. There was no need for anyone to mind the house anyway, since there was nothing worth taking. They only had a handful of grain left, which was why it was imperative that she finish her quota today.

It felt strange walking down the street without her veil or her father, but she got used to it after a while. The chain around her neck initially chafed too, and the weight of the cross on her chest unfamiliar, but now she couldn't recall how it felt to be without it. Her praying rituals had to change as well, but she adapted to it rather quickly. After all, Moor or Iberian, she was praying to beings far more powerful than herself.

Layla did some quick estimations as she walked along the street. The sun was past its peak, which meant that she might possibly run into her mother on her way back. With any luck, they would be indoors before the sun set. The light briefly reflected off the sliver cross on her chest, into her eyes. Raising her free hand, she closed it over the cross for comfort and walked calmly along the once-bloodstained streets.

-o-o-o-

Layla felt oddly peaceful that night. She had run into her mother on her way back, as predicted, and they had made their way home together. They shared a loaf of bread that Layla had obtained at the uniform master's, talked about things that didn't involved the incident, and prayed before turning in for the night. The moon shone bright and full in the sky. It was one of the few times that Layla felt utterly serene after that incident, and she thought for a moment that she might be finally accepting her life as it is. Though she never consciously thought it, she knew that some part of her never really accepted that her father was gone for good and that she was hoping for this particular story to end, even as she made uniforms alone at home day after day.

When Layla tucked herself in beside her mother, she genuinely thought that she might be finally moving on.

As expected, she slept peacefully that night. It was a dreamless sleep, something that she didn't mind at all because it was much more preferable to the alternative. She wasn't even aware of her mother's presence beside her, something that she usually checked at least once a night and several times on bad nights. Her mother, too, seemed to be at peace tonight, sleeping soundly like she used to, long ago.

Neither of them knew that their tiny bubble of peace was soon to be burst.

Like it did two years ago, a whinny broke the silence shrouding the settlement. The sound of boots clattering on the stone pavements soon followed, along with surprised shouts and the crackling of fire.

Layla's mother bolted upright at the sound of the horses and scrambled over her daughter in her haste to get to the window. Layla stirred as she felt her mother's knee jab into her side. "M'ther?" she slurred sleepily, attempting to roll over to look at her mother.

The next thing she knew, she was being yanked to her feet. "Layla, get up," her mother commanded in a shaky voice, fear lending strength to her. "Get up."

Layla stumbled to her feet, trying to get her bearings. Without waiting for her daughter to wake fully, Layla's mother began pulling her out of the room. "What's going on?" Layla asked, slightly more clearly as her sense started coming back to her.

"The Moors have crossed no-man's land," breathed her mother, as she released her grip on Layla and began foraging around the house. Layla couldn't see her mother in the dark, but the sounds of things being pulled out and thrown around told her as much. "Quickly, put this on."

Layla's hand reached out and connected with a surface that yielded to her touch. Then the rough material was carelessly thrown over her head, scraping past her face and her arms. Blindly she thrust her hands through the sleeves. She hadn't imagined that her mother would keep it, but she did. She must have known that her daughter would one day need to don the veil again.

"Come, we must go," Layla's mother all but screamed. Layla groped around blindly for the veil and pulled it over her head. Her mother seized her hand and pulled her out of the door, into the night.

Illuminated by the moonlight, a scene of carnage dominated. Iberian and Moorish soldiers were fighting, their swords flashing silver in the moonlight. Torches bobbed in the night, their bearers appearing ghastly in the flickering light. And everywhere, Iberians civilians were being cut down.

The cloying stench of blood permeated Layla's nostrils, sending a jolt of adrenaline through her. She cringed and would have fled back into the house, but her mother's iron grip on her wrist forced her to run forward into the chaos. Like two years ago, she was lost, running barefoot on stone pavements slick with blood. Only this time, her mother was with her.

Things happened very quickly from there. Somehow, she didn't know how, in the lunatic harmony, her mother was suddenly torn away from her. Layla stopped and turned to see a streak of silver held high over her mother. She followed that streak down to a hand, an arm, then a man. It didn't take her long to put things together. She was drawing breath to add her scream to the cacophony, but her mother beat her to it.

"Run, Layla, run!" Her mother's raw voice rose above the noise.

Layla hesitated for a second, long enough to see the twin trails of silver running down her mother's face. Be safe, they seemed to say. I love you, they seemed to cry. Like her father, her mother didn't need words.

The girl turned and ran into the night alone.



III. Before cruel eternity

One could say that it was inevitable.

It was inevitable that violence would break out one day. It was inevitable that the ceasefire wouldn't last. It was inevitable that Moor and Iberian would clash over their Holy Land once more.

For the girl running through the night, it was inevitable that her parents' peoples would try to cut each other down.

And yet… and yet, she knew that neither side loved war. The war took away so many lives. She knew for a fact that she hadn't been the only one mourning the last two years.

Why can't humans cut the negative chains of repeating conflict?

Her bare feet slapped against the rough stone pavement as she ran, taking turns at random in the pale moonlight. She didn't know where she was heading, didn't care about directions as long as she was heading away from the carnage. With the veil too short for her sixteen year-old frame, the freezing wind blew past her bare ankles, but she hardly noticed the cold. Just like she hardly noticed the rough stone cutting into the soles of her feet. It all faded into the background as she ran mindlessly, warm tears streaking down her frozen face.

She could still see her mother's face as the Moorish warrior caught her. No matter how fast she ran, how breathless she became, she couldn't escape that image.

So she kept running along the alleyways of the labyrinth-like settlement, turning away whenever she saw soldiers clashing. She was completely unaware of where she was, not with only the moonlight to guide her. She didn't know where she was, and it didn't occur to her that she should care, not with her mother lying dead somewhere behind her.

Her only priority was to leave this place, like her mother wished for her to. She couldn't stay there any longer, couldn't stay and pretend she was a law-abiding Iberian resident, or even a Moorish one. She had to leave, and quickly. Before she was discovered by whichever army that won the conflict.

Not for the first time, she wished that there was no war.

As she progressed, Layla subconsciously noticed that it was becoming quieter. The screams, the war cries, the sounds of metal hitting metal… They were all being left behind. At least, that was what the rational part of her tucked safely away in a corner of her mind thought. The rest of her was more preoccupied with just moving, with just placing one tired foot in front of the other.

The dark walls suddenly gave way to open space, and Layla stumbled to a halt, instinctively backing into the security the shadows offered. She raised her head and looked at the scene before her, her warm breath coming out in misty white puffs.

The beams of cold white moonlight could barely reach the ground, in the presence of bright fires burning in large vats stationed every few metres or so. They formed a line that seemed to snake all the way through the settlement, marking the Iberian side of no-man's land. In the flickering light of the flames, she could see men patrolling along the jagged line marked by the vats. Men who were carrying bows and quivers. Men who were obviously left behind by the main force to make sure that no Iberians escaped or tried to stage a counterattack.

Layla's breathing quickened, even though the harsh cold air hurt her lungs. Somehow, in the dark, she had arrived at no-man's land. If she could just get over to the other side, she might be able to walk freely through the settlement until she reached the roads beyond. The veil allowed her that much. Or she could choose to follow the line of fire until she reached its end, and entered the plains where her father used to bring the sheep to graze.

She refused to consider the last option. There was no way she was going back into the bloodbath that conquered what she used to call home.

Go forward or sideways? Either way, she ran the risk of being caught. So far the guards hadn't seen her, but if she were to follow the border, she would surely be caught. They might spare her, if they thought she was one of their people, but Layla didn't want to pretend any more. She didn't want to live with the sense that she might one day get caught, didn't want to have to keep transforming into the other when one religion failed her. The cross that was still sitting on her chest, securely hidden under the veil, proved it. She was both, and she never wanted to spend another second of her life denying one of the two.

So ahead it was. Layla rubbed her chilled hands together to generate warmth. Her tears had stopped flowing, as though they knew that they weren't appreciated at the moment. Maybe later, when she was safe, she would have time to mourn. Later.

There didn't seem to be any reason to delay, and the guards could come across her any moment now. Layla drew breath and ran forward.

Instantly she knew she had made a terrible, terrible mistake. She thought the patrols were some distance away, but she hadn't noticed the one waiting in the shadows, taking a break. The shouts of "Stop!" and "Who goes there?" rang out in the night. Layla had no choice. She kept running forward, weaving her way through the rubble which marked where homes once stood. Away from the light cast by the fires, the moonlight once again guided her path.

Then shouts of "Shoot!" followed, and Layla nearly fell when a flaming arrow drove itself into the pile of debris beside her and snuffed itself out. A strangled scream escaped from her constricted throat, coming out more as a squeak than a scream. More arrows followed, and a panicked Layla just kept running.

Two things happened then, one after another, but so quickly that they were almost simultaneous. First, an arrow found its mark in the fleeing girl's back, bringing her to her knees. Second, as she fell, the ground below her suddenly opened up, unceremoniously dumping her into an underground chamber.

In a time of anger and hate, she ran and withered under the moonlight.

Everything hurt. The arrow missed her heart by just a little, and it was hot enough that when the tip came out through her front, the fire reignited and continued burning. Her chest hurt so much, she was pressing a hand to the wound not to staunch the bleeding but to suppress the pain, although she couldn't.

She felt that she might have broken something in her fall, but she didn't know what. All she could was sit limply, with her legs pinned under herself, like some discarded rag. She couldn't find it in her to move, it hurt too much. It was painful enough to even keep breathing.

I'm dying, Layla thought hazily. I couldn't make it in the end. Mother… Father…

It was cold in the cavern, and damp too. Layla's free hand, resting on the ground, registered that it was slick with condensation. That was when she started thinking again and noticed that the walls were too smooth for it to have been natural. It was made by human hands, for someone.

A dungeon, Layla thought mutely. She wasn't afraid of what this dungeon was created to hold. She was already dying anyway. It didn't make any difference to her.

She thought a little more, and finally dragged her head up to peer at the far side of the dungeon. She was vaguely surprised to see a man, his eyes shut in slumber. At least, that was what she thought it was. The small light cast by the tip of the burning arrow didn't reach that far.

As though he felt her eyes on him, he opened his own. Two glowing ruby eyes returned her gaze from across the dungeon. Then the man rose to his feet and took a few steps forward. Now that he was in the pool of light shed by the fire, her eyes were naturally drawn to the horns perched atop his red hair and the wings that unfurled from his back.

"Who are you?"

Layla would have started at the man's voice, but she didn't have the strength to. He did have a rather pleasant voice, though. "I'm Layla," she replied. God, it hurt to speak like that. Her hand convulsed around the base of the arrow, but it didn't ease the pain, merely distracted her from it. "Who are you?"

The man seemed to hesitate for a moment. Layla fixed her gaze on him even as she felt warm blood seep through her fingers. Finally, his lips moved once more. "… Shaytan."

"Shaytan?" Layla repeated. A demon? Unbidden, words drifted into her mind. A blue stone, to seal a demon of fire. Where had she heard those words?

In response, he just laughed. Layla knew that she should be afraid, or wary at the very least, but she couldn't bring herself to. Not anymore. Not when she felt so cold and numb. The fire was dying, flickering wildly and making their shadows dance. She was dying too. There was nothing that could scare her, not at this point.

The demon - Shaytan - took another step towards her, such that she had to tilt her head further to face him. A wave of heat washed across her, a welcome respite from the cold. Now that he was closer, the flickering flame revealed a bold red streak across his face. Or was that a trick of the light? She didn't know, and she didn't want to think any more.

He then held out one clawed hand and said, "If you are willing to drink the bitter poison of cruel eternity, then let us live on together."

Layla blinked at the hand she was offered. Bitter poison of cruel eternity? That meant… that she could never die? But at the same time, wouldn't that mean… Her mind, overwhelmed by all that she had been through, couldn't think clearly. The implications of that statement were shrouded, but one thought was firmly rooted in her mind. I won't be human any more.

It was forbidden for her to take her own life. She couldn't accept this. What she should accept was her fate. She opened her mouth to turn him down, but she found that she couldn't say it, couldn't say those words.

Because despite everything, she wanted to live.

As the fire hissed and died, she found her resolve. "I am willing to drink the bitter poison of cruel eternity, so let us live on together." She reached up with her free hand and took his clawed one.

He pulled her onto her feet, supporting her with both arms. He was surprisingly gentle despite his fearsome appearance, but Layla couldn't help wincing as the movement jolted her broken bones and the arrow piercing through her.

He then gave her a kiss.

Layla could feel fire coursing through her body, mending her broken bones and healing her wounds. The pain was receding, a little at a time. She didn't feel cold either, as though her mortality was being burned away.

Shaytan released her, and she was pleasantly surprised to find that she could see fairly well, despite the absence of light. He held up one clawed fist, and opened it. Layla heard the distinctive clang of metal on stone, then a scuffling sound as Shaytan kicked the arrow aside.

He offered her his hand again, and she took it without hesitation this time. She had no idea where she could go now, but that scarcely mattered. After all, she had all of eternity to find her way.



IV. Towards cruel eternity

Seasons came and went, and none of them meant anything. While the flowers bloomed and withered, while the birds came and went, while people lived and died, time did not pass for her.

Since escaping the dungeon, Layla had not felt the effects of time ever. She had tried to mark the years at first, tried to cling on to what remained of her humanity, but after what she estimated was her eighteenth birthday, she gave up. She didn't feel any different from when she was sixteen. Ever since the pact, she didn't feel cold anymore, and she thought she felt stronger too. She thought she would get used to it, but she never quite did.

She had discarded the veil in the same dungeon, with some regret. It was torn and bloody, and she didn't want any more reminders of war, but leaving it behind had made her sad as well. After some hesitation, she had removed the cross hanging around her neck and placed it on top of the folded veil. She wasn't human any more, and she had no right to be proclaiming herself as one.

Even so, it took her a while to accept that she truly wasn't human and would never be again.

In the beginning, she tried to count the days. With every rising of the sun she added one more, but as the sun kept rising, it became harder and harder for her to keep track. Finally, on the night of what she thought of as her eighteenth birthday, she let go of her attempt to keep hold of her humanity.

Wandering about the plains as they had always had, Layla and her companion had chanced upon that still lake in the night. There was a full moon that night, and the perfect, unbroken surface of the water reflected its pale white beauty. Even though her demon self had an instinctive dislike for water, her human experiences overcame it so thoroughly that she found herself standing by the water's edge before she was even aware of her aversion.

The silvery surface of the water showed her reflection clearly. For the first time in two years, Layla was aware of how she appeared to the world. Her normally dark hair held red streaks in them, and even though the last time she caught a glimpse of herself was when she was at home with her mother, her face had not aged the slightest. The simple white shift she wore showed signs of wear; the wearer herself none. It was disturbing, in a sense.

More disturbing still were her eyes. Her father's dark irises had been replaced by blood red ones. Just like the demon's - Shaytan's.

She tore her eyes away from the lake to look over her shoulder. Shaytan kept a healthy distance away from the water's edge. What he felt about being so close to his natural enemy she couldn't tell, because his face was hidden in shadow.

Thinking about it made her curious. "Shaytan?"

He raised his eyes from his feet, allowing her to catch a glimpse of his glowing red irises. "Layla."

Now that she got his attention, she realised that she didn't know what she wanted to say. An long pause ensued while she tried to collect her thoughts. "I'm not a human any more, right?"

"No," he said quietly, watching her attention switch back and forth between the lake and him.

"Then why do I feel sad?" The question slipped out so naturally, she wondered if that was what she wanted to ask all along. Perhaps it was. "If I'm not human any more, why do I still feel sad?"

"Layla," Shaytan began in response, "everything that you loved slipped through your fingers. Before your tears formed a river, I gave you a kiss of oath. Even so, when all that you desire shake themselves free from your grasp, you will feel sad because it is in your nature to do so."

Unconsciously Layla took a step in his direction. Then another. "Will you slip through my hands too?"

Shaytan didn't need her distressed tone to tell him what he should say. "Never," he promised.

She was right in front of him now. Hesitantly she raises a small hand and closes it around his claw, before reaching out to cover it with her other hand. She exhaled slowly. Even though she could no longer feel cold, he still felt warm to her. It was a warmth that she missed ever since her mother died. "Thank you." She could hear a tremor in her voice. "Thank you, Shaytan."

-o-o-o-

Since then, Layla made the decision to stop clinging on to the remnants of the life she once lived. She still preferred to avoid civilization, if possible, but there were a few things that she needed to obtain.

The first was new clothing. She felt absolutely improper walking around in her torn white shift, but it hadn't been a pressing issue before, when she was too occupied with her identity to care about how she appeared to the world. Ever since accepting herself as one of Shaytan's kind - and realising the possibility that he had seen her as one of his own since the pact - she felt mortified that she had been careless about her appearance before.

For that, she had to approach another settlement, one that was far from her own. She knocked on that fabric-seller's home early into the night, and traded a rabbit for her wares. The old woman was frightened to see a girl in white at her door at first, but eventually became less guarded and even a little sympathetic when Layla told her that she had been caught in the crossfire. It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the complete truth either. She had been careful to keep her eyes lowered all the while. The red colour probably wouldn't help her case.

Shaytan had helped her catch the rabbit. Or rather, Shaytan caught the rabbit with her help. Or without her help. She wasn't sure if getting in the way counted as help.

Either way, she successfully found herself some material to work with. She shunned her traditional style of clothing for something bolder, something that wouldn't look too out of place beside her perpetual companion from now on. It took her a while, working alone in the wild, but she managed something functional in the end. As a last-minute addition, she twisted her hair up into a braid and secured it with a piece of scrap cloth.

Shaytan watched her all throughout the process. She felt decidedly self-conscious when all he did was sit on a rock and watch her all day, but she reasoned that it was a good thing because it made her focus more on her hands. What she didn't notice, though, was that she watched him almost as much as he observed her. When he grew bored and hopped off his perch to take a walk around the small area they staked as their own, her attention naturally followed. Distracted from her work momentarily, she would observe the way he walked around as though he wasn't quite used to being out in the open… until he looked her way and sent her head ducking, back to her work.

There was once, however, that she didn't turn back in time, and he caught her staring. Or, as she preferred, spacing out in his general direction. That send her mind desperately scrambling for a possible reason for her to be generally inattentive. "Shaytan?" she said, in an attempt to buy some time.

He inclined his head, the black horns catching the sunlight. "Layla."

She paused for a moment to find the words she needed. "Why did you make the pact with me?" That question had been genuinely bugging her for a while. Why didn't he just leave? Nothing was stopping him.

He turned his face slightly to the open sky behind him. "Left behind by time, in darkness for too long," he mused quietly, seemingly to himself. "Forgetting my name, until I saw your light." He turned to the confused girl sitting behind him, with black cloth spread all over her lap. "Until you called out to me."

Layla didn't really understand all of it, but she nodded anyway and returned to her work. Some things that Shaytan said could use further thought, but she was beginning to wonder why he was sealed away in the first place when he was so… kind. It didn't seem fair that he had to be imprisoned for years and years.

Then with a sinking feeling, she realised that she did not know if he was following her out of obligation or of his own free will. It sickened her to think that she might be the one keeping him from freedom now.

-o-o-o-

The war was escalating.

Seven hundred and fifty years, and the war hadn't died down. In fact, it had only gotten worse, culminating in a final battle at Alhambra. The battle that Layla was currently watching.

She hadn't even wanted to go in the first place, when she saw the Iberian soldiers marching on their way to the hill. But Shaytan had suggested that they did, so there she was, watching the carnage unfold before her.

Shaytan had become very capable of reading her mood over the last seven hundred and fifty years. Perhaps that was why he suggested it at all.

She had thought about annihilating one side more than once, just so that she didn't have to come across corpse-strewn battlegrounds ever again. Whenever she saw refugees fleeing, she was struck by a desire to put her immortality to good use and put an end to this senseless war. But always, always, she came back to the fundamental question that she could never answer.

The ones who took my father were those who cross themselves, the people of the Book. The ones who took my mother were those engaged in killing, the akh of scriptures.

She could find equal fault on both sides. She thought she left it all behind with her humanity, but it was very much like Shaytan said: there were some things that couldn't or wouldn't change about her.

So why can't humans cut the negative chains of repeating conflict? What should a weakling like me hate?

Layla didn't want to hate. To hate any one side would be like casting away one of her parents, and human or not, she wouldn't want to reject the people she loved most. Did her father and mother really hate each other's religion? She didn't think so, or she wouldn't be here now. Even after being taken and killed, she didn't think they would hate any religion that wasn't their own. Not when they were willing to risk everything for each other.

So if they didn't hate each other, didn't hate the opposing sides… Then what exactly did they blame it all on?

Ah… I finally understand.

"What is your decision?" Shaytan's quiet but steady voice rumbled beside her.

Despite the severity of the situation Layla smiled. Shaytan was so dependable, so understanding. It was almost as if he knew her better than she knew herself. Even if he wasn't following her out of his own free will, she had to admit to herself that she would rather not give him up now. She was selfish enough to wish that, at least.

"I want to end this war," she said. "I hate this war. I hate how it takes away people who don't even want to be in it. I hate how it convinces people that they are different from 'the others'." Near the end her voice started to tremble and she had to tilt her head back to prevent the hot tears from spilling down.

How is it that she can even cry now?

Her emotional turmoil did not go unnoticed by Shaytan. He seemed about ready to comfort her, raising one clawed hand, only to drop it back down and lower his head. "If this is your wish, then I will grant it," he said firmly, with no wavering. It was a stark contrast to the startled girl beside him.

And startled she was, because she took a moment to find her voice. "Shaytan… you don't have to," she replied. Her heart was pounding. Why would he do it? Why would he want to do it?

"If it is your wish, then I will grant it," he repeated stubbornly, placing his hand over his chest, as though it would convey his sincerity.

It must have, because she swallowed hard and nodded, not trusting herself to speak. With her approval, Shaytan flapped his wings and took off, leaving her to watch him through her blurred vision.

-o-o-o-

The war was over.

Layla stumbled through the flames, weaving her way around charred corpses and broken swords. She held her breath as the stench of burnt flesh threatened to overcome her, and tried not to look too much at the broken bodies lying on the ground. Most of them were already dead before the fire raged through, but she couldn't help but wonder how many of those deaths were on her conscience.

Perhaps she was no better after all.

Despite that, Layla only had one goal as she made her way across the battlefield. She had to find Shaytan and make sure that he was unharmed. He did this for her, so more than anything, his well-being weighed more on her mind than anyone else's did.

She breathed a sigh of relief when she saw a winged figure silhouetted against the backdrop of flames, and broke into a run. "Shaytan!" she called out, momentarily forgetting about the acrid stench of burning bodies.

He turned around and his crimson eyes flashed, causing her to stop in her tracks. "Shay… tan?" she asked uncertainly. The original story that her father told her so long ago crossed her mind, bringing with it unpleasant thoughts. She pushed them away. That wasn't the Shaytan she knew, and she shouldn't let an old story sway her faith in him.

Then his face settled back into its usual impassive demeanour, and a shaky smile broke out on her face. "Shaytan!" She called out again, in a voice that was torn between relief and happiness. Her pace picked up once more, faster this time, until she found herself running headlong into the him.

She felt his claws close around her arms gently as he tried to set her on her feet, but she threw her arms around him and refused to let go. Realising this he changed his grip to one that was more expansive, lightly stroking her hair with one hand. "Layla," he said comfortingly, "the war is over. I tried not to hurt the humans where I could. It is all over."

She knew that she should be happy that it was, knew she should be rejoicing that the Iberians and Moors were finally joining hands, but at that moment it didn't mean as much to her as it should. "You're not hurt, are you?" she asked anxiously. She couldn't see any wounds, but that didn't mean that they weren't there.

"No," he affirmed, making Layla's relieved smile grow wider still.

Now that her main worry was proven unfounded, there was one more thing that she had to know. "Why?" she asked, her voice sounding muffled.

Shaytan's hands continued to stroke her hair comfortingly. "Because I swore to drive away all that harms you with these hands, to end everything before the blood forms a river. I would destroy all that you hate with these hands, be it heretics, brethren or war itself. In return, I asked one thing of you."

Layla nodded into his shoulder. It all made sense now. It was never his choice to follow her; it was her choice to stay with him. That was how it was from the start, and how it had always been.

He shifted his hold on her so that he could look directly at her. "Do you regret choosing this path?"

She shook her head vehemently. "No, never," she replied truthfully. "I don't regret it. I think… I think I might even have been happy, all these years, even though I didn't know I was."

Shaytan's arms slipped around her once more, holding her in a tight embrace. Layla returned it, letting the feeling of peace and joy wash over her. Even surrounded by death and dying, even knowing that the flow of time could bring many more of these moments, Layla was content knowing that being with Shaytan would keep it from turning into cruel eternity.