The journey back to the hill is an eternity. Thoughts of a little girl perforate my mind like thorns into the feet. Images of her standing at the edge of a cliff, waiting patiently for a promise that might never return. Her gaze rests on my back like a gentle hand, pushing me forward.
It clings to my ankles like shackles fastened to boulders.
Over and over, I thank the heavens to be blind, might I turn into a pillar of salt, would they tell me not to meet her gaze. Or even worse, turn back.
It is everything I ever wanted; therefore, I leave it behind. Sans thought. Sans sentiment. Hands and feet dig into the mound. I do not tell my fingers to grasp. I do not tell my legs to push. I do not tell my stomach to growl nor my limbs to quiver.
Lord, your servant is weary.
Yet still, he listens. He listens and goes upward in an attempt to get closer to your kingdom. Ne'er to the burning of his lungs, nor the thirst of his tongue. Not to the crumbling of the soil, nor the agony in his ankle.
Deaf to the promises of a climb to plunge him into darkness should he fall. And yet so far left to go. Thy servant falters.
He falls.
His life, birthed by that which begot him. Now barely maintained by a thorned bush.
Quickly, he regains a foothold as the bush uproots. Into the darkness it goes, leaving him behind. Unheard comes the voice of better men who've seen it all in one life. They're saying, "Not every ascent leads to heaven."
I know in my heart that this one leads to hell.
But he shuts his heart and puts one hand above the other.
Once upon a time, there was the beginning of a story.
It was a dark and stormy night, broken intermittently by flashes of day. From the bed by his grandfather's window, a boy peered out in awe. A flame standing on top of the wooden fence and staring out into the void. The first fall into the darkness of one's own volition.
A little further, the silence tells him. Up and up until we go. The light that came down and an endless upward fall…
While reaching for the next hold, a battered hand grasps a thin ray of sunshine. The servant exhales deeply. A shiver runs through his bones before one final pull. Up and out into the warmth beaming down through forest canopy.
A pig to the slaughter, immobilized, lying with its back to the earth. Engorged on fresh air. Hark his squealing lungs amidst divine composition. Rejoice, the feathered congregation. Melodies chorused from tiny chapels hidden in forest roof. Tiny creatures scurry, drumming thumps with their tails under piles of desiccating leaf. Mindless dancers jumping about, creeping and crawling the opening hymn. Soon the butchers will follow, and their cleavers shall clap the rhythm. Will the scavengers of the earth sing songs of glorious feast? Or will his screams to the heavens turn these soft things away? Would the butchers spare a moment to hear the rustling? Or will they lose themselves in the deafening swings of their cleavers? Lord, if men no longer stop to hear the leaves, then what hope have they of hearing the cries of Your servant? Yea, should he bite off his tongue and meet the end in silence, he will have saved one of many and none all the same.
There is a forest wherein a flock lies in captive.A shepherd finds himself on a morning stroll.
Where his sight fails, the other senses are welcomed with a gentle stream of information.
The sound of his footsteps calls forth the creatures hiding in the brush. They watch by the sides of the path as the strange white and gold creature marches, bathed in the warmth of the gentle morning sun. A breeze caresses the forest and his cheek. Dewdrops fall from the canopy in a shimmering cascade. Each drop gleams for an instant like a jewel before vanishing into the soil. The air carries the scent of damp earth, sweetened by flowers that have learned to bloom beneath sorrow. Even the silence feels alive, filled with unseen eyes, as if the forest itself leans close to listen to his unhurried song. Were it not for the circumstances, it would be the perfect place for human society.
It is nothing short of beauty incarnate, Lord. A sight for eyes blind as much as they are for seeing. To you, my Lord, I owe an eternity.
But Lord, is your servant unworthy? Why do you not speak although he listens? Is your acknowledgment hidden in the chorus of birds? Or buried in the soil where roots clutch their dead?
Is there anger within the rainclouds? And the strikes, a thunderous rage? Or is your lesson but the silence? Wordless cycles that make the soul thirst sharper. If so, how long must I weep onto the barren field before it blossoms into mercy? If so, how deep into my knees, the stones, before you lift me off the ground? I see a world of wonder, Gods. Tender touch of trembling leaves, Sweet and sour meals. The scent of rotting wood. But how long should I cock the ear before I hear Your sacred sound?
I fear you have not much longer to grant my wish.
As I enter the clearing, I see six strong flames lined up and facing another, who is wrapped in a shimmering purple robe. There is one more inside the pavilion. "Ridiculous! Absolutely ridiculous!" screams the Eunuch. "You're telling me, five of the men who were hired to protect me were outmaneuvered by a little girl and a malnourished invalid!?"
The smaller of the Red Boulder Brothers, the one who confronted their leader, breaks formation as he pulls up a crate to sit on. "Your bright idea to take off their chains in the first place, weren't it? Didn't say anything in your fancy books that people with legs can run?"
"You-" The eunuch snaps, voice cracking midway. "That is no way to speak to your employer! Five proud incompetents who only think with their testes. And your leader's such a reckless brat that he can't even be trusted to follow simple instructions. The six of you are nothing more than a band of proud incompetents! I already had half a mind to cut your pay. And that was before one of you was bested by a child!"
One of the four is kneeling close to the ground, his inner flame simmering in panic, still trying to make sense of his injuries. "You better shut your trap before I-"
The flame is sent tumbling across the clearing, his gauntlets flying off in opposite directions.
"Tsk!" Goes the smaller boulder. "Like we need to hear anything from you. Losing an eye to the old bitch's kid. It would have been less shameful if you were dead."
"And let me tell you something, you peeping little cuckold." He towers over the smaller gentleman. "Take one pretty shilling off my earnings and see if I don't whore you out to make up the rest."
The eunuch goes dead silent. But the flame in his chest doesn't shrink as one does in fear. Instead, it freezes in place inside his chest cavity as if it fell under my grandmother's paralysis.
Before either has a chance to elaborate, the flame inside the tent is moving.
It steps out into the clearing with a yawn that shatters the tension. Caught in the heat of their discussion, the others still haven't noticed my return. But it halts after the first step. A faint sniff—sharp, curious, knowing—cuts through the air, like a predator roused from slumber by the scent of the prey it had been chasing in its dreams. The mercenary leader chuckles drowsily. "Oh… hey, Solly. Took you so long?"
The others turn, his words bringing me into existence.
What… did he call me?
That name doesn't belong here. It was retired when this man's subordinate murdered my brother right in front of me.
Of all the taunts from Spineless and the others, none have ever cut so deep. They mocked wounds. He just reopened a grave.
He grins, carefree, as though he hasn't just ripped something sacred from the dead. "You really did a number on ol' Spineless, ain't it?" His laugh comes easy. It slithers through the clearing, light and mocking, like the sound itself doesn't understand the weight it carries. "Oh, wait..."
The mercenary leader clears his throat. His soul distorts inside his chest in a way that isn't human.
Then, he speaks again, and he is no longer himself. "Ah. It's the small applications that drain you."
A pause. A faint curl of amusement follows.
"That's more like it. So, back to what I was saying. "I forgot how good you used to be when we were kids. I warned them my little brother ain't a coward."
The world seems to tilt. For a moment, I can't tell if I'm seeing the man before me or the ghost of memory.
"These guys thought you were gone for good. But I knew you'd come back. So I figure that now's the best time for the big reveal."
Come to think of it, all the mercenaries suffered from some form of scar or permanent injury. It was all they whispered about under their breath.
The Spineless used to be an exception, but now even he was made a victim on one of their jobs. In fact, out of the seven once-villagers of Dunreach, only one of their bodies was just as pristine as the day they left. And it was the one who should have had it the hardest.
"After all these years, you finally proved that yer strong enough to be my brother."
And like ten years ago, he is still smiling. A broad, shameless smile that makes one question whether or not he is of this world. Teeth bared without fear, lips untroubled by guilt. The kind of smile that thrives even when tears roll down his brother's cheek.
It is not the grin of a man who has survived hardship, but of one who has danced with it. A smile that says the years between us were only a blink. And yet, to me, it feels like a wound that never closed.
I need not mine eyes to see this.
I remember his face well.
"Congratulations, Solvanel. Yer officially a member of The Hunting Wolves."
The Hunting Wolves… The Hunting Dogs?
"I do not understand," I tell him, feigning calmness. "Explain yourself, vile thing. What manner of evil are you, and what do you gain from possessing my brother's body?"
"Boy," my old friend says, shaking his head. "Sometimes I forget you really can't see a thing behind those bandages."
It takes my hand and brings it near to its face.
My hand hesitates, almost afraid to close the distance. But in the end, I reach for my brother's face like hundreds of times before. My right hand caresses the monster's cheek and glides over the surface of its skin. Eyes. Nose. Lips. It is almost invasive, the way I poke and prod. Far more than at any time during our youth. But confusion takes my hands and drags them over every inch of my old friend's stolen visage, only for me to find that nothing has changed. No scars. No facial hair. The only line being that of his dimples, which seem to have sunk a fair bit deeper into his skin. Apart from that, this young man is the same as in the days of our youth.
"This cannot be." Astonishment saturates my inner chest. "What happened to the injuries you sustained defending me from the mercenary leader? Perhaps…could this be some sort of miracle?"
The other mercenaries break into a fit of scathing laughter.
"See! I told you assholes it was gonna work!"
"Bah, to hell with it! Next time we go for a drink, I'll foot the bill. This here was the best one yet."
"C'mon Solly. Course that wasn't me! Get this, every time you thought you were touching me, I was actually just holding up one of the slaves in front of me!" He throws his head back and laughs, broad and shameless, like his supposed cruelty is the finest comedy.
"This…" I begin. "This cannot be true. Were that the case, I would have seen their flame burning in front of me."
"Maybe if any of them were alive!" Another mercenary chimes in. "Tell 'em, Fang! You snapped their little necks like twigs, didn't ya?"
"Jonah, that's enough! Whatever these men are threatening you with. Whatever these men are offering you…" My words stumble out faster than my breath, my chest tight with disbelief. Nothing is worth dirtying your tongue with these lies. Don't stand here and tell me that—" The Spineless' last few words finally make their way into my head. "What did he just call you?"
It is only then that my old friend comes to notice my lack of amusement. "Yeah, you heard him. What's the problem?"
"Let me have a word with you, Jonah," I say to him sternly. "In private."
The other mercenaries go silent. Even the lesser big one with his boisterous howl keeps his trap shut. The Eunuch fidgets as though calculating the risk of interruption. Jonah glances at his men, then scoffs while pointing at me.
I say nothing.
He scoffs again, and his flame shrinks quite embarrassedly. "No. Let me have a word with you. In private. And it better not take long!"