"When I was a little girl, I used to hear them too—The Gods, I mean. But the only things I prayed for were childish. I wanted the heavens to make me beautiful, so that everyone would love me for it."
In the darkness of night, the village prostitute has once again snuck into my grandmother's convent and intruded upon the sanctity of my bed. Cold air drifts in through the open window like a curious accomplice, carrying with it the metallic scent of the red sea.
She huddled behind me under the covers, her diseased, bony fingers like wet chalk against my tear-covered face. "I watch you sometimes, you know?" she cooed. "Spreading the word of the light, walking in your grandmother's footsteps. Even if I don't always get the chance to say it, I want you to know that I…"
My shivering body goes rigid.
Is she… crying?
The haggard woman sniffles, wiping her nose into my hair. All at once, I no longer feel the urge to escape the wayward sinner.
"I look up to you so much."
"As for me," she continues, "I lost the ability to hear the chorus long ago. Nowadays, the only thing I hear when I pray is laughter—'A whore only bows her head to swallow'." She laughs then, but it is a weak, pitiful sound, worn thin by years of hardship.
"One must only be born with so much chance to speak with the heavens. If so, it's no wonder the gods no longer listen to my prayers. I've gone and wasted them all up." THE LANDS FORSAKEN | ??? | CLEARING599
____________________ I open my eyes to the darkness.
"Do well to enjoy it, dreamer. This may be the last thing you'll ever drink!"
An armored hand wraps around my neck, forcing my head into a rushing cold. The darkness floods through my nose, my mouth, my ears—driving the air from my lungs and replacing it with its merciless hold. My eyes are wide open and I see nothing. Not even the flames.
I pause.
There's a heartbeat of stillness before I understand.
Water? Water… WATER!
My body takes over, moving with a desperation my mind cannot command. Mouthfuls of water rush into my stomach and lungs, rejuvenating and killing me all at once. I convulse between the lust of dehydration and the terror of imminent drowning. Being granted the one thing I've craved since the start of this journey. The uncertainty of when—or if—I'll taste it again drags me deeper into its pull. I feel the slaver jolt in surprise, then tighten his grip to keep me from falling in.
Water! Water! Water!
It is a rush like nothing I could ever imagine.
It is the greatest gift the gods could offer.
Greater than food. Greater than love. Greater than the gift of life itself!
And then the forest is gone. I stand in a field of grass, each blade shimmering in the summer rays. A child's laughter echoes on the horizon. Distant, yet I know it is meant for me. Panic wells up in my stomach as a gentle wind envelops the sound of their voice. A step forward and the gold-fringed blooms blacken and curl around my bare feet. Another step and the air turns cold around. Another one, then I resolve to take no more.
For a shadow walks before me, and the sun trails behind.
Shepherds' clothing—in its hands, a reaper's scythe.
It decapitates the blooms with an idle sway.
The weight of its gaze presses against my chest.
The moment I try to cry out, my mouth fills with water again. The golden grass twists into coils of wet hair, pulling me down. I thrash, and the field vanishes.
Cold rushes back in. The armored hand keeps me under, and I feel my heart pounding against my ribs. My lungs burn and bloom all at once.
My hands go to my neck, clawing at the fingers digging in like a vise. The grip doesn't budge. My nails scrape against cold metal, catching on the seams, but the hand is unyielding—anchored by something greater than my strength.
I begin to thrash like a fish out of water, my body jerking in frantic, useless bursts. My chest burns. My lungs scream. Violent coughs tear through me, but they're drowned in the flood until they turn to heaves—vomit surging up my throat, bitter and acidic.
It spills out into the same water that is killing me, clouding it with my weakness. The stench mixes with the taste already choking my tongue. My stomach cramps, forcing up what little I had left, until even bile deserts me. Still, the hand does not release.
My ears ring. My thoughts fragment into nothing but instinct. Breath. Breath. Breath.
But there is no breath. Only water. Only the cold, relentless hand holding me under.
The darkness presses in from all sides—above, below, inside me. My vision narrows until I can barely feel the edges of my body. I am dead.
It is only then that I am thrown back onto the grass. A wet cloth of human, coughing and sputtering, too weak even to close his eyes or look at his assailant with question for his cruelty or hatred for what he'd done.
"You little bastard! Which god did you beg for that little show of strength?" The most talkative of the mercenaries taunts. "You almost pulled me in! If you wanted something to drink that bad, all you had to do is ask!" Before I know it, the grace of water caresses once again my arid face.
I hear the other captives gasp in horror. "Aaah. Something about pissing on dogs always makes you appreciate your place in the world!" He hammers a violent kick to my left side, sending me tumbling across the grass like a stone cast from a sling.
I brace for the shatter against a nearby tree, but slacksteel chains jingle, and my bones slam into a wall of flesh and bone. The sheep groan as a section of the herd is blown away by the impact. Connected by our chains, we tumble to the ground in sequence.
"Look at the little sheep piled up on top of each other!" The mercenary jeers again. His comrades cackle as if suffering is a show made just for them.
I wrench myself from the mass of bodies and stand, the first to claim my footing. My breath comes even as I take in the bitter taste of dawn's fresh air, but it is the sight that wraps around my neck. Humanity is a tale of three fates—shivering, stoic and sinful.
She profaned the light to be the shepherd, but the sheep have long since escaped the warmth of their fold. Some still shiver, stripped of the comfort of their wool. Others shear their sleeping brother and laugh as he succumbs to the elements. And others, they abandon their skin outright, becoming the very same cold that kills the unguarded flock.
Captives. Captors. And men made of steel. Sheep. Sheep dressed as wolves. And the cold iron fences that bind them in.
I cannot see it, yet I burn in contempt for the sight of them.
That being said, what am I?
[Lumere, a man who shelters in the shade during the light of the solstice is doomed to have peace so long as he sleeps. Be not the man who prefers to be pelted by the seeds of genesis, like seeds of darkness within his heart. Lumere. Bloom will the pitch-black roses, thorned with silver shards on the stem! Bloom inside the heart, and he will conceal it! Bloom in the palms and he will be none the wiser! Lumere. And he will shake his brother's hands with a smile on his face! And he will shake his brother's hands with a rose inside his heart! Lumere. And neither the fool nor the ignorant will know when they were cut.]
The gleeful clang of their weapons is the sound of bone splitting between heavy chains. Their laughter is the gurgle of a woman thrice killed. I am blind, but I see it still—the assailant's eyes wide with surprise, with fear, as if she had not believed she would die at my hands. And yet, relief that this world can not kill her again.
The mercenaries jeer, yet their scorn cuts less than my own shame, the memory gnawing fresh and raw in the hollow of my chest.
"Alright, which one of you wants to pay up first? Told you the little dreamer bastard wouldn't stay down for long!" Reluctant hands walk up and spill their coins, all the while sending violent stares in my direction.
Careful, boys," the gauntlet-wearing mercenary announces. "We still don't know what happens if you look him in the eye. Maybe those wrappings ain't good for shit!"
My curse twisted into a gambler's jest. I feel the heat behind my eyes, begging to be released. But no—I choke it down. I bind my rage tighter, as I've always done, the wrappings across my eyes. My curse has seen enough.
"Y'know. I bet he's got some pretty little jewels. What say we pluck them out and put 'em on the market?"
One of his comrades snorts inside his silver helmet. "Long as you're the one who takes off the bandage."
"Fine by me." I hear the sound of his gauntlet hitting the ground.
These days, the Men of Fer are more statue than soldier. On the first, they staked their guard at the six paths leading into the clearing in silent wait for something to threaten their post. But when the one who calls himself Wilhelm the Backbreaker dares a single step forward, six heads swivel toward him in unison, the sound of their metal bringing silence to the clearing. The spineless Backbreaker clears his throat, picking up his gauntlet. "Yeah, well. Probably ain't such a bright idea anyway."
"Go ahead," the devil whispers inside my teeth. "Kill them all."
The soldiers manifest glowing bows in my vision. White-hot arrows pulsating with the unrestrained wrath of their divine breath threaten to go flying. The one that returned my grandmother's finger notches an arrow that is far larger than all the rest. He, especially, waits for my command to turn a man into a memory.
"Stop!"
The soldiers pause. Their weapons break apart into motes of grayish light. Carried by a gentle current as they drift into the air and fade.
The sight is almost beautiful… if deep down, I did not resent this vile eunuch's return. I can no longer control the steel men. They ignore my instructions when he is present. I suspect I can reach into The Finger Returner if I try, but the attempt will surely arouse the enemy's suspicion.
The eunuch strolls into the clearing some distance behind my brother. "Great Heavens! It's into one ear and out the other for you simpletons. This troupe has been ordered to protect the prisoners at the decree of Her Radiance, herself. You may starve them. You may hurt them. You may even take the women if you so please. But any action that results directly in the reduction of their number at this time will result in your swift and immediate execution."
"Oh, shut yours! All I did was toss the boy around!" The Spineless Backbreaker rages. "You ask me, if it breaks easy, then break it. Don't see why we're going through all this trouble just to-"
A flame rouses in the corner of my vision.
From inside the pavilion the men set up the morning they arrived comes another mercenary, who groans as he sways into the open. "What's going on? The hell is our captain!?"
To my surprise, the question turns the others dead silent, down to even the sheep, who quiver in the shade of their tangled bodies.
"Brother!" exclaims the largest of the group as he goes to steady his comrade.
Looking at them side by side, the size and movements of their flames is a close match. With a surprising level of finesse, the brute takes the opportunity to whisper close to his brother's ear.
"What?" The mercenary asks again, ignoring his brother's excitement. "So he's fucked off in his own world again, is that it? Have we gone from men of the sword to men of the fucking stage? Look," the brother says, anger's crescendo burning in his chest. "I just came out of a concussion, so knock me across me head if I start chatting shit. We became mercenaries so we didn't have to go through the system to get what we want. Why are we risking our lives to please some unripe cunt and her peeping tom sans bite? Listen up, you tight-faced little shit, I know you can hear me!"
The wind picks up, stirring the trees as if the forest intends to carry the message.
There had been no such mention of a captain since their arrival==-an alpha amongst the wolves. If there were such a thing, then surely, he would be leading the charge as an overseer in this time of uncertainty.
Perhaps, given the severity of his injuries, this man is not quite there. Or perhaps this is a farce to stir my hopes.
I see through you, mercenary. My eyes can see through all. "Oh, there you are." While looking around, the man's voice comes flush with cold lucidity. "Almost didn't recognise you based on your look. But I guess you just can't resist leaving your comrades in the dust." Confused, I trace the focus of his flame to the eunuch, whose chest seems to be quivering with.. Fear?
No, apprehension.
This man thirsts for a drop of disobedience to use as an example. He is thinking about the tortures he will make the steel men enact upon the poor fool.
Then comes a gust that threatens to steal my robe.
Jonah and the eunuch take off in different directions. One to the safety of the soldiers, while the other appears in front of me with his arms outstretched. "Don't worry, Sol! I'll protect you!"
"I know!" I say over the winds. "Thank you."
My sheep scream in horror as their feet come off the ground. Leaves dislodged from the canopy wash over us like a tide of hungry locusts. As they die out one by one, the last of their breath is a blanket that obstructs my vision. The old man curses. "Two of them? What the fuck is-"
There is a chorused thud as the entire group seemingly is disciplined into silence.
When the blanket is gone, a new flame stands before the enraged mercenary.