Two days passed, during which Luna had to learn everything about the ancient cannons before servicing them. The metal barrels seemed untarnished by the tooth of time, though she could say little of the iron it had been construed from, as black paint had been applied to keep the oxidation out.
She tapped a bullet against the twelve of them, millimeter by millimeter to verify that the sounds were even - at least she could verify that much.
She stood atop the wall, staring down at the bustling villagers chanting a unified song down below, questioning where her own people had gone so wrong. These people had starved, too, yet they hadn’t turned on one-another. As a matter of fact, they were friends - all of it, by the look of their smiles and the sound of the songs.
It wasn’t a nice listen, but it served a purpose - giving rhythm for pushing the heavy cannons to the north-facing wall, all twelve of them refurbished with relatively fresh, sturdy wood. What concerned her was the state of the wall, as she hadn’t a clue about the stability of stone constructs and how the deterioration would affect it.
But just as with the cannons, she clung to the hope that Logan would find a way to kill their assailant without relying on too much external support.
“Ah, miss Luna.” A voice sounded from behind her - jostling the Logoruum with fright.
“My apologies. I didn’t intend to scare you.” The old man spoke from beneath a hood of his own. He wore long, white robes and held a metal chamber at the end of a chain, dispersing a most unusual smell to the air.
The beams of evening sunlight illuminated the wisps of smoke as he bowed down low and introduced himself: “I’m Isaac - Abraham’s old Master. A priest of Bravelle and a servant of the Governor.” According to Logan, anything regarding Bravelle, she’d do wise to avoid. She returned the gesture and crouched down to tap the barrel of the cannon.
“Sorry, I’m a bit busy. Can I help you with anything?” She questioned.
“No, I’m… I’m just a bit curious, I suppose - forgive my Sin, if you would. I am blessing the cannons - it has been some time since last time. Would you like a blessing for your hands, as well?” She imagined melting in the white smoke and slowly shook her head.
“No, I’m fine - thanks. I’ll move on soon. Maybe you can start with the ones over there?” She pointed over to where a trio of elderly men were staring down at a cannon, chatting about the instructions she had given.
“I actually came to ask you a question, if you wouldn’t mind. You see, Abraham is quite taken with you and so he speaks volumes of your beauty. His poetry is dreadful, but he had an interesting observation in that horrific prose.” Her hands froze.
“Are you one of Logo’s children, perhaps? Red eyes are uncommon in Cradle, but the stories of old spoke volumes of the beauty of the Logoric eyes.” Her swallow said it all.
“I-...” She began, only for the priest to chuckle warmly. “Do not worry, Miss Luna. The others don’t know about that characteristic, nor would they expect to find someone like you here. Logan helped a lot of our people with his changes to the farms and some even whispered about him being one of you. In other words, any friend of Logan is a friend to our people. Red eyes or not.” She rose to her height and looked at the white robes before slowly touching a palm to the hood, raising it slightly just to show the priest her eyes. In retrospect, as soon as she had gazed at him, she couldn’t tell why she’d chosen to do so. There was something oddly trustworthy about the old, scarred man - something she couldn’t entirely put her finger on. But his warm smile served to disarm her and wash away what little worries remained after her display.
“I can certainly see why Abraham’s taken such an interest in you. I can imagine you’d have many more followers if you were to take that hood off.” He chuckled and continued to inform:
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“In some regions in our world, the ancient bitterness remains. Children speak horror-stories about the Logoric, while the old threaten their young with throwing them to the devils of the deep. The way I see it, we’ve much to learn from one-another. Just look at this for example.” He tapped the barrel of the cannon with his ringed finger and grinned.
She nodded agreeingly. “I’d say you were right. My people didn’t react this way to starving… they needed a scapegoat. Someone to blame. And when that very same person got them out of it, they treated his name as if he were a God.” She looked back down at the busy courtyard, particularly at a pair of old women counting and sorting a crate of bullets into smaller baskets.
“Anza’s people are unique in that way. We’ve lived in the mountains for so long that all we know are one-another. I take it you were this scapegoat?” She was quick to shake her head and correct: “No. But I was close to him.” Her hand inevitably journeyed to her throat, where she gripped the nautilus shell beneath her black shirt.
“I’ve never moved past it. I was around Abraham’s age when we met, but it feels like just yesterday I lost him.” She wished to stop talking - to not regret this conversation later. But something about the man was just so welcoming of her words, so inviting. He even seemed to know what she spoke about.
“I could quote the scripture for you. It is not uncommon to find true love at a young age. Would you say you still love him, then?” She hesitated not a second.
“Yeah. From the bottom of my heart, I can say I do. I always will.” The priest swung the lantern-like thing about and with the slight movement, it seemed to breathe life anew.
He answered: “Good. You are in the right company for a broken heart - love fuels the fire of fury. You’ll find it’ll help you to think of him in your darkest moments… as a new warrior, you’ll find yourself going there often.” He spoke with the wisdom of a man who had lived through that very fate. He glanced around the wall for a moment, before leaning in to confess: “And as we are in the spirit of sharing, I’ll tell you that I’m stricken with an affliction of my own. One that would see me thrown off most walls in Cradle.”
For a moment, she held her breath, expecting him to broach the subject of the symbiote, only for him to point down the wall and confess: “The love of my life is that big, burly oaf down there. So close, yet endlessly far away - a horrible fate, I must say, but I’ve followed him through fire and hell. I’d do it all over again if I could.” He chuckled. She recognized that man - his name was Bear. A stern-faced brute with crossed arms staring across an ocean of bustling life.
She hadn’t met one of his type before. She had heard of them - many had suspected her uncle of being stricken by the affliction, which was perhaps why there was something so Mars-like about the priest.
“Thanks for confiding in me. I’ll keep your secret like you’ll keep mine.” He chuckled and bowed graciously.
“Me and him are but men in a world of monsters. But together, we’ve killed enough of the Spawn to fill this entire town to the brim with flesh. He killed one, I killed one to match. One came for his back, I came to his aid. Nothing beats the strength you feel when fighting for a loved one.” She scoffed bitterly and added: “Unless they’re already dead.”
Surprisingly, the old man was quick to retort. “No, that makes it all the more potent. With every kill, you’ll feel that bottomless pit in your stomach filled ever-so-slightly, but you will never have your thirst fulfilled. I’ve no qualms about leaving my boy in your care - I only ask that you try to use that fire to temper him with strength.” She drew a sideways smirk and corrected him: “I think he’d beat me in a fight anyday. You’ve taught him well.”
“For now, perhaps. But those are not the eyes of a weakling.” They shared a benign smile, only for a stuttering, cautious voice to steal away the attention:
“M-Miss Luna. I’m done counting. There’s thirty-six balls, but the men have already started cutting rocks to fit the barrels.” She turned to see Abraham’s well-bandaged face, arms and legs had been thoroughly bandaged, but recovering quickly from his injuries. His black eyes stared up at her with a hope to the wide bulbs and with a pounding to the fist atop his chest. She was amazed she hadn’t seen it sooner.
“That won’t do. The stones will shatter before they leave the barrel - the explosion will destroy anything not malleable like metal-” at least if her memory served her right. But she quickly trailed off as she imagined the scenario - the explosion showering out white-hot chunks of stone to scorch the monstrosity-to-come.
“Actually, tell them to keep going. And prepare every bowl, fork, spoon and whatever else metal scrap you can find. If it gets close enough, we’ll make it regret ever looking at Anza.” She got the feeling neither the priest nor Abraham understood the mechanics of a cannon, but they both seemed relieved to have her command the preparation efforts.
He tapped his chest and said: “Yes, Ma’am. Is there anything I can get you? Food? Water?” She giggled before dragging a hand over his hood.
“Nothing. Just go rest, Abe. No training until Logan gets back.” He tapped his chest and set back off down the ladder, wincing with every movement of his legs.
“You’ve a talent for the command, Luna.” The Priest spoke as he turned back towards the cannons to receive the other men’s bows.
“It’ll be an honor fighting with you, Commander.” He chuckled - leaving her to consider those important words.