The sour taste was still in his mouth by the time he scaled the frozen slope of Jamel Street. His head was still dizzy, and his heartbeat erratic. His boots slipped on the icy surface of the road, and he slid down the slope again. As he began his third ascent, Willard wondered once more if he had made the right choice. He had certainly felt right when he made up his mind on the Snowslicer, Mia’s unkempt hair brushing his cheeks.
Shades or terrorists, huh.
Two opposite evils. Willard knew little about the Shades, and even less about Mia’s terrorist accomplices. Sure, Mia had vouched for them...but she had changed. He could no longer trust her. Was it because he didn’t want to? Willard felt a wrench in his guts. Two opposite evils. Willard would rather go with the more familiar one.
Arthur Vako Lamiurge.
That was the first Shade’s true name, at least according to Mia. She had been surprised at Willard’s inquiry and spent a whole minute just trying to remember it.
They had been on their way back home when Willard had brought up the topic. She had known all along about his meeting with the Shades. And, according to her, had included them in her plan. Willard was surprised. His childhood memories of her didn’t involve her planning ahead.
Once she finally recalled the name, she had the first Shade’s entire story out. Born in Jeris, he had been separated from his family at a young age in one of the minor conflicts following the first Transcontinental War. He had been a third son, so his very existence, according to Jeris policies, was illegal. The files were redacted from ages thirteen all the way until the present. It was probably then that he undertook International-Special-Operations-Liaison-Agent training.
Mia seemed confident that the Shades would pose no threat to her mission. Her first mistake. After they arrived in Ferah that morning, she had told Willard to hang back to brief his family on her plan. She would be away for the rest of the days, organizing the operation. On the day of the festival, one of her friends would set off the fireworks early, allowing them to blend into the crowds of tourists and natives and making their way to the extraction point. Friends. That was her second mistake.
Willard had seen enough news and heard enough gossip about terrorists to know that they were pure evil. Anyone who would willingly mingle with Jugang and blow up Lucere manufactories was insane. What’s more, there seemed to be a separate anarchist branch in Erste indoctrinating civilians to go against the Coalition. The fire to the Gallith Museum was one such case. Though, surprising as it may be, Willard did not hate them. What he held towards them was an irritating annoyance, like how a grown man would react towards a toddler’s naivety. The terrorists work under the banners of “liberty” and “equality”, but all they’d achieved is putting a stronger burden on the migrant workers in Sorissu. The more buildings they blow up, the more factories they tear down, the more work was forced onto Willard and his fellow colliers to provide funds for reconstruction. The political magnates of the Gerang Coalition and the merchant tycoons of the Sorissu Triumglate wouldn’t lose anything from the terrorism. They’d sit back and watch as one working class unknowingly makes the other suffer. They were the ones he hated, and the realization that his father was one of them made Willard loathe him even more. However, terrorism was terrorism. And they were broadcasted to be merciless murderers. While he did not hate them, he did have the subconscious disgust and fear that all humans have about the unconventional. And with Mia being one of them......
Willard swung the steel-embedded welt of his boot into the icy covering the road and made a dent in it, using it to finally lift himself onto the flat end of Jamel street. A sharp twinge shot through his left lung and sent him collapsing to the icy snow, wheezing.
Willard sucked in two deep breaths of the icy afternoon breeze, and shakily pulled himself up. His prescribed medicine had been lost on the train, and he needed to revisit Krummlae again if he wanted to go through the next months in peace.
Complications. All the more complications.
As his pupils focused, three figures materialized into his view. Clad in red overcoats, two of them were his height and one was a fist shorter. One of them had his hood off and Willard could see their rough black hair waving slightly in the air, its shades lighter than Mia’s and lacking her natural waviness. Willard noticed the a faint blue stripe on his forehead. Lucere addiction.
“Hey, Price.” Rom said.
Willard stiffened. He glanced at the shorter of the three and spotted the bloated red face oozing out from the hood. One’d have to squint hard at the two brothers to even notice any similarities. Then harder still to recognize any resemblance to their father, the cheery drunk officer who had had Willard under his arm during Makobi’s Eve. He wondered how the gap between generations could be so huge. Willard peered at the second figure between the two brothers but didn’t recognize him.
Rom, seeing as Willard didn’t respond, gave him a shove and nearly sent him tumbling down the slope.
“What the hell, mik?” Willard brushed his nose and suck in another lungful of icy air.
Rom spat, and pulled his brother beside him. “You do know who did this, right?”
Willard squinted hard and saw a purplish, yellow-greenish ring around his left eye. “I’d prefer it if you didn’t-”
”LOOK!” Rom shot out a hand, grabbed Willard by his collar and dragged him down, forcing Willard to stare at that unpleasant face again.
“Didn’t Adrian apologize?”
“How’s apologising gonna help with this?” He shoved Willard again. This time Willard took care to not topple down the slope.
“Listen, man, I just had a really tough day. I just talked to Adrian. Can we have this discu-”
“Yeah, yeah, no,” Rom growled, “tough day my ass. Talking wi’ Shades is all you been doin’ behin’ our backs.”
“Wha-?”
“Actually, on tha’ note, what you’ve been up to, mik? You workin’ wi’ Shades? Gonna sell your own people?” He pushed Willard again, forcing him to the brink of the slope.
“Look who’s talking.”
“WHAT DID YOU SAY?!”
“Rom, enough.” The guy behind him said, putting a hand on his shoulder.
“Please, I told you bro, it’s fine,” said the other. His voice sounded strained. Scared.
Rom swiped his friend’s arm off his shoulder. “No, ’s not.” The poison in his voice made Willard realize that his grudge ran deeper than his brother’s purple eye, just like on that day with Mia.
“You know, I didn’t believe it when I heard it was you who lived,” He shoved Willard again. “I mean, you’re practically dead anyway, right? So why’d you go on living? What makes you so special?”
Willard was silent. The guilt he had carefully locked away came creeping back into him, like a bony arm running its length across his spine. It muffled even his anger at Rom.
“Tell me!” Rom snarled, “Why’d you even bother?”
“...I’m sorry.” Willard lowered his gaze.
Ah yes, that’s right. He had a sister down at Kimotah, didn’t he?
“I...I’m sorry about Sammy. She was a kind so-”
Rom’s fist connected with his stomach with surprising force. Willard collapsed to the ground. Nauseousness gripped his throat, and he would have thrown up again if he had anything left in his stomach. It was so ironic, so similar to that first day that it made Willard giggle between bursts of sharp breath.
“You keep her name outta your mouth.”
“Rom! Enough!” Willard heard Rom’s friend shout. “You said you wanted to talk!”
“An’ talk I did.” A hand shot out and gripped Willard’s hair, pulling his head up. “’Ey, ‘ey, ‘ey, was’ wi’ tha’ stare, man?”
A swift right hook knocked Willard back onto the ground. His left cheek burned. Willard stared down at his hands. He could’ve blocked it. Why didn’t he? Before he had time to think, another blow spread through his stomach, forcing him to ball up into a fetal position. Something dragged him up again, and he felt his arms being pulled behind his back.
“ROM! QUIT IT!” someone shouted in the distance.
“You. C‘mere.” He heard Rom’s voice behind him, so close that he felt the hot breath on his right ear. “Yes, you! Quit bein’ a waste o’ space and get over ‘ere”
Willard saw the swollen little guy shuffle nervously towards them, and stop two paces in front of him.
“Punch ‘im.”
“Wha...?” A look of bewilderment, fear and excitement came over his face.
“Punch ‘im!”
“Bu-bu-but...he didn’t...he”
”SHUTUP! It’s about time you learned how’ta defend ’cho-self! Not jus’ run back t’me cryin’ ‘cus someone fough’ back!”
Why are they doing this to you?
Willard watched as the moral debates unfolded behind the kid’s eyes. Then the “consequences-are-too-complicated-to-visualize-I’ll-just-do-what-I-want” look that most arrogant children eventually arrived at settled in his pupils. Willard wondered if he also had that look when he threw Adrian’s baby Mishcat off their classroom’s balcony.
“Do i’ right ‘here.” Rom freed one of his grappling fingers and poked Willard’s right cheek. The touch burned his bruised flesh. “Actually, break his nose.” Willard suddenly tasted the rust in his mouth, clotting his throat.
“Rom. I don’t think-” his friend started but swallowed his words when he looked into his eyes.
The kid gulped, glanced at his brother again, then at Willard, then back at his brother. He shuffled forward until he was at half an arm’s length to Willard’s face, pulled back his right arm, and landed his first punch on Willard.
That’s right, you deserve it, don’t you? Sammy to Rom was Adrian to you. And you stole her chance to live. That’s how it is, right? And now you’ve unleashed this mad dog. It’s all your fault.
Willard went limp. The punch was weak, but it forced the bloody spit out of him nonetheless. Rom pulled him back up. He didn’t feel like squirming. Actually, he didn’t feel like doing anything at all. Perhaps this was his punishment for siding with evil. He looked at the flabby boy in front of him, suddenly the divine carrier of justice.
The second punch landed on his left cheek, this time packed with more power.
The third punch threw him back onto the ground. This time there was real power behind it. He stared halfheartedly at his punisher, who was grinning stupidly with a fanatic ecstasy behind his eyes. Willard felt himself being propped up again.
You can’t take it much longer.
Time seemed to stagnate as the boy pulled back his arms to deliver the final punishment. He had put all his weight into his left leg like a baseball pitcher, and his fist was about to embed itself into Willard’s nose when suddenly he collapsed to the ground.
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Dazed, Willard saw broken pieces of ice across the back of the his head.
“Huh?” he felt the hands around his arms slacken as a second projectile whizzed past his face at astonishing speed, exploding behind his left ear and showering his neck with prickling coolness.
Rom screamed behind him, and completely released his hold on Willard. Still dazed, Willard looked in the same direction as the friend of Rom, the only standing member of the group.
A small figure, tossing something in their left hand, was walking towards them, his right hand in his coat pocket.
“Pliach. Speaking of the devil.” Willard heard Rom’s friend say.
Rom stood up, shaking with rage. Willard could see the steam rising off his nose, where the second projectile had hit. He was about to take a step forward when a third smashed into the ground before his right foot. He stopped.
“One more step, and you lose your windpipe.” Willard heard that figure say. They sounded too familiar for Willard to not recognize.
“You wouldn’t dare,” Rom growled.
Adrian stopped twenty paces before the group. He pulled his right hand out of his pocket, revealing three gray pebbles.
“Next time it wouldn’t be ice anymore.” He stared at Rom. “Oh, and did I mention Nafimm?“
That seemed to blow some sense back into Rom. He cursed, dragged his brother up with his friend, and the three of them disappeared down an alley between two factories.
Adrian, pocketing the pebbles, strode with leisurely steps towards Willard. He stopped by him, who was still kneeling on the ground. He squatted down in front of him. Willard raised his head as sparks swirled in his eyes.
“You look like shit,” Adrian said.
“Don’t...swear.”
They stared at each other for a while, then Willard let out a small chuckle. Then Adrian chuckled. Then Willard began to laugh. Then Adrian began to laugh. Then Willard started laughing harder. Then he collapsed onto the ground as invisible knives jabbed at both his lungs and his head. Adrian stopped laughing.
“Crap. Here,” He bent down and wrapped Willard’s arm around his shoulder, heaving him up. “Let’s get you outta here.”
“Isn’t Nafimm coming?”
“I lied,” Adrian grunted as he steadied himself.
“Addy, I can walk by mys-” It was as if there was an anvil on his head. Willard thought he heard blood sloshing around in the back of his ears.
“Woah, woah. Don’t push yourself.” Adrian caught him and heaved him up again.
Willard allowed Addy to walk him towards the other end of Jamel street, or wherever it was they were headed towards. His attention was scattered, his eyes unfocused, his ears ringing, and he felt like there was a screw that had drilled its way through his skull and was mashing his brain into mush. Each step he took only made it worse, and he became aware that he was afraid his eyes would roll out of their sockets.
They made their way across Jamel street and turned into an alley. The cool breeze that blew across it told Willard that they were heading towards the open, rural parts of Ferah. Willard, too disoriented to ask, clung to Adrian like a drunk man.
“A few more and we’re there,” he heard Adrian say. Then his eyes temporarily focused on Adrian’s mouth and saw they were still moving.
“What?”
“Don’t dangle your head!” They stopped, and Willard heard a scraping sound like old wood being dragged across concrete.
“In here. Quick.” Willard took two quick strides forward, lost his balance, and collapsed to the ground. However, instead of snow, his shoulders crashed onto a hard surface.
The icy winds that were blowing across Willard’s nape stopped abruptly. The air hung heavy with a dense smell of fermented sourness and an earthy aroma. Willard heard the scraping sounds again, and the howls of the winds died abruptly. Willard’s eyes adjusted, and slowly the silhouettes of several rows of shelves came into focus. He pushed himself against a shelf and rested his head on a protruding surface on the bottom.
“Your face’s busted,” Adrian sat down beside him, heaving from the exertion, “looks like a Land Urchin in heat.”
“Ha...ha. Very funny.” Willard carefully probed the hotness on his cheek. It felt like something was still stuck there, like the fist still remained embedded in his flesh. “How bad is it?”
“Ain’t in any presentable way to go to the send-off rites.”
The send-off rites?
Willard realized he hadn’t seen any burials. Then he remembered that not a single complete body could be found in the collapsed mines. In times like this, a Hemani-Nnussa priest would be commissioned from Mors to hold a ceremony for the final departure of the deceased. A little hymn would be sang. Then the dearest belongings for the passed ones would be incinerated. It was so long ago when he last saw one that he wasn’t sure if it was in a dream or not.
“When would that be?”
“...Tomorrow, right before Makobi.”
“Starting off with a real bang.”
“Don’t make jokes like that.”
Willard bit his lips. Why did he just say that? What’s wrong with him?
“...sorry.” He rubbed his right eye with the palm of his left hand. “I don’t know what’s gotten into me...too much stress lately, I s’ppose.” He was suddenly embarrassed at telling Adrian this. Too much stress? This was nothing. Only a small setback. Tomorrow, after the send- off...after Makobi...everything would return to normal. He’d free Mia from the terrorists. He’d clear his name. He’d...
“Next time I’d really kill that guy.”
This startled Willard. “Don’t say that.”
“He’s worthless. A piece of human garbage. He was probably the one who bruised up Samwell.”
“What?”
“Then he comes door to door, spits on the carpet and doesn’t leave until he has what he came for. Pliach, I heard he keeps half the money he collects. That’s why there has been so many power shortages.”
“No, tell me about Samwell. Are you sure of it?”
“I’m certain. Samwell has been avoiding him lately, haven’t you noticed?”
“I’ll need to talk to him.”
“Talk talk talk,” Adrian sneered, “when are you gonna learn that words are not gonna change anything?”
“Where are we?” Willard ignored him, letting his hands fall back to his sides. He failed at rubbing tears out, and now his vision swiveled feverishly once more.
“…in some Meeko’s Prosch cellar.”
“How’d you...”
“Crack in the wall. It’s a storeroom, as far as I can tell. Old farts have too many of these. Never bothered to check even once.” Adrian handed him a cup. The strong, sour smell of distilled manoafruits clogged Willard’s nostrils.
“Isn’t this stuff really expensive?”
“Is it? I thought it was juice.”
Willard chuckled, and put the cup to his lips. The rich fluid slid down his throat, warming his stomach. It was surprisingly tasteless, considering how strong it smelled.
“Drink up. A few cups should fix the shallow bruising,” Adrian said, “then sleep would do the rest.”
“How’d you…you know what, never mind.”
Adrian snickered, took the cup from Willard and disappearing behind the shelves again.
“Magic juice,” Willard muttered.
His face stung. Willard wondered why he was relieved. Was it because someone finally openly expressed their hate? The past week was like a dream. First the recovery from his half-dead state under the rubble, then his return to Ferah, then Mia, then the Shades, then the train, then this. It was too much for a week. Too much for a lifetime. At least the aching on his cheeks meant there was one less worry.
Adrian returned and handed Willard the cup again. After downing its contents, Willard tossed the cup away. Adrian stared at him, puzzled.
“Worries does one wonders.” Willard poked him with his elbow.
“What’s that mean?”
“I don’t know.”
Both went silent while Willard rolled his tongue over his mouth, trying to taste the tasteless liquid.
“Why didn’t we go home?”
“You want ma to see you in that state?” Adrian mused. “You’d break her heart.”
“Huh?”
“I talked her out of coming to the hospital while you were still out, y’know?” Adrian halfheartedly played with two pebbles he pulled out of his coat jacket. “She wouldn’t have been able to bear the sight of you.”
A warm feeling, different from the one induced by the Prosch, seeped into Willard’s stomach. However, it was quickly replaced by an overwhelming shame. He had thought he was the only one looking out for the family. And in his ignorance, blunders had been made.
“Adrian.”
“What’sup?”
”Do you hate me?”
“I...” Adrian didn’t sound surprised, and the pause felt more like an exit to find the best way to answer. “Sometimes.”
“I’m sorry.”
“See?” Adrian’s voice grew a fraction louder. “That proves it. Why’re you always apologizing?”
“What’s wrong with apologizing?”
“Ain’t manly.”
“They’re just words, Addy.” Willard sighed. “They’re meant to be a convenience, not another worry.”
“...so you don’t really mean it when you apologize?”
That stumped Willard. He realized he had just fallen into the pitfall of expectation. He had been apologizing so much that none of his apologies meant anything anymore, even to himself. It was like his catchphrase now. He wondered when it had all started.
“Sometimes.” Willard shrugged. Adrian kept silent. Then he seemed to remember something.
“Mother wants to attend the Makobi festival this year.”
“No,” Willard said flatly. He was suddenly flooded with the desire to lie down and doze off. It was warm in the cellar. Warmer than all the civilian apartments. Warmer by a lot. He could just take off his jacket and...
“I don’t care. I’m taking her.”
“Next year.”
“Are you serious?” Adrian said, his voice suddenly growing dangerously slow. “It might be your last Makobi with her.”
Willard’s heart skipped a beat. He shot up, oblivious of the sudden ringing in his ears, his fatigue replaced by an imminent dread.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.” Adrian looked up at the ceiling and stayed that way for a while. For a brief moment Willard thought he saw something glisten below his pupils. “I’m taking her there anyway.”
“You can’t.” Willard crossed his arms.
“Why?”
Willard hesitated. Should he tell him? Adrian was only fifteen. He wouldn’t be able to handle it. He’ll tell mother. That would put another boulder on her shoulders.
“...because I’m asking you to.”
“Respectfully, brother, I don’t care.”
Willard’s words were cut short as a series of coughs escaped from his mouth. Before he knew it, he was on the ground, a pungent sourness in his mouth, clogging his nostrils and making his head swirl once more.
“Hell, I was only joking.” Adrian crawled over and helped prop Willard up to his back.
“A...Adrian. Please.”
“What?”
“I’m begging you, okay?” Willard felt another series of coughs coming. “Just stay in. It’s my only wish. Stay with mother, alright? By her side.” He hesitated, “...keep her safe.”
“But we could do it t-”
”This is what it means to be an adult.”
“You say that, but what do you do? Go off for months on end, leaving us here.”
“You think I want to? I’m doing it to put food on the table, Adrian.”
“You said it yourself, didn’t you? We’re what matters most, and you couldn’t even be with us. If you can’t do that, what kind of brother are you?”
“…I’m sorry.”
“Stop apologizing!”
“What should I do, then?”
“Work next to home.”
“I don’t think I have a say in that.”
“Like hell you don’t. Ditch this job. Find another in Ferah. Hell, work for Krummlae if you have to.”
“I…I can’t.”
“Why?”
Because if you’re prideful. Being an employee of Kimotah Incorporated is hard. It’s the most glorious thing to ever happen in your miserable life, and this consistency has replaced your ego. If you sway now, you’d just be like any other decrepit loser. Like Rom.
Adrian swallowed something he was just about to say. Then their gazes met.
“Your eyes.” He pointed at Willard.
“What?”
“Don’t look at me like that.”
“Sorry, sorry.” Willard placed his right palm on his eyelids and rubbed them hard, “I didn’t mean to. It’s...not something I can control.”
“You looked dead.”
“I did?”
“That stare’s gonna cost you your love life, y’know?”
“I’ve got enough worries as it is, thank you very much.” Willard hung his head back. Both went silent for several minutes while Willard tried his best not to doze off.
“You know what? Fine. We’ll stay in tomorrow,” Adrian suddenly said.
“Really? I knew you’d c-”
“IF...and ONLY if...you work closer to home from now on.”
“I...”
“Don’t get me wrong. It’s ma who needs you.”
“I...” Willard bit his lips. He didn’t want to lie to Adrian. He didn’t want to lie to his family. Not anymore. “I told you. I don’t think I’m in charge of that.”
“Don’t care. Make it happen.”
“…alright.”
Future problems would be resolved in the future.
With that, Adrian sat back, and let out a long sigh.
“You should work on that look, y’know?”
“What, you got an engagement planned for me?”
The two chuckled again, and Adrian went back to pour Willard another cup of tasteless wine.