51st Day | 37th Year of Hogumpen | Kingdom of Eyjavo
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“Your Majesty, they're almost at the gates. What should we do?” asks the head king's guard, his calm demeanor a vivid contrast to the chaos unfurling outside.
Outside, beyond their barred throne room doors, and then further beyond the expanded ballroom-sized antechamber gates, the rebel army were hard at work—rebelling against the palace guards. The ring of clashing swords, and the howls of falling soldiers and rebels alike have been reverberating through the blood decorated walls of the grand palace halls for the last four hours, and still the volumes did not reduce.
Inside, atop the obsidian throne, sat Eyjavo’s King, King Regele Mansomi the II, rocking both his brains and his unmoving throne for an answer. ‘It's not like I didn't see this coming,’ he thought to himself in a brief reprieve, and truly it was so, for the fall of his once floating kingdom was gradual in its coming.
Eyjavo, originally an island kingdom, spent its time drifting about, letting the currents of the world carry it around. The flat lands were infertile, and the ocean around it vast. Hence its people were fisher folk. Their dependence upon the trade had grown so severe that it had baked itself into their culture, their tradition, and meshed into their daily lives. This was so much so that it was, and still is to this day, said that an Eyjavoan is born twice – once in the watery womb of their mothers, and twice in the wrapping womb of the ocean.
Necessity had borne proficiency within the fisher folk of Eyjavo – they were the best of the best. ‘Tis a fact that was roared in taverns all around the world, spread through the drunken mouths of old retired fishermen, fishermen who had once–by sheer dumb luck–stumbled onto Eyjavo's land, only to find it never again. And anyone could find these wild tales for themselves, for they still persist to this day, albeit muddled with crazy exaggerations of the original tale. They called it the floating land of bliss.
Wild as they may be, the tales did get one thing right, Eyjavo truly was the floating land of bliss. The people–nay–the land, untethered to the fixed world, roamed free all over the world. This proved to be a great deterrent to the negatives of the stale monotonous life. But, alas, for the bliss did not last. It was with great sadness that the ocean gave up its debris of bliss onto the lands of fixated corruption. But it happened, for it had to happen.
The only constant in this ever changing world is change itself.
The land and its people had to learn that the hard way.
This transmigration happened in the Boom of the Zenith, a near apocalyptic event, where their migratory island had been shoved into the stationary lands by the rising titan waves, and what followed thereafter was a collision of colossal proportions, the result of which was the fusion of the lands. The lands had intertwined into one another, molten earth melded into each other, and birthed the mountains that are now called the cliffs of the world.
Hence, the people that were once free from the attachments of the world had finally become attached to it, and all the sins that came with it. They had been a people of migration, nothing stayed the same for a second day. So the concept of stagnation in an unchanging environment was as foreign to them as was this concept was to the people of stagnation. And after a few decade long loss of that once surreal harmony had gradually ignited the embers of civil unrest amongst all of Eyjavo’s people. Amidst this chaos, the heartfelt cry of a single man had brought together the scattered populations of Eyjavo, and united them under one banner, the banner of rebellion.
“MAJESTY, what do we do? The guards can't hold them back much longer.” Yelled Tullark, the head king's guard, his calm demeanor finally shattered.
Snapped back to attention, Regele gazed intently at the gold encrusted doors at the mouth of his room, trying his hardest to think of a way out. Shaking his head, he sighs, takes a deep inhale, and calls for his Royal Circle of Sorcerers, Warlocks, as they were more popularly called.
“Agnes,” the King calls the leader of the circle. He steps forth.
“What are your wishes, my King?” he asks, bowing.
“You five have stayed with me till the bitter end, and I thank you for that. But as I see it, the rebels also have Magi amongst themselves, albeit weak ones, but their numbers drastically overrun ours. So-”
“Going on an all out magical warfare would not be beneficial for us, what do you wish for us to do, my King?” Agnes interjects. Normally, an interjection on the King’s speech calls for an immediate consequence, but considering the situation, and the status of the person interjecting, no one bats an eye.
The King smiles a sad smile. He looks outside, through a gold encrusted window they placed by his side that he did not want, sat atop a throne he did not want, forced to sight against the very people that he vowed to serve till death.
Outside, through his gold encrusted window, in the cold blue hue of the winter sky, on top of a Deadwood tree, a phoenix lay unmoving. Its dead body spontaneously sparks a tiny ember, which slowly grows in ferocity until it engulfs it in its entirety, burning the dead body into ash. The howling winds swept away that ash, and left behind on that branch was a new chic, rosy embers dancing on its cheek as it chirped joyfully.
Sometimes you must burn down your old self in order to be born anew.
“Agnes, begin the summoning.”
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51st Day | 527th Year of Hogumpen | Kingdom of Lillova, Outskirts | Present Day
Amani:
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“Hey, Paddy, you sure about this, man? Maybe we get the next one, buddy.”
Slap
“I ain't your buddy, you wimp. If you want out, get your own ass out, I'm gonna do what I came here to do.”
“B-but she saved our lives, man.”
“F*ck that, I coulda handled it myself. This pompous b*tch just wanted to show off in front of the group. Besides, she was just doing what she was paid to do.”
Geez, talk a little louder why don't you? Maybe the whole camp needs to hear your stupid ass plan. My hand itches to pummel these two idiots to the ground, but I must wait. ‘Patience bears fruit’ as Uncle Malova always says.
I keep my eyes shut and stay still, waiting for them to make the first move. I feel my muscles wind up in bated anticipation, preparing to spring at the slightest touch.
Grab
*Thwack*
“Ack!” My arching fist lands square on his temple, bashing his brain against his skull. He stumbles, curses, and then falls flat on his back. Wincing a little, I get up, shaking my hand trying to get rid of the spreading numbness. I may have punched the crook harder than I thought. My eyes trail to the side where I see the wimp staring at me, his eyes wide like a piyathin caught in the firelight.
“What, want some too, wimp?” I stomp. He squeals, spins on his heels, and starts to flee. I call out, “Hey, idiot, take your dumbass boss with you.” and the wimp actually scurries on over to do just that. But in light of his good sense to not attack me, I let him go.
But something still eggs me on. The sight of him dragging away his partner's dumb unconscious ass reminds me of memories I'd rather not remember, and infuriated at the forced remembrance, I yell at their retreating backs. “Yeah, you better run from me, you damn lowlifes. You thought you were all that huh? I gotta beat down asses like you who think they can rise above their rank. Run away you wimps, run away while I still let you!”
I quiet down once they exit my range of vision. It's no use yelling at the dark. But, with the fall of my voice an eerie silence surrounds me, the background noise completely gone. Feeling a little weirded out by the quiet, I look around me. Faces are looking right at me. Faces displaying ranging levels of emotions, from annoyed offense to neutral passivity to amused confusion.
“What, never seen a lady whack sense into two dumbasses before?” a high pitched voice pierces through the veil of silence.
“Go back to sleep, tired people.” a low rumbling voice instructs, followed by two concise claps. With that, the crowd slowly descends back into the ground, well most of them. Some from the crowd look around for a bit, trying to locate the source, but upon discovery they too follow suit.
“I warned you princess, we shouldn't have left your side in the first place.” The bare tone voice rumbles.
Ah, the dreaded, ‘I told you so’ adage, I think to myself. But I won't give them the chance to berate me, I'll scold them before they scold me.
“Hush, Uncle Malova!” I say, and he fastens his pace, a small grin spreading across his face. I whisper to him when he's close enough, “I'm no more a Princess, as you are a Princess's guard.”
“Sorry, P-” he silently dry coughs into his hand, “Miss Amani.” I shake my hand dismissively and chuckle at Uncle's rarely displayed antics.
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My chuckling, shaking head, however, swivels my face to the right, and I make eye contact with Aunt Cassandra. Oh my, she has that look on her face, the ‘Aunt Cassandra about to either scold you or correct you’ face.
Well, they aren't my real aunt or uncle, and I believe getting seen calling them Uncle and Aunt in court would be frowned upon, but when I'm out of court it's no issue. Plus, they've been with me since, umm, as long as I can remember honestly, and most–if not all–of their concerns about me have proved to be accurate. So I take their concerns straight to heart, and try to follow their advice with minimal qualms.
After all, there are only a handful of people whose words I take with utmost sincerity, and these two fall just shy of the first person of that triad of names. Master Duke Fernandes covets the first spot. I guess the common factor these three share is that they're all my mentors, the only people who were able to teach me something, who were patient enough as to break through my bull headed stubbornness—a trait I inherited from my father, King Regele Mansomi the V.
Aunt Cassandra holds my gaze as she steps inside of my red hued temperate bubble, and sits across from me. I see her brows knit, and then loosen. She finally speaks, “What they were attempting was not right, and if left to me, I would hang them from the largest Malo tree we can find,” her quiet shrill voice then softens into a melody, “but what you did, Miss, was also not right. You shouldn't think of other people as lesser, no matter the station or post they belong to.”
Confusion cascades into me, “But Master Fernandes said-”
“The Duke. He has a very . . . regressive way of thinking of others, especially those below his station,” I stay perplexed, and I presume she reads my lingering confusion, “tell me, Miss, the fact that I and Malova are ‘lowborns’, does that make you think less of us? Do you want to beat us down too?”
“What, NO!” I screech, my voice a little too loud. Several around the camp raise their heads at me, grunt in annoyance, and lay back down. I lower my voice, “You two are not the same. Those two tried to-”
“Rob you while you slept? Yes, that is wrong in every sense of the word, but please also take into consideration that they're the survivors from the Polwa Village massacre,” her gaze finally softens, “please broaden your horizons, Miss Amani. Just try to see the reasoning behind people's actions, and you'll be surprised to find that sometimes the most heinous of actions hide the most noblest, or the most desperate of intentions.”
I watch as she bows her exit, and once outside the temperate bubble, she excuses herself for overstepping her boundaries. I tell her that she's still my teacher, and that there is no boundary when it comes to her. A smile breaks her somber face into a wide grin, and I reciprocate her smile.
“Now, I would have advised Miss Amani to return to sleep, but seeing as how the day is breaking in a few hours I think it best we start our morning routine afresh?” Suggests Uncle Malova, as he silently steps forth and rests his right arm across his wife–Aunt Cassandra's–shoulder, and rubs it soothingly. Aunt Cassandra directs her smile towards him as she starts heading into the surrounding forest, pulling him along by his arm. I see their trailing backs, his arms snaking her, their heads touching, love in its purest form. I'd like that someday, if it exists for me in this lifetime.
Doing a mental shake, I stand up, siphon out the temperate bubble, and start stretching. I'll give them a head start, then follow along jogging. And that is how our morning warm up went. We jogged for a couple miles, racing the sunrise. They drilled me through their designed routine, and by the time we returned to the camp zone the sun was shining in full illumination upon the camp zone. People I left asleep are almost all awake now, going through their wake-up rituals of washing their faces, and shitting in the surrounding fields. The central fire station had five setup camp fires, flames dancing upon them, heating the pots above.
“Guardians of the night, join us in breaking your fast.” voices shout out from many fire pits, and as they should, I guess. Uncle and Aunt were pretty famous with this group by now, seeing as how most of the people here owe them their lives. And especially after how they, after the attack, refuse to sleep even one day, opting to keep watch every night, even against my requests or orders for them to switch with me.
I'm actually more surprised that they were not more sleep deprived, but upon hearing this they'd assured me that they were more than capable enough to withstand the sleepless nights and traveling days. Those sleepless eyes now look at me, and I see the clash of hesitation in them as they look towards me in solidarity, but I also hear their stomachs growl at the smell of the fresh foods. Initially, I was a little confused at their hesitation to eat, but after a look around the camp all my doubts were dispelled. I comprehended the situation upon seeing the pointed gaze the people at the cooking pits gave me. Last night's incidents seem pretty fresh in their minds.
My conclusions are proven further when I see the last cooking pit offer food to my thief, well, to his lackey. He takes two bowls of food as he leaves the pit and heads towards the surrounding forest. “Go,” I tell them finally. They still hesitate, but leave when their stomachs growl a second time.
“Miss Amani,” calls out a voice. I turn to see a piping hot bowl of food being shoved into my field of view, “Here.” says the voice.
I back up a little so as to not accidentally tip over the bowl of precious food, and in doing so, I get a good look at the face of my benevolent supplier. It's the head of the camp, Elder Arfan, I think. He’s one of the few who have been friendly with me since day one.
“Don't mind their stares,” he says. “Miss Amani, we are but flawed beings. Quick to forget the good, and attack the bad. They'll soon come to their senses, or at least that's what I hope,” he says. Turning back, he retrieves his own bowl from his fire pit and directs me to a secluded seating spot at the edge of the circular clearing. “One should always be allowed to eat in peace.” He leads, I follow. Uncle and Aunt get up to follow too, but I sit them back down with a small Mansomi hand sign.
We take our seats on two thick trucks of laden trees. He sits before me, and I behind him. “I must once again thank you, Miss Amani, for the aid that you gave us the other day. As you can see,” he waves his hand over the area in front of us, emphasizing his words. “We are no fighters. Just a ragtag group of refugees tossed around biannually from one country to the next, with the barest courtesy of providing an escort to ‘help’ us on our way. When in reality, their escorts cause us more harm than good.” He sighs, gulps down a little of his food. Twirls his wooden spoon around before pointing it at an individual.
“Take Sonya as an example,” he says, pointing to a girl sitting in the corner, at the other end of the clearing. She sits with her head tucked in between her folded legs, gently rocking back and forth in sobs. “She's a recent addition to the group. She, and some others, are one of the few survivors we've seen from the Polwa Village. Now that I think about it, I think she's acquainted with those idiots who tried to rob you last night, but that's besides the point.” He picks another spoonful, gulps it down. Urges me to take my meal too. He then turns back to the poor woman, continues.
“She, in her own tongue, was living a peaceful and quiet life in her village. They had green crops, lush forests and lands, and even a giant farm of their own. In her words, they were in heaven. But then the War between Lillova and Amanova landed on them. The waging war had swept through their heavenly lands with its mindless violence and destruction; leaving their lush land barren, most of their residents dead or dying, and the rest of them fleeing for life.”
He shifts in his seat, takes another bite. I sit stiffly, my appetite depleting by the minute. “When she first came to us, she had a three year old son with her. The little boy wouldn't leave her sight even for a minute, such a mama's boy he was. Full of joy and excitement, something we had lost quite a long time ago,” he says, his eyes gleaming. “The child had given us hope for a better future.” But then, his eyes drop, his smile fades.
“After our last refugee hike, before the escort group left us, they wanted to take her son with them, so she offered them herself instead. In the end, they took her son and her dignity with them. Now, she just spends her days bawling her eyes out, muttering her son's name over and over again.” He gets up, his porridge finished.
The Elder starts to leave, but stops after a few paces, turns back to face me. “The reason I am telling you this, Miss Amani, is because I sense nobility from you. And it is my hope that that nobility of character might translate into some influence amongst the nobility of the country we’re heading to. Now, as I make it a habit of not prying into other people's business, I shan't ask who you are, but I plead with you to please help us. Help us in this, and we shall be forever grateful to you, and if you ask, I shall gladly lay down my life for you, Princess.” Winking at me, he leaves.
Shocked, I begin to get up, but he gestures to me to stay seated and eat. With his free hand, he draws–in the air–the rune of secrecy, the one the royalty of Moreun use to close off their most solemn vows, the one that magically binds the user’s heart to his vow. Further shocked, I slump back down on my makeshift seat. The land beyond Amanova, so he's from there.
Minutes pass by as I stare into my bowl of porridge, occasionally stirring it. Clashing thoughts clog my mind, a war raging between new conceptions and prior misconceptions, a divide between what I‘d been told and what I’ve experienced thus far. With my appetite completely evaporated, I begin to get up when I hear a crack sound in the bushes behind me. Immediately I spread my sense awareness into the surrounding area while continuing to casually stir my bowl, so as to not give anything away. I locate the intruder, oh, it’s just that guy. “Back for a second helping?”
“What? How did you . . . N-no I'm not, don’t attack me, I’m just here to ask for forgiveness, Miss Amani.” Quivers the lackey. I turn to face him as he comes out into the open, and I see him properly for the very first time. He’s dressed in plain peasant clothes that are dirtied with grime and riddled with small holes, and he himself is covered in scar marks that looks like they're from cuts and slashes. He hesitates to step forth, and I contemplate on whether I want to let him come any closer. ‘Uff, Amani, I hate having to repeat myself, but I’m telling you this again: as a future ruler of this great kingdom, you must learn empathy, and exercise it on everyone. Learn to give people a second chance,’ I hear my father's teachings reverberate within my mind. They clash with the Duke’s teachings, but I feel like I should follow my father’s words in this situation.
So, I nod him my permission. As he comes closer, however, I see a bad cut on his right arm, the surrounding area gone cystic green. He notices me staring, hides his hand behind himself. “What is your name?” I ask.
“I-Its Conin, Miss Amani,” he says, voice a whisper.
“Right, Conin, come, sit before me,” I call him to me, to take a seat on the trunk in front of me, but he sits himself on the ground before me. I blink, thinking on whether I call him up or not, but the Duke's lessons spring to mind and I chose now to follow his instead. I let him be.
“How did it happen, Conin? Your arm I mean.” I ask.
Subconsciously, he crosses his hand, covering the wound. Placing his head in the hollow of his hands, he doesn't speak for a while, and the stretch extends for so long that I begin to wonder if he will, but then he breaks the silence. “I . . . It happened on the day they attacked my village,” the lackey says, “I, like many others, had to discard all my belongings and run for my life. Most of my family and relatives, screaming, fell like logs to the left and right of me. Men, women, and children slaughtered like cattle. Some of those monsters even used some of us as target practice, and one of those flying arrows went through my arm. I pulled it off, but since then my arm has been rotting like this. Some nights I can't even sleep because of the pain.”
He pauses then, struck in a stupor. His gaze looks through me, past me, his eyes cloud over. Suddenly, as if jerked back to place, he stares around, discombobulated. He sees me, begins to sit straighter, placing a hand on either side of him, as if to help balance his failing body. He continues, “I had wanted to kill each and everyone of them bandits, or what I had first thought to be bandits, because we have frequent attacks from them. It turns out that they were soldiers. I imagined them to be soldiers from Amanova, our neighboring country, a barbarian country we were told. So I was hoping to join the army to kill as many of those Amanova bastards as possible, but then I overheard our own country's soldiers laughingly discussing about their pillage on our village. Apparently they were clearing out the field for our annual war with Amanova.”
“Miss Amani,” he says, getting up. He brushes his pants, it stays dirty still. “We weren't always like this. We were simple farmers in a simple remote little border corner in our Lillova. If we had met in Polwa, I would have personally taken you around the village, fed you from my day's bounty, and offered all of you sleeping quarters in my own home. But sadly, that is not how we met.” he says, his voice filled with remorse.
He looks down, absentmindedly scratching at the cystic wound. “I don't wish for forgiveness from you–I don't think what we attempted should be–but I do beg for your empathy. Me and Paddy had just learned that the people who hunted us down were our own country guards. And even though that is no excuse for what we did, we still attempted it, and for that we are sorry. I'll take my leave now.” He says, and begins to walk away, but halts after he spots something to my right. “You gonna eat that?”
. . .
“ALRIGHT PEOPLE, STAND IN A LINE, HEADCOUNT IS ABOUT TO BEGIN!” shouts the elder.
After packing up the scattered utilities, the migrating group starts filing themselves into three separate lines, each line headed by one of the leading people. The elder, Aunt Cassandra, and Uncle Malova.
I revolve around the clearing, initially making sure nothing is being left behind, and once I’m done with that, I begin completing my real task—trace removal. You see, a few days back, raked by a deep overload of emotions, I had isolated myself from the group, only returning right before we left that camping zone. Uncle Malova had asked me then if I had finished with my half of the tasks, and I had lied that I had. That one lie had almost cost me my life. The bandit attack that followed would have massacred half of our group had there been any mages amongst them.
“Done with your tasks, Miss Amani?” asks Uncle Malova as they are done with the headcounts. I affirm that I have. He looks over at Aunt Cassandra, she nods, and then he relaxes. I guess it’ll take some time for me to regain his trust, I mean, I don’t blame him, but still. Duke Fernandes stressed the importance of keeping an image of competence in front of your subordinates, lest they lose respect for you. And leading is all about that, fostering and retaining the respect of your retainers.
“Next destination?” I ask Aunt Cass, our resident cartographer. She turns to me, her face painted with annoyance, but upon seeing me, a toothy smile stretches across her face.
“Oh, it's you, Miss.” she says as she begins sifting through her travel bag. She retrieves a small rolled up parchment and opens it, examines it for a while, and produces a name. “It's good news,” she says with a smile, “we’re finally close to Ja’na.”
A reciprocating smile breaks on me. The last leg of our little escort journey is coming to an end. “I can’t wait to see Arsha and Omar.” I say. Aunt Cass agrees.
Arsha and Omar. It’s been almost four months since we last saw them. We parted ways upon reaching this border city of the Guellan Kingdom. They had to go back to Eyjavo in response to a summon, but said they'd be back by the time the escort mission was over.
So, with the good news received, I feel a jump in my steps. A sense of joy spread through me, something I haven't felt for days. I can’t wait to see them again.