2319 BCE

Hirom stumbled through the dense bushes.

His bare feet were coated in mud, and mosquitos bit at his arms and face, which he swatted away. A full moon had settled just above the clouds. He didn’t dare bring a torch with him—not for a moment—instead using the natural light to guide him through the trees. He had to wait extra longer for the overseers and the other slaves near the mud pit to fall asleep before he could make his move.

A twig suddenly snapped.

Hirom glanced behind him, shivering in the cold air. Although his eyes had gotten incredibly used to the dark, he could still not see well beyond the shadows. Shaking his head, he continued to move forward, although an uneasiness settled in his stomach. The sooner he could find the plant; the sooner he would be able to bring it to Leonara. She would be able to make a good tea from the leaves.

One of the elders had informed him of a particular herb that grew in deep into the forest: Gingko Biloba. The stuff resembled a maiden’s golden hair, but good for the eyes. With each tree Hirom passed, he made sure to scan their branches. The leaves themselves had a particular design—a “fan shape”—as the old man had informed him.

After a few moments of endless walking, Hirom set down the small satchel he was carrying onto the ground. It was mostly filled with other herbs. The golden leaves of the tree above him appeared milky white in the light. Setting his bare right foot against the scarred trunk, his calloused hands gripped the fine branches. The scent met his nostrils as he ascended higher upon the tree. Carefully, he crouched down on his knees, inching forward. His fingers had just plucked at the dense leaves when his heart suddenly stopped.

Several feet below, at the base of the tree, stood a figure looking up at him. In their hand, they clutched his satchel, the strap dangling loosely in the air. Hirom’s throat tightened, and he remained frozen, staring down below.

”How did you get up all the way up there?” the figure asked. It was a deep male voice—no doubt. Most likely an overseer. But it sounded too gentle to belong to one of them. He wasn’t used to such a tone. “You know what they do to runaways, yes? I don’t want to see any of that happen to you.”

Hirom’s palms dug into the branches.

”You understand what I am saying.”

“I’m not running away,” Hirom replied, steadying himself on the branches.

”Pardon?”

“I’m not planning a runaway.”

The figure sighed. “I suppose not. You are too smart for that. I’ve been following you for an hour. You’ve been walking around in circles. So you must be looking for something. If you come down, you may find it sooner that you think.”

”Go away,” the slave quietly said.

A brief pause. “No need to be defensive. You can trust me. What is it that you seek? Tell me.”

Instinctively, Hirom drew back behind a cluster of leaves, cursing himself for not being so mindful of his surroundings. The wind blew, causing the golden leaves to shake.

He half expected Bou to show up, with his whip ready in hand. Balancing his body weight on the branch he was sitting on, he began to look around. The good news with it being so dark, this person couldn’t see his face; so there would be nothing to report. Not really. But he needed to find a way to get out of here—get back to the bricklayer’s quarters. Maybe drop through the other side and make a run for it. As he was forming a plan in his mind, the figure’s voice broke through his thoughts, abruptly causing him to jump.

“You must be good at climbing to get that high.” The figure circled around the trunk, placing a hand on the surface. They chuckled. “That is a lot of dedication. A lost art.” They glanced at the satchel they carried. “I wonder how long you’ll stay up there.”

Hirom’s face burned. “Give it back.”

“You left it in this spot. And I have it for you.” The figure’s sandals crunched against the dead leaves. “I won’t take it from you.”

With an exasperated sigh, Hirom leaned the back of his head against the trunk. He was still considering his options. He could always return another evening for the herbs, if he could just make it back to the bricklayer without anyone seeing. Crickets whirred in the air. There was a brief silence, before the figure softly spoke again. They were still.

“What are you doing out here?”

”What are you?” Hirom asked. As quietly as he could, he began to lower himself to the next branch, holding onto it to prevent rustling. He kept eyeing the shadow below.

To his surprise, the figure chuckled. “I like to take walks at night. Although that is a luxury that many people themselves cannot afford.”

A bead of sweat rolled down Hirom’s face as he reached below to the neighboring branch.

“You are not exactly the talkative type, are you?” the figure continued, leaning their back against the trunk. They began to play with the ends of the satchel. “But that is not necessarily a bad thing. People speak for ages, yet they do not have anything to say.” There was a pause. “Like my father. I wish he would never be able to say a word again.”

Almost there. Hirom held his breath, loosely dangling his right bare foot in the air. The ground was so close, yet so far. The figure’s shape was directly behind the trunk. After counting to three, Hirom leaped off the branch, before releasing a yelp as a rough hand suddenly clamped about his arm.

The satchel fell to the ground.

Grunting, Hirom attempted to swing back, but he was abruptly pinned to the ground on his stomach, his face pressed sideways into the damp soil. He could feel the figure’s knee digging into the square of his back. His breaths were slow, but very steady. No matter how hard he tried to squirm his way out of his grasp, the figure’s strength was overbearing.

“Let me go,” Hirom snapped.

“But you did not answer my question.”

“I do not have to.”

“But I have answered yours.” The figure scoffed. “Is it such a hard thing to do?”

Hirom gritted his teeth. “What is the point?”

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“The point is that if someone else has seen you out here, you will receive far worse than you could imagine. If you run off, and an overseer takes notice of you, then you will be flogged and left at the post until the vultures pick and eat at your flesh under the hot sun.” The figure leans closer. “I do not wish for such a fate to fall upon you, my friend.”

”Why?” the slave demanded. “Who are you?”

“Does it matter?”

Bewildered, Hirom attempted to raise his head, but was pressed further in the dirt. “Ouch! Please, just let me go.”

“I will, but you have to promise me one thing.”

”What?”

A pause. “You cannot run away. All I wish to do is to talk to you. I will not say a word to anyone. From my perspective, I did not see a thing. Can we at least agree on that?”

Hirom exhaled. “Alright.”

“Do you swear it?”

”Yes,” the boy replied. To his relief, he felt the figure’s grip loosen. As Hirom immediately staggered to his feet, he rubbed his sore neck and back. He abruptly snatched the satchel, clutching it close to his chest as he dropped a handful of Gingko leaves inside. Although he was standing in the moonlight, he squinted his eyes, trying to understand how the figure was suddenly silent. He tilted his head.

“How many moons are you?” they finally asked, suddenly pacing back and forth.

Hirom frowned. “Fourteen. And you?”

They didn’t answer, drumming their fingers against the trunk. “Your name?”

The slave hesitated. “I really must go.”

“So soon?” The figure stopped pacing. “Actually, I think I know your name very well.” They looked down at the ground. “So you do not have to say.” Their voice lowered. “But you still refuse to answer me. It is a simple question. What brings you out here?”

A cold wind blew, causing Hirom to shiver. “Someone close to me is ill. They are going blind. I…I thought these herbs may help them see again.”

”You think you have the ability to make the blind see?” the figure asked, punching their fist against the side of the tree trunk.

”She shall see again,” Hirom quietly said. He sniffed and wiped his nose with his hand. “She has to, so she can be well.” He slung the satchel over his shoulder. “I must go.” As he turned away, he felt a hand clamp over his shoulder. The boy immediately froze.

”Wait.”

Hirom glanced behind him.

”Tomorrow, you can meet me here in this spot.” The figure sighed. “At this time, since you apparently like to climb trees, and I like to go on walks. That cannot be a crime.”

”Why….why would you want me—”

”You say you have someone who is unwell. Maybe we can look for herbs together. I can help you find better ones than these.”

For a moment, Hirom hesitated. “But I do not even know your name.” He abruptly shook his head. “Why…why are you doing this?”

”Because we are friends,” the figure softly replied. “You and I, we are old friends.”

“Friends? But I don’t—”

“If you come, I will bring food.”

“Food?”

”As much as you like.”

Hirom slowly backed away. He then took off running in the woods, ducking low to avoid the branches from hitting his head. The figure watched him go, an achy sensation settling into their chest.

* * * * * *

Telal sat alone in the empty kitchen, the warm orange light of the fire illuminating the stains still visible on his tunic.

He played with the mostly empty goblet in his hands. He wasn’t exactly sure how much wine he had guzzled down, but it was taking its effect. He was warm inside, relaxed. Took him away from the clouds in his head. He understood why Papa liked this stuff so much. He picked up the knife he had stolen and slowly tucked it into the waistband of his tunic.

Hirom, don’t you remember me?

Telal quietly sighed. He’d wanted to tell him his own name so badly, but was worried what he might say. Perhaps he wouldn’t recognize him at all or despise him—yet he couldn’t tell what was worse. But there was an excitement brewing inside of him; one that he had not felt for a very long time. A chance to make things right. He shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

Nine years was too long of a time to be apart.

And yet, Telal was stunned upon seeing his friend’s face—how much different he look. Of course, he was extremely frail and tall, but there was nothing that a few decent meals couldn’t fix. He knew that Hirom was hungry; as slaves tend to be. If anything was to make him come back, it would be good food. Amata’s cooking alone could prevent a war.

Telal finished his glass. He scratched the back of his neck, deeply wondering if his friend had perhaps thought of him, even after all this time. Hirom had only been five moons, but surely, he had forgiven him by now—Telal had pleaded with the gods for it to be so. He would never forget the look in the boy’s dark eyes from the shed on that cold, rainy day.

I didn’t mean it you know I didn’t mean it they told me you were sold off and dead and it’s been so long and I saw you but you don’t see me but I wish you could

He ran his hands through his disheveled hair. Upon heavily slamming the goblet onto the wooden table, he reached for the jug for a refill. It had been past midnight when he had finally arrived back to the villa. His father, to his great relief, had retired to his chambers. So had his mother. The slaves had finished their work and left fresh oil in the lamps for the morning. Despite the weight of the day, not an ounce of exhaustion came over Telal. His father’s wine had beckoned him, and he had poured glass after glass until the jug was nearly empty.

After taking a long, heavy sip, Telal heavily got to his feet, his mind still spinning. He bumped against the table, causing the goblet to fall upon the ground, shattering into a million pieces. A smile fell on his face as he stumbled outside, heading straight through the fields. He held his hand out to feel the tops of the plants brushing against his palms.

After all this time, he had believed Hirom to be either dead or sold off. He had foolishly trusted Bou for nine long years, believing that there was not another soul on this plantation, but that his friend had been here the whole time. The moment he had seen the other boy’s face—it was as if the world no longer existed. He was near death but most importantly, alive. The scars on his body proved that Bou had broken his promise.

You said you wouldn’t hurt him.

The wine made Telal’s head clear. It was simple. So simple. So many years of excruciating loneliness, and for what?

His gait was slowed, delayed. But he knew. He knew as he approached the quarters, past the rice and cornfields, below the tree where the man slept. He slept so peacefully, releasing a low snore as Telal’s shadow fell upon him. The boy slowly pulled out the knife, gripping it tightly into his smooth palms. Bou murmured something in his sleep. The blade gleamed and shown brighter than the stars.

Telal smiled in the dark.

He plunged the knife deep into Bou’s belly, snapping the bones of his hollow ribcage. The overseer awoke with a start, releasing a muffled cry, but Telal aggressively yanked the blade out and brought it down again. Bou tried to rise to his feet, swinging blindly in the dark. Telal bashed a rock against the side of his face. The boy’s fingers went for the knife handle, slick with mud.

He delicately carved it into the man’s chest, leaving a path of crimson. And again. His shoulders rose and fell, long strands of unkempt pale hair hanging over his face. His arms burned, he couldn’t stop. Papa, it is warm. It is very warm. Blood spattered Telal’s face. It tasted sweeter than the finest berries. Oh, Bou’s agonizing screams was music to his ears, but what about when he had cried alone all those nights, alone all those nights, yes, just like this

and no one had been able to hear

him.

Telal’s large blue eyes were glazed over, but it wasn’t until the warm blood completely soaked his clothing and hair and arms and face that he leaned his head back, the euphoria rushing through his veins, his mouth parted into an endless, wonderful smile. Bou’s blood stained the grass, the trees, the bushes, and his organs were spilling out of his stomach. But Telal kept raising and lowering the knife, his breaths getting heavy.

It was so easy, how could he complicate it? It cut so easily in his skin. He cut faster, bits of brain matter and tissue and muscle getting caught onto the tall plants of the rice field. When the sun rose, the slaves would be able to see his pink, saggy flesh. And soon, he would be dust.

That is what all men are, after all.

Clay and dust.

How could he complicate such things?

Telal scooped up handfuls of Bou’s dark red blood, smearing it across his eyes and nose and face. He began to laugh uncontrollably beneath the dense white fog.