1500 Ages After The Fall of Felicia
Merek Ward
Sun dripped onto the rolling hills like honey on fruit, and in an ideal time, the golden sight would’ve been untouched, undisturbed. The quiet, wooden town of Parker’s Hollow would be gently nestled into the landscape without interference. The eastern mountains that sat miles behind the Wards’ farm would’ve watched over the sun’s descent without a reason to be bothered. Unfortunately, times were what they were, and serenity was often interrupted.
Merek frowned, sweat dripping down his face, as he shielded his eyes from the sun in hopes of identifying the source of the noise. After a particularly long few hours in the field, noise pollution was quite the blatant pain in the ass- a pain that he hoped with crossed fingers would soon dissipate. Alas, the clopping of hooves and the shrieking of steel swords on armor broke the peace like an axe through wood.
Two horses and two soldiers adorned with purple threads approached from the road to Parker’s Hollow. Ordensaugh’s greater knights, no doubt sent to collect a particularly hefty tax from the Ward family’s honest work. Merek scowled and leaned on his pitchfork, making a distinct effort to direct a specifically uninviting glare in their direction as they neared the gates to the farm and its fields.
“Good evening to you, sir,” one of the knights said once they arrived within earshot. A sturdy man with a sturdy voice. “No trouble now. Just ten coin and we’ll be on our way.”
“Quickly, quickly, if you can,” the other knight added- though this one’s voice was thick, it was far from sturdy. He peered over his shoulder, taking note of the descent of the sun. “We’d like to be back in Parker’s District before sundown.”
Merek scoffed. “What, think Obi’s gonna get’cha?” He asked.
The second knight turned around, his eyes intense. “Don’t joke about Oberion. They say he’s been around lately. If you joke–”
“Kid, just get the coin and we’ll be over and done with it.”
Merek rolled his eyes and started the walk back to the farmhouse- an amble more than anything, ensuring he could draw out the second knight’s discomfort as much as possible. Parker’s District. The name left a bad taste in his mouth. For the longest time, it was Parker’s Hollow– and that was still what the residents called it– but the town was now lawfully Parker’s District of Ordensaugh. Soldiers patrolled the streets, and in return for these distinctly unrequested wares, the residents were forced to pay a tax. This tax included the Ward family, regardless of the fact that their farm sat some miles from the village.
That was to be expected, though. The Wards– Merek, along with his mother and father- were an essential part of Parker’s Hollow, whether that be through grains, baked goods, general handiwork or as hosts for outdoor extravaganzas. As long as they were a part of the town, he supposed it was only fair they be treated no different. Merek yawned.
“Ma? Old man? The piss-takers are here to take our piss,” Merek called unhurriedly as he walked into the white-walled shack that just barely passed as a house. “They want ten.”
“Piss-takers?” His father asked as he set down his pipe. Scents of newly baked pies and potleaf smoke twirled amongst each other in the enclosed air. “Are they dressed in armor, riding on horses?”
“Aye,” Merek nodded. “Quite the fancy piss-takers.”
“Watch the language,” his mother said, entering the foyer with a hot-out-of-the-oven apple pie. “Ten? Did they raise the tithe?” She frowned and her hazel eyes flashed, and her auburn hair briefly seemed ever-so-slightly redder than usual. Auburn and hazel- just like Merek’s own features. Her hair was straight, though- Merek earned his loose, yet knotted, curls from his father’s set of locks. Quite the lucky combination, quite the ideal outcome from the everpresent genetic lottery that seemed to be the bane of so many hatchet-faced wife-seekers from the streets of Parker’s Hollow.
“They raise the prices, I raise my fist against them,” Merek said hotly, his eyebrows furrowing slightly. “Overrun Ordensaugh. That’s what I say- we have the means to do it.”
His father barked a laugh that was void of any semblance of humor. “Do we now, boy?”
“Don’t we?” Merek asked, looking to his mother for support. She let him down easily with a gentle shake of the head.
“Merek, you’re tough- we’re tough, but not armies-and-slayers tough,” his father said, picking through his coin purse. “They’d wipe us off the map of Asenral. Easy.” Once he finished pulling the equivalent of ten- an equation that required many combinations of smaller coins- and noticing how much lighter the purse was, he frowned. “That being said, if you do happen to find an army…”
“Bring them what they asked for, dear,” his mother said sweetly, taking the payment from his father’s hand and dropping it in Merek’s own. “Then finish up quick out there- we’d like your help in getting ready for tomorrow’s festival.”
“I’ll see to it, Ma,” Merek promised.
“Ten coin,” Merek said, dropping the change in the soldier’s handbag.
“You count that out right?” the soldier holding the changepurse asked. The other still looked around nervously.
“Feel free to double check for yourself.”
“I’ll take your word for it,” he said, pulling the purse shut. “Just never can tell how well you farmers can actually count.”
Merek seethed. “Right. And I can never tell how you soldiers survive without someone giving you the orders to breathe in and breathe out.” Overdependent pricks, Merek thought grimly.
“Right then.” The soldier rolled his eyes and started the march back to town. “A good night to you, farmer-boy,” he called over his shoulder.
“Kindly stick one up your ass, soldier-boy,” Merek replied to the man who was many years older than him.
“I heard Oberion eats rude little boys like you!” The soldier yelled as they trotted off.
“I heard Oberion kills nighttime road travellers like you!” That one shut them up, perhaps because it was true. Merek spit.
“Rude little boys,” he grumbled to himself. “I’ve seen 17 summers and he calls me a rude little boy. I hope he chokes.” He failed to notice the slight sizzle of the spittle he spat so aggressively as it hit the ground.
Merek slammed the door shut as he entered his home once more. It quite literally shook the house. “Cool it, bud,” his father said from behind a book he was reading. “You’re getting a little too strong to let that temper of yours fly.”
Merek gestured sharply, then let his hands fall flat to his sides. “Don’t know what to tell you, old man,” he said, more angrily than he intended. He winced. “They’re just- they’re condescending and disrespectful and they’re pricks. I hate-”
“I know.” His father took a long drag from his pipe. “Go help your mother bring down the last of the pies to the cooler.”
“‘Kay,” Merek said, taking a deep breath. He walked into the kitchen and grabbed two pies laying on the counter as his mother walked up the stairs from the cellar.
“Did you get everything done outside?” She asked.
“Yes, Ma. Everything’s good to go,” he mumbled somewhat pitifully. He felt younger than he was supposed to be. Like a rude little boy that Oberion would eat for dinner. Or something.
“Someone’s not in the finest mood,” his mother said, taking a seat.
“Sorry. I just hate having to sit and take shi-” Merek paused under the glare of his mother. “Crap from those guys.” He set the pies down. “Or you guys having to take it, or my friends in the hollow. The soldiers act like they’re some part-time gods who can say and do whatever the Devil they want.”
“You can stand up for yourself, Merek,” his mother supplied gently. “Just not… with your fists.”
Merek frowned. “Fists talk a lot better than mouths do, Ma,” he said.
“You seem to think that,” she said, letting out a sigh. “You’ve broken one too many arms, Merek.”
“It was only once!”
“My point exactly.” She folded her hands on her lap and shifted her gaze to stare Merek directly in the eyes. Gentle, but firm. “This is simply a new part of our life. We can’t do much about it, as much as I hate to say it, so we have to adapt. Live and learn. Adaptability is a skill twice as useful as any skill those fists are the focus of.”
Merek huffed a sigh. “But do you remember, Ma, what they used to say about us? ‘Mess with a Ward,’”
“‘And get it back times ten,’” his mother finished.
Merek pointed, eyes wide and eyebrows raised. “Right! Exactly! We used to demand respect from everyone, but since those pricks came into town, we have no choice but to sit and accept! I’m sorry, Ma, but it just doesn’t sit right with me. At all.”
“Adaptability, Merek,” his mother said calmly once more.
“I guess.” Merek frowned. “I feel like you and the old man are the only ones who get me. No one else really gets what it's like to lose respect like that because of something out of your control.”
His mother smiled, her eyes warming- though they were still hard like stone, it was as if the stone was that of a hearth, and the fire was beginning to heat its surface. “Three things, Merek- One, that’s certainly not true. There are all too many people who have lost their sense of respect and have no hopes of retrieving it once more. Ask any whore or any beggar. Two, we haven’t lost respect from those we’ve earned it from, anyway. The townspeople still hold us in good faith. Three-” she paused to stifle a snicker. “He’s in his thirties. Why do you call him old man?”
Merek felt a smile creep onto his face, pushing some of the anger away. He quite enjoyed the feeling of being angry- he felt more in control, for some reason- but it was often difficult to stay in grim spirits in the presence of his mother or his father. It was a familial love that dwarfed any other love he could possibly hope to experience, as far as he was aware. He shrugged. “He’s just the old man,” he said.
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The following morning, the sun peeked its head over the horizon, and Merek peeked his head out from under covers, roaring a yawn fit for a beast. “Good morning, good morning,” he mumbled to himself as he swung his legs over the side of the bed. It was time to finish preparations- placing maple cakes and apple pies upon tables strewn about the yard, starting the oven to smoke meat, preparing the barrels of alcohol from the cellar to be emptied, setting up hay bales for the children of Parker’s Hollow to climb on. Yes, it was time to finish preparations, for it was autumn, and the air was crisp and the leaves were red, and it was worth celebrating, for it was beautiful, and beautiful things deserved to be celebrated. And nobody knew how to celebrate autumn better than the Wards.
The sun continued to spill its contents over the land as it rose, like a messenger coming to town in the dead of night with a lantern, only the lantern was being carried by the hand of The Old One. Merek scoffed at the thought. It would’ve been appealing if The Old One, The King (whatever you wanted to call it worked fine, but it made no difference in the grand scheme of things), was real, but he was far too wise to buy into the stories of the church. Parker’s Hollow was filled with men and women of wood and steel; of real, hard work, of the everpresent reality of things which were material. For example: Not the big man in the sky who supposedly created everything; not The Old One, not The King.
He sat by the smoker, occasionally opening it to see the fat dripping off of a hog’s thigh as the temperature increased. The sight mesmerized him, and he reached in to open the oven for no less than the fifth time that same minute before a wet lump slapped the back of his neck. He cringed and turned around to see his father with a wicked grin, holding a damp towel. “You know you have to let it cook if you want it to, you know, cook.”
Merek grimaced. “Just don’t wanna miss the first piece.”
His father barked a laugh. “It won’t be ready for another few hours! Go set up the tap on the ale barrels. Now there’s something we’ll have to worry about going too fast.”
“On it, old man,” Merek nodded and made for the barrels.
“Merek!” His father called.
“Aye?”
“I’ll call you when the meat’s good to go. You got first pick.” The sentence was completed with a wink.
Merek had only begun checking the barrels when he heard his name called yet again. He glanced up towards the road to The Hollow with a grin, recognizing the two faces. “Jonny Rogers and Arlen Waller!” He called, walking to meet his two friends from the schoolhouse. “I was beginning to get worried- it’s already two hours before everything's supposed to start and you guys weren’t showing.”
“I can see where the concern comes from,” Jonny noted, smiling. “Sorry we’re late.”
“Aye,” Arlen added, “Jonny came across a goat that piqued his romantic interest along the way, and-” a swift strike to the back of his head from the hand of Jonny stopped his banter in its tracks.
Merek rolled his eyes and clasped hands with the two young men. He outmuscled them heartily. He quite liked the fact that he outmuscled them heartily. “You guys wanna try the maple cakes?”
“You’ve said an awful lot of stupid things, Merek, but that one just might take the crown,” Arlen said. “Of course we want to try the maple cakes.”
And so, the fall celebration was under way, and things were good. Excellent, even. More of Merek’s schoolhouse friends arrived alongside hundreds of townspeople, some of which brought snacks, while others brought drinks, while others still brought big, fat bundles of absolutely nothing. Delicate scents of maple and apple danced in the air like lovers at a grand ball, while the grungier smells of hay and dirt dueled like old enemies. The wind that chilled the farm brought with it the pristine brittleness that can only come from yellow and brown leaves soon to make their descent from the branch unto the ground.
Merek, who only last night had been preoccupied with the bitter dissatisfaction of being talked down to, was now far too distracted by the events of the day to even spare a thought for the previous night’s emotions. There were arm-wrestling contests which he won, potato sack races which he lost, and apple bobbing, which he lost to an even greater extent. All throughout these happenings his mother and father rushed to see to the cooking, the serving and the cleaning of the food and drink on display. For one grim moment, Merek realized that he was getting older- he was a young man, now, and someday the festivities would be less about experiencing and more about managing. Someday, it would be his farm to own, for his mother and father would not be here to own it with him. He brushed the thought aside. Those days were far, far off.
Cow races, drinking competitions, arguments- political and nonsensical- tests of strength, tests of courage, tests of who could hold their liquor- the farmgrounds were alive with the joys that fall brought. As the sunlight started to dwindle and the warm beams of golden light became soft glows, a shift in character overtook the farmgrounds; a palpable one. It came in the nature of behavior, the drive for the types of engagement the nighttime called for. During the daylight there was a familial aspect that swept over the crowd, a togetherness that existed in the air as conversation flowed among all groups without reason for exclusion.
Come nighttime, those who were drunk wished for the pleasures of intimacy and those who weren’t wished to follow them to the locations of more risque events. Jonny and Arlen had found themselves surrounded by a group of young women- with their cropped hair and lean builds, they fit the standard that had been set by their age group in town. Even with his muscle, Merek was stuck on the outside looking in, for the tangled curls and rugged look to his face that came with years on the farm set him apart in a sense that was by no means a boost to his ego. Straight, blonde-haired boys were “in.” Everyone knew that. Especially Merek.
They thanked him for hosting and left, with Arlen and Jonny making a clear effort to avoid eye contact with Merek so they wouldn’t have to address the situation at hand: The night’s festivities would end there for the young Ward boy. He seethed, but did not speak out, for no young man wishes to appear desperate in front of the eyes of a hoard of young women. He bid them goodbye with, quite simply, the worst possible attempt at a forced smile, and shoved his hands in his pockets and made off in the other direction. Merek Ward was not meant to be an outcast. He hosted the greatest festival in the land, and he had all the features that were theoretically attractive- simply put, he was on the farm, and they were in the town, and the difference was palpable. He could not control that. He tried to convince himself he could not control that, and therefore it was no issue worth concerning himself with. Still, he seethed.
Merek wandered off to a far point in the farm, away from the commotion. A choice of his own free will, but a choice that only burned the anger within him to a hotter degree. He had made the active decision to avoid the central aspects of the party- which were mostly adults at this point, in all fairness- but he felt singled out, alone, as if he had been cast away. The internal call forged onward: If I stop brooding and go back to the grounds, I’ll be fine and make my own fun. Then the response: I like brooding. It makes me feel in control. How odd these emotions were- he recognized this for himself, and yet, he could not simply write them off. Being in control. How lovely it was.
The cool air of twilight was shattered by a scream from the commotion- a sound that snapped Merek from his state of peculiar reflection. He squinted towards the torch-lit central grounds, and saw the shining of armor. A purple tint. Ordensaugh’s knights. He grit his teeth and ran for the commotion.
“What’s the issue?” Merek asked, running up beside his mother and father. A woman was crying to his left. “Damn,” he muttered under his breath. He wasn’t particularly good with other’s emotions. Especially adults’.
“This shit-slinging Devilcock killed Arlen Waller,” his father growled, pointing his finger like the tip of a blade to one of the two soldiers. The same two that had taken their coin the previous sun. The jittery one was the culprit. Merek’s heart dropped into the pit of his stomach, and the chill fall air suddenly seemed like winds of Grimmkalt; the fabled frozen northern continent.
“You-” Merek started in disbelief.
“Arlen Waller ran out of the woods like a madman with the cheers of other young men and women behind him. He only took it as a threat and responded appropriately,” said the soldier that was not the culprit.
“Let the murderer speak for himself!” Someone shouted.
“I- I- I-” the other soldier stammered. He pointed shakily at Merek and his family. “They are responsible! They should not allow these children to run wild into the night!”
“Responsible?!” Merek’s mother shouted.
“Children?!” Merek roared.
“It’s barely twilight,” his father seethed beneath his breath. “You dare accuse us of a crime by Ordensaugh’s hand?”
“Do not accuse Ordensaugh of your mistake,” the more confident soldier hissed in a tone so pious that one would’ve mistook him for a nobleman.
The shock had settled and the rage re-emerged. Merek stepped forward with his fists clenched with such ferocity that vine-like veins rippled through his forearms. “You killed,” he growled, “Arlen. My friend.”
The shaky soldier began to unsheathe his sword. “You s-stand back, boy,” he stuttered. Somewhere behind him, Merek’s mother called out, as did a slew of other voices from residents of Parker’s Hollow. These voices had no bearing on his mind, for he had already decided that his fists would speak on behalf of him on this night. The sword became unsheathed and the hilt rushed towards his head.
He flinched as the blunt impact of the sword’s hilt struck his mother’s head, who had thrown herself in front of him. A sacrifice. She crumpled to the ground. Limp. Lifeless. Merek looked downward, open mouthed.
Something close to a laugh escaped his throat, but it came out as a tortured, brutal growl. It was a cry of pain from somewhere deep within him, and a shout of anger from somewhere deeper. There was a wound in the side of his mother’s head. Her hair became matted with blood, and her face did not twitch as she lay, eyes closed. Merek raised his gaze to the soldier, who gawked at the body on the ground. His eyes shot up to Merek Ward, who stood with the cold heartlessness of a statue.
That statue must’ve sat upon a hearth, for the ground beneath Merek’s feet was smoking. When he leapt towards the soldier, the grass was blackened and ashy. The color red filled Merek’s visions. He barely had the time to hear the screams before his world seemed to disappear before him. His fists spoke on behalf of him, just as he had decided. Fists of flame.
The following morning, Merek awoke in a pool of ash and blood. He had never been to war, but he imagined from the stories that this is what it smelled like. He groaned and rose to his feet shakily. The color grey filled his vision, and he wobbled. He tried to rub his eyes, but the sticky sensation of blood covered his face. He groaned and attempted to wipe it off with his arm, but there was more blood there. He came to the sickening sensation that this was not his own blood.
He swallowed and forced himself to look around. Five bodies lay dead around him. One was his mother’s. Blood seeped from her throat from the wound the previous night. Merek choked down bile. The other bodies belonged to the two soldiers and their horses. Broken. Mangled. Burnt. Burnt? Merek stood in the center of some hellish meal, with bodies serving as the bowl and the spilling blood the broth. The ash, seasoning. He could not force down the vomit this time it rose in his throat.
“Damn you, boy,” a voice came from behind him. Merek turned slowly, eyes wide.
“Father,” he whispered.
“She wasn’t dead,” his father spat between choked sobs.
“Who-”
“Your mother wasn’t dead until you stepped on her fucking throat, boy.”
Merek stood. Wind coarsed through the air, and for a slight moment, Merek envied the freedom the wind permitted; the freedom to not think, to not process the sight before him, to not process the words his father spoke. There was no reply to be had.
“You’ve killed your own mother.” His father spoke the words slowly and carefully- not as if he was savoring them, rather as if they were broken glass and he would cut himself if they were said too quickly. “You’ve killed your own mother and two knights of Ordensaugh and made Parker’s Hollow a target.”
“I-” Merek’s put forth his only defense. Fury. “I didn’t do this!” He yelled. “How the Devil could I have killed two-”
“Maybe you are the Devil, boy,” His father growled back. “What kind of human spits flames like that?”
Merek steeled himself. “You’re lying.”
“How-”
“You’re lying. You’re actually lying. There- you just accused me of spitting flames.” He cleared his throat and attempted to make his voice sound gentler, but the rising panic of his voice prevented him from doing anything of the sort. “Ma’s death is… unholy, but accusing-”
“Merek W-” His father paused, face riddled with the stonish brokenness of disbelief. “Merek, you killed her! The soldier struck her on the head with a sword and she bleeds from her throat! Her throat,” he added furiously, “Is burned and fucking boiled.”
Merek looked slowly, noting his father’s particular effort to exclude the family name from his address.. The skin around her throat was bubbled and singed, resembling some pig’s hide hours into its time in the oven. He vomited again.
“Everything is burned, Merek.” His father shook his head, a mask of disgust glued to his face. “Everything is burned because you burned it and killed it. And I was supposed to believe it would happen and I should’ve kicked you off this farm winters and winters ago and I should’ve believed that damned man with a mask but I loved you. And now you stand in your mother’s blood.”
“Masked…” Merek started slowly.
His father pointed to a scroll sitting just outside of the pool of gore. “Take it and fuck off and if I ever see your face again may it be on the head of a spear.”
Merek’s eyes widened. “Father…”
“Call me that again and I will give you a fate worse than hers.” His father- or the man that was supposed to fill that role for bloodline’s sake, turned on his heel and walked towards the farmhouse.
“FATHER!” Merek roared. “WHAT IS-”
His father silenced him as he drew a pitchfork that lay on the ground. He looked over his shoulder. “Leave. And. Don’t. Come. Back.” Each word was bitten off so harshly Merek felt it physically strike his chest.
“Where am I to go?” Merek whispered.
“Not a clue. I hope to the Devil that Oberion finds you before you arrive.”
Merek stood, the color drained from his face. The clueless wind strode by once more. This time, he hated it for its ignorance.
Perhaps he stood there for thirty seconds, perhaps it was two hours. It was no different to him. The young man that had no life behind his eyes and no life within his soul shuffled over to the scroll on the ground, for it was the only thing that might accept him now. Even the wind seemed to have started to avoid Merek. He regretted hating it.
A scroll of parchment. Old.
Prophecy of Regirvus
Let the flames roar and the mother’s blood spill
When her wounds do not heal
Speak the name of the Demon and it will guide you
He stared at it blankly. It was pointless chickenshit written by an imaginative schoolboy. He read it again. Speak the name of the Demon. He frowned. This time, he read the pointless chickenshit aloud. “Prophecy of Regirvus,” he said to himself, quietly, barely croaking the words out. His throat was dry. Upon the name Regirvus, something hot erupted in his belly, and the anger he latched onto so desperately was suddenly personified in a way his soul understood, but his brain did not. The scroll in his hands began to smolder, and he began to seethe as fury overtook his being and his lungs and his bones and his hands. “Guide me, then.”