A fool is the man who kills the father, and leaves the child so that he may take revenge.
- Aristotle
[Nokday: 1265PD (Post-Diluvium)]
Nahm always says I should’ve died. He’s a shaman. He can see death, when it comes. Death was in me already when he found me. “So small,” he’d say, again, and again. “So much death in you.”
But I never saw him turn someone away. Not even the animals I brought home. He said that was a shaman’s duty. He had life in his hands. That’s why he didn’t leave me in the gutter, with death.
Sometimes, I think he’s right. I should have died. At least for his sake. I can be such trouble.
I like being alive, though. Being alive is good. Mostly. The exception is stairs.
On days like this, when my leg is better, Nahm lets me tag along to Bek. The apartment building we’re climbing rises so high, I get dizzy looking over the stair railings. We had to take the stairs up thirty floors, because the lift is broken… again. The old woman we take care of here is lame, like me, only she can’t even hobble around like I do. She hasn’t left her room in months. Nahm always makes a point to visit her when we’re in the area, even though she can’t pay.
Today, Nahm tells me to stay outside while he goes in. He tells me to look out at the ocean, since I’m rarely able to climb so high. Most of the island of Bek isn’t so different from Noke, our home - left for nature to reclaim. I can see our little island from here - a black speck on a blue plane. Between here and there; a strip of blue ocean, a strip of white beach, a strip of green forest, then the gray walls of Haesong. Nahm has something he calls a “religious exemption”; a thing on his ID that lets us go outside the city limits. Our little boat isn’t harassed by Hwarang patrols on its way across the strait to Haesong. Here, we make our rounds in the slums, selling medicines.
Sometimes I’m embarrassed. How funny we must look! A limping old man and a limping little boy, leaning in on each other like a pair of crutches trying to walk.
Today’s visit takes longer than usual. When Nahm returns, his clothes smell like rot.
“She’s dead.” He says, closing the door behind him. I nod. Typical Nahm. The man never lies, least of all to me. One day, when I asked him why I looked different from other children, he told me exactly what I was. He told me about that day. His shop in Haesong was small - just one room. He sent his customers away, and fed me, and sang to me, and took care of my burns. He named me "Nokday,” which means “great joy”. He said it wasn’t right to die without a name.
But, even though I’d been aborted, I didn’t die. Eventually, he just started calling me “Nok”.
I don’t remember his shop in Bek. He sold it, and used the money to get me an ID from a friend. Then, he took me to live on the island Noke, south of Bek. He cleaned up an old hut - a “hermitage”, he called it. I remember strangers would visit us. Bald, dressed in robes, beads around their necks and wrists. He always brought them in and fed them. He called them “pilgrims,” traveling to the other islands in southern Goryo. Two different men came very often. One only pretended to be a pilgrim to get food. Nahm eventually quit letting him in. The other was a pilgrim, and I got the feeling that he and Nahm were old friends.
I’m badly burned, and red all over, with patchy hair on my head. Nahm’s friend helped shave it bald, like his. One day, he brought me some gray robes, and a cap and face mask. I never saw him again after that. Nahm cried when he left.
When I could pull myself around a little on the floor, Nahm began leaving me on Noke while he went back to Bek. We had no money, so he’d tell me to stay quiet and out of sight, and leave me food for a week or two. If I was very good, he’d bring me a gift. The first one was a beaded necklace, which he hung around my neck.
Nowadays, we spend most evenings gathering clams at low tide, when he’s home. I can sometimes walk for hours now, if we take a break for Nahm to massage my leg. The ocean is clean on Noke, with plenty of shellfish. As the sun sets, we’d limp back up to the hut. The air is clean too. Salty wind. Pine. Roasted kimchi, and burnt fish. After dinner, Nahm would reveal his most valuable treasure - a zither. It’s old, but he takes such care with it. I’d run my hand over the polished wooden surface, thinking how I’d never seen anything so beautiful. You can’t usually see the stars, but seated by the fire, I’d look up at the sky and imagine them, while he plucked an old tune.
Come, let us go.
Let us live on the green mountain.
Eating wild grapes and leeks,
let us live on the green mountain.
Come, let us go.
Let us go and live by the sea.
Foraging for wild clams,
let us go and live by the sea.
The birds cry when they wake.
Cry, cry birds!
I have more troubles than you.
I too awake crying.
Today, we don’t talk. We’re out of breath from the stairs, and Nahm has always been more of a singer than a talker. I can barely speak unless it’s important.
“Hodeok,” I rasp, tugging on his robe. I point to a little stall selling the sweets.
Nahm frowns when he sees the price, but buys one of the pancakes and splits it with me. We crouch by the curb, feet flat on the ground, and watch the passers by. I’ve gotten better at the squat, but my leg is so exhausted from climbing stairs, it gives out and I fall on my rump. Nahm laughs, and I giggle too. The old shaman grows quiet as he chews his hodeok, thoughtful. His wrinkled lids are closed, and his face is quiet. He smiles, like he’s dusting off an old memory. He rubs the white stubble on his head, sending up a cloud of flies that had landed there to drink his sweat. I look down at my hands, still holding my half-eaten treat. The winter heat has cracked and dried them. Dots of blood pepper my itchy skin, so Nahm rubs sesame oil into my face and hands.
Other than my burns, and my bad leg, I’m not so noticeable. Except for my eyes - they’re blue. That’s unusual for Goryons. Nahm says it’s from my deformity.
I keep my face down to avoid attention.
The winter heat is mild compared to the summer, when you can smell the soles of your shoes liquefying some days. Still, today the air is dry. My lungs burn as I struggle to keep up with Nahm.
Today’s last stop is somewhere special. Nahm explains the three districts to me again. Haesong, which we’re about to leave. Toryu, where we’re headed. Kurom, where we may never go. Kurom was also called the “cloud district” because of the clouds which sometimes cover the buildings. Before our first trip, Nahm explained that Bek is a mountain island. The tallest peak is a “caldera” - he said that was a lake at the top of a mountain. On an island in the center of the lake is the Temple of Hwanin, the god of Goryo. Surrounding the rim of the caldera is a ring of silver buildings, like a crown.
I always wanted to see that place. I’m hoping that’s where we’re going today.
“Does Hwanin live there?”
We’ve caught a platform from the northern outskirts of Haesong, headed to Toryu. The men guarding the place are slow, with dark circles under their half-closed eyes. They opened them wide when Nahm showed them his travel permit, but quickly lost interest and waved him on.
Nahm looks confused by my question.
“Where?”
“At…”
I clear my throat, and motion for water. My voice always hurts when I talk too much. Nahm hands me his little flask, and I take a long drink. The water has gone warm, but it helps.
“At Kurom?” I finish.
He shakes his head.
“She did… before.”
The platform takes us out over the dense forests and rocky mountains of Goryo, towards Toryu. It floats high over the land, like a magic slab of white marble. Despite Nahm’s reassurances that I won’t fall off, I stay far away from the edge. Soon, the outer walls of district two rise from the forest. We stop briefly in the checkpoint town here, before moving on to Toryu proper. Soon, the buildings of the city flit below us - well-kept, but not so different from those in Haesong. The platform descends slightly, and we make another brief stop here before continuing on.
I look out at the forest below, hoping to catch a glimpse of an animal, or a Hwarang Ranger. Nahm said he’d seen a tiger once, but never a Ranger. For a little while, as I look out ahead, I wonder whether we truly are headed to Kurom. I’m disappointed when we disembark at the checkpoint town just outside the city limits.
Praise Hwanin, son of Ahura, from whom all blessings flow!
I can read the sign, but only barely. Its gold Empiric letters span a stretch of the white stone wall that separates Kurom from the checkpoint town.
“Does Ahura live there?”
I point to the white walls. If Hwanin no longer lives there, someone must. Nahm doesn’t shush me. My voice is too quiet for anyone else to understand.
“No,” he says, “He lives in Ortus. Kurom is the home of the Yangban. Ahura’s Goryon children.”
“What do they do?”
I know Haesong - the lower district - well. Most of our time is spent there. Our role is to be poor. I even know a little about the middle district. Nahm sometimes does work for the businessmen there. Some of them like shamans, because shamans are good luck. It’s usually fine, as long as we avoid the peacekeepers. Nahm calls them “PKs” for short. Kurom, though, is a mystery. We’ve never come so close to it before. Our dirty clothes and sugar-stained faces draw rude looks from people living this close to its walls.
Nahm looks down at his palm, where his ID would show him things - money, messages, and directions. He looks again, and again, talking to himself under his breath. A PK stops us, growling that we’re in the wrong place. Nahm pales when he sees a red dragon symbol on the white scales of the woman’s armor. He bows and stammers, gently guiding me behind him. The PK doesn’t seem to notice me. A few whispered words, and a flick of his palm, and Nahm has shared his destination with the officer, who looks surprised, and issues us the correct permit. The one we’d been given, apparently, was a mistake.
We’re on the platform again, headed away from Kurom now, into unfamiliar territory. Steadily, we descend into a station we’ve never seen before. The flies and the smell remind me of Haesong, but as we continue down the cobblestone streets, we pass through a gate, and the signage changes from Empiric… to Ilbono. We’ve entered district four - Ilbon.
I don’t know anything about the Ilbono district. I don’t think Nahm does either. The Ilbono don’t understand or care about Goryon rules. The buildings here are even worse than in Haesong. They stretch from our position, all the way to the sea. There are no PKs, and the men wear weapons openly. We pass a cathedral, its white walls turned red in the setting sun. Strangers line the streets, murmuring prayers and bowing to the southeast.
A deacon stands on a marble cube, preaching in a cold voice. Deacons come down from Ortus to Haesong, too, but this one is different. He’s got a sword in his belt.
“The effectiveness of Ahura’s teachings is dependent upon your faith.”
I look up at Nahm, but he’s still staring at his ID, confused.
“Ahura has delivered you from Hwanin, but if your faith were without question, would he not have restored Minakanushi already? Would he not return you to the lands of your fathers?”
As we pass by the tall, pale man, he makes eye contact with me. I quickly look away.
“You must act upon Ahura’s teachings! You must cast down the idols which control you! The Shogunate, the Shinobi, the Yakuza - this heretical godhead has no place within Ahura’s kingdom! These are but the illegitimate dregs of a bygone era. If they are not utterly destroyed… Ahura may yet allow for Hwanin’s return, and you shall be humbled with yet greater chastisement!”
The words of the deacon fade. We push deeper into the district, putting more distance between us and the comforting walls of Bek. Our path snakes through the slums, and the stink of rotting garbage mixes with something the beggars are smoking. It makes my head dizzy, and I sneeze.
I tug on Nahm’s sleeve.
He looks up from his ID. We’ve come to a dead end. Around us looms the filthiest alleyway in all of Goryo. The crumbling buildings lean inward, like giants whispering secrets in each other’s ears. The rats come too close, like they’re unused to people.
Worried, we turn to leave. At the end of the alley, our path is blocked by three figures. I hide behind Nahm, peeking past the folds of his robe. The trio is like something from a circus. The first stranger is huge, but beside him stands a man who is only slightly bigger than me. The third is a woman. I'm too afraid to notice anything more.
"Juno…?" Nahm says the name uncertainly, waving his ID in the air.
A club strikes his face.
He pushes me away, into a pile of crates and boxes. I crawl deeper into the rubble, and turn to watch. The figures pummel Nahm with their clubs. The wind picks up. It howls through the broken windows of the nearby buildings. Nahm's body twists under their blows. He cries out, but they do not slow. Each thud sends gouts of blood flying across the alley. The wind rises with each strike. It mixes with Nahm’s voice. Shrieking.
I press my palms to my ears. The hodeok in my stomach forms a ball of lead, and sinks into the ground. The muscles of my face seize up in a horrible expression. My whole body feels like it might tear apart.
The wind dies.
Nahm has stopped moving, but they keep hitting him - grinding his body into the cobblestones like they’re grinding rice. His eyes are like a pair of watery clams. They stare at me, unfocused, as a club comes down hard on his head again, and again. One eye sinks into its socket, the other protrudes out.
The clouds unsettle the killers, who finally stop. They rummage through his robes, and realize it’s a shaman they killed. Bad luck, even in Ilbon. The thunder rumbles low, and long, and the sky throws down great drops of rain, like heavy tears. Eager to go, the smallest of the three comes jogging towards me.
I push further through the rubble. I don't know what I'm looking for. Something. Anything.
I come across an open sewage grate, and pull myself in head first, not caring if I’ll fit. A piece of the broken entrance tears through my shoulder. The man reaches a tattooed arm down and grabs my leg, so I dig my nails into the rusted walls as he yanks, and yanks. Between pulls, I grab something sharp, and ram it into his hand.
"ACK!"
He lets go, and a flash flood of water catches me, dragging me into the dark.
[Ohma: 1256PD]
Life is chaos.
Death is order.
Death is order, because death is certain. Dead is the original state of all things. The laws of existence display a natural tendency toward death. Life is chaos, because life is uncertain. Life is unpredictable. Life is the temporary exception to the rule of death.
In a system of chaos and order, only those things which excel at being continue to exist. Death comes for all, and only those entities with the strength to withstand it propagate themselves.
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"But some forms of life - we are so fragile!" you cry; and rightly so!
The great fires and deluges of yesteryear destroyed much of our earth. Africa - the womb from which man was born - lies eternally barren. And what remains of the Americas? Parched desert wasteland, where billions of creatures lie dead! Extinct in a matter of years; returned to their original state, through the weakness of their stewards. Such weak forms of life cannot subsist long in the dead fabric of this universe, and believe you me - we were counted among the weak. We could not hope to survive - not without some upper hand. But this we had! Just as we did in the ancient allegiance of nations to destroy the tyranny of Smith, Tartakovsky, and Juno Lee! Just as we did in surviving the flooding and division of the continents, and the rise of the Archipelagos we now inhabit!
In the eons before the age of man, there arose organisms complex enough to desire existence, and fear death. These organisms proved themselves persistent, as others faded into extinction. These organisms... these willful, persistent beings... these are those indomitable creatures who excel at being.
Their survival of the great climate disaster is proof that our ancestors were such beings. They possessed the will to survive, and to dominate the chaos which surrounded them with order. But chaos and order, life and death, did they rest? Nay. They continued to test us, and perfect us! Until from the literal ashes of our turmoil rose my great grandfather, Ahura, and the machinations of the universe were made perfect! No longer was the rule of death only temporarily superseded. Life and death bowed low their heads to the indomitable will of man. No longer must you be ruled by chaos! No longer must the chains of order weigh you down! Through Ahura, we are made immortal.
"Ahura," I repeat, emphasizing the word.
I toy with the idea of a motion to change the God-Emperor's official Goryon name. Goryons had long ceased using three-syllable names. These were necessary when our population numbered in the millions, but now that only a few hundred thousand remain...
His three-syllable name sounds old. Traditional.
No… I decide. It's strong enough. A motion from me would never pass Adder, or Dal. But speeches are tricky… perhaps with a different emphasis?
"Ahura!"
Duhwon bursts into my room, looking for all the world like an overgrown turnip. He turns his fat, shining face away in embarrassment. I'm sitting naked in front of the mirror, practicing my speech. Beads of sweat dot my exposed breasts.
Am I that nervous? I wonder.
I wave my hand, attempting to alter the temperature of the room via a command from my ID. No such luck.
“Archaic.” I grumble.
With a toe, I lift the edge of one of the many animal pelts at my feet. A rarity even among the obscenely wealthy nobles of Ortus, the firs obscure yet another criminal obscenity; floors made of real wood. Many of Nordland’s abundant natural resources find their way illegally to the mansions of the Family.
What’s the going price of a house like this? I wonder.
Duhwon interrupts my thoughts. I’d forgotten he was there.
"M- milady." He stutters, wiping sweat from his bald head with a cloth, "Our escort to the Jarl's palace-"
He's cut off as a tall, white-skinned man pushes his way into my room.
"I come to take the lady to Valhalla," the man says in broken Goryon.
“Valhalla.”
I sneer the word under my breath.
Jarl Eirik had, like so many other leaders, modeled his kingdom in a pale imitation of the Thearchy - adopting whatever indigenous theology he could dredge up from the annals of history. An attempt, perhaps, to claim legitimacy where there was none. The approach lacked both the accuracy and tact of the Thearchy, and would mean an embarrassing period of transition, should they ever convert. Not that the current Jarl was even remotely interested in that.
I set aside my brush, and with it a copious amount of fine raven hair.
I’m brushing too hard again, dammit.
I don't acknowledge the foreigner in the doorway, but I feel his bluish gaze roaming over my body. Golden skin like mine is considered exotic here. He looks at me like an object; I can almost see him weighing the cost of making an advance, as he leans against the door frame stroking his beard.
Duhwon tries to cover my immodesty by standing between us, but I wave him away. What do I have to fear? I am a child of Ahura.
"Yes, yes,” I say, adjusting my hair yet again, “I'll be with you shortly, long-nose."
I've been studying Norse for almost a year now, in preparation for the trip. My ID is of no real help on that front. The Nords have no IDs, so direct communication across language barriers is a luxury I’ll have to live without.
The Viking doesn't care for my nickname for him. It’s worse than he thinks - in Goryon it’s considered a racial slur. He makes his distaste apparent by fondling the head of the axe at his belt. It's a pointless, ceremonial weapon - one with which he couldn’t hope to harm a child of Ahura. Still, I get the feeling that anything in this man's giant hands carries deadly potential.
WARNING // Fight or flight response detected. Hormonal increase in:
My ID lists a series of chemicals - adrenaline, cortizol, etc.
Nearing threshold for triggering defensive action.
I won’t give him the satisfaction, I think.
I count my breaths, and consciously relax each muscle in my body, one by one. Duhwon - growing nervous - offers him a bottle of fine Makkoli; one of the many things we'd brought with us from Goryo. Annoyed that he didn’t get the desired response, the blonde brute snatches the bottle, and downs it in one go. He spits some snide remark on the weakness of Goryon alcohol as he leaves the room.
I shake my head as Duhwon closes the door behind him.
"Children," I say.
The eunuch wrings his hands.
"Perhaps we'd better not go…"
This makes me laugh.
"Oh? And who’ll tell the Jarl? You?"
His grimace is all the answer I need.
"They are children, Duhwon. Children need a strong mother to guide them. If I can forge a bond between the Thearchy and the Nordic States… you know what that’d mean for me. For Goryo."
If I’m to gain entry to Ortus, and be granted the immortality of the angels, I need a Feat - and not just any feat. To blot out the disgrace of my station, I need to do the impossible. My mother Hwanin had constructed Nadir - the Thearchy’s maximum security prison - within Goryo’s borders by the time she was only twenty. The Feat had secured Goryo’s future as a member of Ahura’s empire. Dal had developed the Kumiho, and pushed Goryo into the forefront of biological science, shifting the balance of power between Goryo and the other cities of the Thearchy in our favor. Bringing Nordland into the Thearchy would be just the thing to propel me to power, fame, immortality.
My anger cooled, I regret insulting the man. He’d done no real harm, after all. It’s simple biology. He can’t help his attraction; though he should’ve been more polite about it.
Patience, in this alien culture, I remind myself.
A petty insult like “long-nose”, made to the wrong person could cost me everything.
"My lady, many have tried..."
Duhwon’s words shatter my train of thought. My expression curdles.
"Many men have tried. Maybe that’s why we’ve failed for so long."
The eunuch bows, and the venom fades from my voice. I know he speaks out of concern for my well-being, but sometimes he errs on the side of familiarity with me.
"It’ll be alright," I assure him, "If all goes to plan, I’ll ascend. You’ll never have to worry again. Come - help me dress."
The path from our seaside accommodations is a long, winding route - designed, no doubt, to display the wealth and culture of the Nordic States to foreign visitors. The buildings are low, and long - a mimicry of the kinds that might have been found here in days past. They sprawl helter-skelter across the island, and rarely have more than two floors. Many of them incorporate wood in their construction. Such wanton use of land and resources will have to be sacrificed if they’re to assimilate.
As the sun sets, I can’t help but glance longingly to the south, where the faint glow of Europa - the primary power of the West - can be seen lingering on the horizon. I’d spent years there as a child with Duhwon, before my mother died. Her visits had been rare, but it was a safe space.
An alert presents itself on my ID.
Goryo Department of Travel
It surprises me, but I ignore it. It is, undoubtedly, a notification that Adder or Dal has suspended my travel permit, and ordered me to return immediately to Bek. Not a major loss - I only had to grease a few palms to obtain permits for the trip in the first place. The King of the Vikings - Jarl Eirik - had even insisted on paying for the entire journey himself.
I consider how difficult it must have been for the message to reach me over such a distance. The children of the gods would certainly have IDs with greater capabilities than my own, but to think they could send a message over such a vast stretch of ocean…
I’m fortunate, though - Adder and Dal have been too occupied to take notice of my activity until now. Unfortunately, only angels are provided aircraft, so I’d been forced to travel by boat.
One night. I can feign ignorance for that long, so long as I don’t open the message. Hopefully they aren’t stupid enough to send an air escort. That would be an act of war - completely undermining the entire purpose of the trip.
I hazard a glance at the other guests making their way through the rough Nordic streets, toward “Valhalla”. The lesser Jarls from various islands within the kingdom had apparently all been invited. They cast my retinue curious looks. There aren’t many of us - most of the servants are already in the kitchens, preparing for the moot. Those of us present are dressed in fine red Goryon silks, gilded in golden threads.
The Nords are all clad in traditional dress armors and furs - rough iron plate, useless against modern weapons, but demonstrative of one’s rank. Even here, beyond the edge of the civilized world, the Thearchy’s influence is unavoidable. The Nords - like every separate country within the Thearchy - wear the traditional clothing of their ancient people. They identify with their own heritage and roots. It is the basis for all they do. The basis for who they are.
A particularly large man falls in step beside me. Over his brow is draped the fanged head of a bear, which droops down his back in a cape so long, I marvel at how colossal the original beast must have been. He appears older than Eirik, but not by much. It could be due to the course beard which droops down his face, or the crosshatch of scars on his pockmarked cheeks. Via my ID, I search for a match to his face among the list of Jarls I’d been supplied.
Jarl Bjorn, formerly Agnar. Outspoken critic of Eirik, and contender for the throne.
He says nothing to me, but his stare carries an unwarranted level of disgust. I don’t return it - I simply continue walking, unabated, up the stairs of the palace.
The moot is an uncultured affair, to say the least. Goryon dishes are painstaking, and labor intensive. Many ingredients require months to age appropriately. The Nords turn their noses up at most of these, but Jarl Eirik - smiling at me in his good-natured way - attempts to try one bite of each dish brought out by my retainers. While it's clear he isn't enthusiastic about some, he takes a liking to roast duck and fermented perilla leaves, and to soju, of which he drinks copious amounts.
Goryo's utensils - like its food - require finesse and control; Neither of which are found here in abundance. Most of the utensils end up discarded in favor of eating with bare hands. At first Eirik attempts to learn from me how to use them. When the delay costs him several opportunities to try new dishes, he resorts to the same behavior as his subjects.
The tables of the hall are arranged in a square shape, with an open area in the center for musicians and servants to come and go. Bjorn - seated on the adjacent table to Eirik’s right - hardly touches the food. His malcontent is most often directed at the Jarl, but occasionally finds its way to me, in the form of grinding teeth and exaggerated frowns.
I speak with the Jarl - or rather, at the Jarl - for an hour at least. He devours pork belly without so much as a pause to belch, and nods in approval or feigned thoughtfulness at whatever I say. Eventually it becomes apparent that I need to employ… alternative methods. Eirik's appetite, I know, is not just for exotic foods. I'd seen women from several countries in his hall, casting him sultry glances, and wonder how many of them came to Nordland by choice.
As the Nords' appetites die down, and the savory dishes give way to rice cakes and sweet dumplings, I decide on a more direct approach. There are too many distractions present.
"Jarl Eirik," I say, faintly touching his arm, "perhaps there is somewhere more private we can discuss…?"
I know I'm playing with fire. The Jarl is handsome, true. He's tall - at least two meters - and has the blonde hair and sharp blue eyes typical of his people. Though he's only in his twenties, scars on his face attest to years of brutal conflict. He seems a genuine, good-natured man, despite appearances. But… his culture is still alien to me, and I need to avoid giving him the wrong impression. My plan is not a union of our countries through marriage. Such interracial unions are forbidden within the Thearchy.
Eirik grins at me, and nods. I chide myself for blushing, but biology is biology. None know this better than the people of Goryo.
We ar e interrupted, however.Bjorn stands, scattering several empty dishes across the table. Some of the guests roll their eyes. Others perk up.
“Jarl Eirik, I declare you a traitor to Nordland.”
The musicians stop their playing.
“Sit down, cousin.” Eirik’s voice carries the scolding tone of a parent to a child. “Now is not the time for your war-mongering.”
“I will not! Not while you welcome this, this whore-child of Ahura at our table!”
“Words, Bjorn,” the Jarl says, “always with you, it’s words. Winging like a spurned woman. I tire of it!”
Bjorn’s eyes are hard. Any further goading from the Jarl will result in violence.
“Draw your axe, or sit down.”
Bjorn pulls his axe, and lodges it brusquely into the table.
“Good,” Eirik says, waving a hand, “I hoped that would be your answer.”
He pushes back his chair, and hops over the table, scattering the musicians like a flock of birds. Bjorn rips his axe from the table, and follows suit. The Jarl’s weapon of choice is a short sword, which he draws from a scabbard at his belt. Men rush from either side and equip both men with small round shields.
I realize now that despite appearances, Bjorn is very clever. The Jarl - famed for his speed and strength - ate and drank his fill, and will no doubt be more sluggish than usual. Bjorn, on the other hand, had not eaten a bite, nor had a single sip of spirits. Jarl Eirik even goes so far as to down yet another pint of Goryon ale and throwing it at the musicians who’d recollected themselves behind his seat.
“Play!” he yells at them, then shakes his sword tauntingly at his opponent.
I groan internally. If the Jarl gets himself killed in some drunken feud, my entire trip is wasted.
Worse, I realize, if the Jarl dies, Bjorn will no doubt hold a mass execution for my entire retinue.
I make a gesture at DuHwon.
Danger.
He looks around, then nods, realizing what I mean. He’ll make preparations for a speedy escape, should the Jarl lose.
Bjorn advances slowly on Eirik, who stands - nonchalant - in one corner of the arena. Abruptly, the bear-clad warrior roars, and rushes Eirik, seeking to close the distance between them. In a fight of speed or range, he would be at a disadvantage, but in a grapple, Bjorn could no doubt crush bones.
My concern dies as quickly as Bjorn. Eirik leaps beautifully into the air - batting aside Bjorn’s axe with his shield - and delivers a deadly thrust to the side of the man’s neck. The subjects at the table cheer when Bjorn falls to the floor, bleeding from a severed artery. The Jarl wipes his bloodied sword, and gives a little bow.
“And now, I bid you all good evening. The Lady Ohma and I have… matters of state to which we must attend.”
The guests give a raucous laugh, and I wonder if I've not been the butt of some innuendo. My new command of their language leaves much room for interpretation.
As we retire, I gesture to Duhwon that he is not to follow. The Jarl takes me to a secluded parlor within his palace, overlooking the sea. There, his retainers bring us mead - a fermented honey drink I deplore. I take a sip to appease him before coming to the point.
"Jarl Eirik…" I start, "I am here bearing an offer concerning Ahura."
This catches his attention. He hisses at the servants still fretting about at the doorway, ordering a guard to ensure we won’t be disturbed. Alone at last, his demeanor gives way to something I can describe only as a disturbing calm. The man straightens and stands, brushing crumbs from his shoulder. He steps before a mirrored wardrobe, and adjusts his golden crown - which until now had laid askance upon his brow - then removes his ceremonial furs, which are stained with food. I catch myself gaping at his exposed form, but don't bother correcting the mistake; he hasn't looked my way once since he began.
My ID alerts me to rapidly fluctuating levels of estrogen, testosterone, dopamine, and a slew of other chemicals, indicating precursors to a state of arousal.
Biology, biology, I remind myself.
I focus again on my breathing, and on such mundane thoughts as the mountain of paperwork awaiting me upon my return to Goryo.
Dressed in a plain, clean tunic of dark black, Eirik lights upon his velvet chair, golden crown glimmering in the firelight. He looks at me expectantly. I suppose I sat in stunned silence for a moment, as his next statement is "You seem surprised."
I don't answer.
"Your grandfather is the same," he goes on, "always underestimating me. To govern an unruly people, one must be unruly himself, no? Or cultivate the appearance of being so. Now, I doubt your offer carries for me anything of value, but you have treated me to a new culinary experience, and to your delightful presence, so I will humor you."
I take a short sip of my mead, ignoring the compliment. My ID throws up the usual warning alert about alcoholic beverages reducing ID functionality. I immediately push the notification away with my mind. Anything lethal would’ve activated emergency defense systems.
My next words must be carefully selected. I don't actually bear an offer from Ahura - I’d thought simply that the mention of his name would catch the Jarl's attention, and dissuade him from believing I have any sexual intentions toward him.
I was at least half correct.
"You have no desire for immortality?" I ask, meeting his gaze, "You could be Odin in the flesh - you could build here a true Valhalla for your followers. Fighting, dying, rising, and feasting to your heart's content."
"I have made this much clear," the Jarl responds, "more than once. Why should I assume you have the authority to make such an offer? I’ve no inclination to become a member of your elite. Once this life has nothing more of interest for me, I’ll move on to the next, if there is one. The fear of death makes battle interesting. But to live on and on… that would truly be Hell."
I raise an eyebrow.
"Then perhaps I am a devil, and you ought to tread more carefully."
The Jarl's greedy eyes peruse me again.
"A devil… yes. Come to tempt me. But I’m not interested in what you’ve offered me so far..."
His gaze travels down the length of my body.
"My interests are more... fleeting."
My ID alerts me again to arousal precursors, and annoyed, I silence the notifications entirely. I take another swig of my drink to steady my nerves. I’d intended to intimidate him with my comment on devils - not flirt.
Strictly to business, then, I think, the Jarl can accept or reject. I’ll give him no way to misinterpret.
"You’re right,” I begin. “I don’t have the authority to offer anything on my grandfather's behalf.”
I take a breath. The next part I’d rehearsed very carefully.
“In fact - I prefer to go against his embargoes and build an exclusive accord between the Nordic States and Goryo, not the Thearchy. Goryo and Nordland have much in common. We are both small, but strong. Scarcity has taught us the value of strength. You enjoy our goods, and while I could not provide you with biological weapons, our medicine is peerless. In return, I ask nothing. Exclusive trade between our nations would be a show of independence. We’ll cause Ahura some annoyance, at the very… the very… least…"
My head spins. The mug in my hand stretches across the room - impossibly distant. Lights dance around my brow, and the scene before me plays out like a shifting panorama of heightened color.
I try to re-examine the ingredients of the mead. My ID responds sluggishly, displaying repetitive system errors. Finally, it displays the warning message again, in an alarming shade of purple. There are two concerning ingredients, a fact which escaped my notice on the first alert.
WARNING // The following additives may inhibit ID functionality:
Ethanol
Grayanotoxin
I look down at the nearly empty mug in my hand.
The Jarl grins.
"The mad honey of the Turks," he says, gulping down his own glass of the dark red drink, "I’m glad you like it. The priests say a man might walk with God, if he drinks enough of it."
He sinks back into his chair, the hallucinogens in the mead taking their effect. My mind and body reel. A moment stretches into an eternity.
"Perhaps they will enlighten you to the attractiveness of death."
The Jarl stands, no longer graceful.
"I accept your offer, Ohma, daughter of Ahura. I know what it is you desire. I have heard how the god of your city withered and died. How even now Goryo wastes away under the governance of your elder siblings. Still…"
I can't speak. As he advances toward me, I can hardly move.
"Don't you think there are better ways to assert our independence?"