Ald ran, for he had been informed that Leclerglossa was catching up to him. Jumped over unearthed roots, ducked under low branches. And, every a few minutes, rested against some nearby tree or boulder to catch his breath. Thirst was no issue, as he quenched it by drinking the foulest stagnant water from the bromeliads in the overstory. Not many illnesses affected Felsians and misshapen: pathogens, children of nature, rarely specialized to interact with the bodies of those born from the invading god’s; more so on this side of the Worldvein (the scant times they did, however, Felsian bodies weren’t precisely the best at fending them off). So Ald didn’t fear no infection. Toxins, yes: he avoided drinking from any plants that fostered frogs, and approached fruit with extreme care, giving it a little taste and taking any bitter or acidic flavor as a signal to stay away from that variety.
Each blink threatened to bring him down into a deep slumber. Exhaustion pained his every fiber, but he couldn’t succumb to it. If the jungle was endless, so would be his march. According to Unkindness, who never lied, Caretaken was hundreds of times more merciful than Leclerglossa, or any of the — and this was the exact word she had used— Apathic ones. Not mindless, not beastly, not unintelligible: Apathic. As if she recognized the monstrosities as equals, as ones that could care but didn’t.
Despite his situation, Ald found time to think about Unkindness’’ situation. He pitied her, for it was clear that she suffered her condition a great deal. From monsters she had been born, and among monsters she needed to live until the last star faded. To any brother or sister of adequate age and mind —and that now, on the third year without rains, was the same as any brother or sister not taken by dementia— Ald could speak in Felsian, and they would understand. Granted, the children could not know some of the big words, but any word coined by a Felsian hosted the potential to be intelligible to any other. But for Unkindness… How would you speak to something like Wildfire? To something like this monster of tongues she described? Unkindness needed to convene with them, because she wasn’t welcome among Felsians, and she wouldn’t ever be.
Would he? How to explain to his brothers and sisters that he had crossed the Worldvein, guided by a misshapen with powers to bend reality, and had saved Father from… from something. Most Felsians didn’t know about the Masterworks. They couldn’t know, because the truth would distress them beyond what was acceptable. Felsia, with all its internal tensions, was a cozy and safe place amidst an uncaring world, an… apathic world.
A projectile coming out of his left field hissed as it passed mere fingers before of his eyes, pulling him out of his reverie. He naively turned to his right, to see what had flown and, judging by the sounds, struck a tree. His eyes shot wide open when he noticed the white feathers attached to the back of the small wooden cylinder that now sprouted out the three as a branch too straight.
He twirled on his axis to try to spot the shooter. An arrow, signal of civilization. HE immediately hid behind the tree the arrow had struck, in case the shot had been meant for him. But, was it an arrow? Or was it another trick of the mind? He dared not peer back, not to check if the weapon remained there.
With a beating so melodious a dove, invader on the jungle, landed on Ald’s shoulder, causing him to almost swat it out of surprise.
“Unkindness?” he whispered.
“Dole when I wear white. Piteousness if you feel so inclined,” she spoke in an outdoor voice, that Ald wished was just an impression of his and not a real sound.
“Why are you speaking aloud? Do you want to get me killed?”
“The feathers on the arrow are mine. I brought aid. A guide far more mundane than I.”
“Ald Elvisatcaught, come with me! The Lady in White requests your presence.” a sonorous call echoed through the trees, clearly originating from the direction the arrow had come from.
“I am the Lady in White,” Dole clarified, despite Ald showing no doubts about the subject. “Get out there, and try not to wince at the sight of Nails, he is… well, in a finger counting competition, he would have the upper hand almost every time.”
Ald stepped from behind the tree, head down, just to slowly raise it. in a jerk, ready to behold the creature. It was approximately Felsian, holding a bow with his hands — that, contrary to what he had expected, had the right amount of fingers.
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What lacked the right amount of fingers was everything else. They seemed to sprout instead of hair, wiggling and ordered like scratching scales over the archer’s body. They flowed out of his scalp, an accusing crown of flesh and nails.
“A pure one? I should have guessed from the name,” he lowered his weapon, the armor of finger’s in his shoulders relaxing. “Lady, you should have told me I would be in presence of a progenitor.”
Ald froze in place, astounded. He knew the first generations of misshapen were capable of speech and Felsian-like thought. But this one looked merely like a brother with some weird health condition.
“Do you understand me? The Lady, there on your shoulder, taught us Felsian and kept us to date with the language drift. I am a grandchild of a sister of yours.”
Also shook his head a bit and nodded. “Yes, sorry. Pardon me, I thought Felsia was the only civilization in the world.”
The misshapen smiled under his moustache of tiny fingers. “As Felsian as abandoning one’s children. Please follow, I will take you to a place where you can rest without fearing the tongues or the eyes.”
Ald didn’t oblige. “The eyes?”
“Archivist, as The Lady calls it. Is all eyes. It surrounds you and inspects your form from every angle, but If you stay as still as a statue it will pass you by after getting bored. I am talking a whole moon of inspection, of having to move not a muscle, lest you restart the countdown. It aims to see everything the world has to offer, and just that. Overly benevolent for an Apathic one, if you ask me.”
Ald glanced sideways at the dove. That’s what she had done. Apathic was a word of the misshapen, and she had introduced him to it just before the encounter. “Pray lead, and I’ll follow, so long as there is a place for me to fall sleep or fall dead.”
“We have soft beds for our tired, and deep niches for our dead. The guest The Lady has blessed us with will understand that i hope for the niches to remain untouched.”
In silence and never taking his eyes out of the twitching crown of phalanxes and nails, he finally began walking behind the misshapen. He wondered about the relation these beings had with names: he was Ald Elvisatcaught; half of his name defined him, and half who had raised him. But Nails had been named — or perhaps nicknamed, but Unkindness didn’t seem to be the sort to introduce others with nicknames, only herself — after a physical quality, much like most Masterworks were named after what they did or represented: Wildfire, Wintertoll, Caretaken, and now Archivist. Baskeut, named by the fishermen, and Leclerglossa — named by Unkindness, Ald suspected — were exceptions to this naming scheme. That, and, well, Zaburanatea, a name given by father in Ancient Felsian, in the language of magic. The Failed One, it meant. For him, she would always be Unkindness: a name just as unfitting, but in an ironical, and not mean, way. This didn’t change the fact that his guide, as he passed by cycads, ferns and flowering plants of many tones of green, had been named after a feature he possessed. Maybe it ought to be like this among beings so unique: Maybe there was one called Wings, one called Whiskers, one called Fang. And nobody would ever confuse Wings for Fang, to provide an example. An uninspired naming scheme, but suitable for beings as unique as the misshapen.
After an hour or so of trekking through the jungle they arrived to a clearing populated by miserable shanties. The shanties, composed mainly of twigs and leaves woven together, were built upon wooden platforms, that resembled more a slipshod collection of boughs than anything processed. And around the whole encampment, a circle of letters had been engraved in stones, that peeked out from among a sea of shrooms, litter and branches, the jungle’s ground.
Ald advanced past Nails and, ignoring the eyes that peered at him from inside the huts, couched next to the pebbles to examine them.
“These are not runes. This is nonsense,” he mumbled.
Nails crouched next to him, careful to not touch Ald, to not scare their new guest. “This is not a prayer to your mother. This is a covenant with The White Lady. She preserves us, not asking for blood; not asking for loyalty. And despite that, we show her gratitude: she can ask us for a favor, and we would oblige without protest. Thanks to her the Apathic do not find us, thanks to her there is a safe haven in this place.” Nail’s tone changed suddenly, from calm and understanding to severely vexed. “So shove your claims about it being nonsense wherever you may fit them!”
“To me, this is an affront to my goddess.” Ald stated, looking not for a fight, but simply to speak the truth.
“To us, your goddess is an affront to our existence,” said the dove, and took off from Ald’s shoulder, form each hut more doves poured out, and they flew in circles, in a twister of white feathers that concealed the formation of Dole’s body under them. After a few moments, every bird had turned into part of her dress, and she stepped forward, arms wide open, saluting Ald with a nobleness he considered unwelcoming of any misshapen.
“Thanks for your service, Nails. As for you, Ald, welcome to Edilenatea, home of twenty-seven misshapen today, and more tomorrow.”
“The saved ones,” Ald commented on the name. “You created a cult of Misshapen, Unkindness? Are they your little pet project?”
Nails turned, surprised. “Unkindness? You dare refer to our—” He shut up when he saw Dole raising an open palm .”Sorry, Lady.”
“Is Kali your little pet project?” She asked not with words, but with an invading thought.
“Is it safe inside the circle? Can Leclerglossa never reach me there?”
The Lady in White nodded solemnly.
Thus Ald stepped in and let himself collapse onto the floor. He wasn’t comfortable there, but couldn’t bear the idea of postponing his rest either.