If fear be dark, why then does it eclipse light?
SEGEN
Where was he? Silence clouded for his irises’ crimson had lost the man before him.
“Very well, little sir, you may reveal yourself now,” said his poppa with a deep, hearty chuckle. “Alright then, keep hiding. I reckon you have some nasty things on your back—big hairy spiders!”
Segen blinked thrice; swallowed hard, frozen with fear at the thought of it, even as he felt the tight grip of the trees’ roots, vines, and twigs sneaking behind his Poppa (whom he had followed into this dreadful place). It was as if this dark forest had taken a show-of-hands vote to decide his fate. He dearly wished he had never come and dared not make a sound…his legs burning in a crouch.
And crack! went something behind him.
Every hair on his body stood up, and his mind made full of creeping things. But then, he felt a real touch of one—a sharp prick behind his neck. Half his mind urged him to flee, to brush it off with his hand and run at once—yet, the other half, knew better. These were Cangila Spiders, elsewise written as Arachngilasona. From what he had learned from Teacher G, these creatures were, in fact, webless; and although they were only the lesser spiders, and more friendly among themselves than the other kin. He had forgotten that they dwelt in the south of Bangalwood.
Then, for though he felt its other legs’ pinch against flesh, rubbed then creeped from his black woolen-collared cloak to his neck and head—it clamped!—so sharp that Segen gave a loud squeal like a piglet!
And as he did so, he felt his plump body lifted, and a great laughing roar from his poppa: “Segen, how can you be Seginus? A Seginus fearing small hairy beasts?” His poppa cast aside the stick in his hand. “I have been mounting Drakthaar since I was of your age, boy. I was soaring the skies—”
“Agh!” He was set down from his grasp with a bump. “Spiders are more fearful than soaring the skies!” And clearly, he had been stung by many on the foot. He had left his boots outside, and they were swarming with spiders the next day; of course, he was laid up for five days when they bit him on his tippy-toes then they creeped up afterwards. Sharply he had screeched, bounced in his leg and the other as he tried to shook them off but fell and was left at their mercy. “I’ll prove it!” And, also, Doctor Quack (their strange neighbor…he is a quack doctor that is—and also the worst there is) with his queer way of curing—break a leg to mend a leg. Truly, he would make all the oracles of Masai Mara blush.
“Really, little sir?” He grinned; Segen knew it was the same leisure grin—when he would sneak out of the house at the Hanobi Hills—sipping black coffee (home-grown by no other than himself).
“Yes, I could do it.” Segen bubbled his face and a pat, “Easy!” He would mount a beast than lay a finger on a spider, that alone says much.
“Yet somehow I doubt it,” he said. “That’s three you’ve yet to prove to me.”
“And no it’s two,” said back Segen, as they trodded on a muddy track. “I did eat all the spicy-cakes. Ask Egen.”
“Hah-hah! He did told me!” laughed his poppa. “That you met old Quack-Quack after too; but how did you know I’d be here?”
“Atleast, I did... I did eat it all!”
“Foolish brat.” His poppa went on and smacked his behind, “Have you been sneaking into my room again?”
“Ow—I never did,” said Segen, grumbling; and he would never go into the room again—for at night, there would be cries from the three of his momma. And were that so, both he and Egen called it the Nightly Rumbling, filled with sweet-nothings and insolence. “I followed you.”
“What? How?”
“I borrowed one of Mister Camacho’s pony that is—”
“Segen, that’s not what I’m talking about—”
“Huh?”
“…but I also owe that bastard a hundred kindlestones and a thousand-something!” said he; tweaking his ear. “Where is it?”
“Ow! I did not bring it here—well…I couldn’t! I left it… I let it go—”
“Nooooooo!” he gasped. And indeed, in a manner of luck, through the thickness of this dark forest, with everything: the colossal groves matted into thick walls; the branches to little twiglets that were overly hung; arching and bending; then squishing amongst each other, was a light that shone on him—at his long curly golden hair that fell at the waist and fair skin. “What do you mean, ‘let it go’?”
“Agh—!”
“You know very well he’d ask us twice as much! Either that or…some-something outrageous—”
“Wait!” he yanked down his head. “I tied it… I know I did—down the meadow!”
“Oh great!” he heard his poppa say—perhaps, sipping maeser too much might indeed be ill-advised for siring offspring. “You stupid brat, you’ve done nothing but done it in.”
“Really?” whispered Segen. “Oh, so I have.” The brown pony was as good as lost; the notion was sapping his stomach, he’d be serving the wolves a feast. “But wait, I want to ride one; I knew why you went here. I’ve read the letter—”
“You were not meant to follow!”
“But I’m here already, aren’t I?” He gave his poppa’s nose a little tug.
“Well, if you must…” he began a sigh. Segen could see the wrinkles around the birthmark of his forehead—always the same when he was scolding Egen for not eating the vegetables or the time Segen fell off the window (of their mountain cliff-side cottage) and was caught by his momma. It was the look of trouble and worry. “Do you think you’re ready?”
“Of course I am!” He dearly wished to—flying through the heavens on these noble creatures, for it was not an occasion that came every day to mount such beasts. “I want to soar the skies too!”
His poppa made a grin, “Very well.”
The dawn rose past, and unseen as it was now, it would be a mere sliver of light; making its way past the crawling trees and their branches, and vines (mind you…this is merely the outskirts). Strangely, there was yet anything stirring besides both of them—and, as ever, the pangs of hunger—as certain as the sun’s path across the sky. They ventured forth on a grim errand, for his poppa was to deliver the sentence of death upon a man. And Segen, with a heart fluttering between dread and eagerness (well…to ride a dragon of course), could only bear to witness. It had now marked the second crown of the flower, and the tenth Red since Segen first beheld the blood of the world.
Then, Segen wended his way with a thudwhack—thudwhack—thudwhack!—through a thick bent wood that folded in a spike upon a rock pillar, lone in a herd of rocky outcroppings. And he could not help but ask: “Poppa, have we lost our way? I don’t wanna sleep here when it’s night!—it’s already dark here as it is,” and to which Seginus answered: “No, Segen, we’re going to a familiar place…what’s that little girl’s name—?”
“We’re going to Gran Deeni’s?” He swung his arms cheerfully. “But we have never took this way before?” He hummed and circled twice through the hollow of a squatted root and many served as buttresses against these large bodies of trees; his head would then burst from a small gap—shooting occasional wary ganders here and thereabout when those strange noises that would pop! unknowingly and he would immediately waddle to his Poppa’s side.
Segen snatched the stringed water bottle from his Poppa’s belt, uncorked it, only for him to chug nothing at all and lose yet again, another sigh. They walked atop of stone with ample space about and so he swung it round and round, round and round, but when his foot fell into a crevice, it left his grasp and whacked his Poppa’s face!—he snatched it back angrily and yelled, “I’m leaving you here!”
“Poppa, no!” he slithered his calf out and his cloak fluttered, afraid that he would vanish again. “Wait…! Wait for me!”
And he was now feeling quite miserable from an aching of knees (in defense of Segen you must know; in fact, by this point, he had walked nonstop of—simply put—about two mountains wholly of steps ever since he left the pony after all); wherein trees here and then abreast stood eerily with their long slender arms; not once did they sway—and indeed, they were seemingly long bereft of life, and more so, groped and held each other like lovers in a forlorn embrace. He huffed and leaned on one, and its bark, which was bristly rough, then it made him think of scales of a dragon long turned to stone.
“So, poppa…” he let out a long breath.
“Hmm?” His poppa snapped a twig that barred their path.
“Poppa, can you tell more about the dragon? The tales are many, and the common word speaks of a beast with twin heads. Is such a thing in truth?” he asked—not once that is, their eyes scanning for a route, as a black deep watercourse stretched on the abyss before them. “They hold it to be mere myth. My peers at the learning hall say you are a fraud, and the many uncles too, they say of you as merely a handsome face.” Loudly they had shared a laugh about it.
And he regarded his poppa, whose visage he truly shared—save for a more ample girth on his cheeks—but in honesty, he was slightly tubby in all else even. Yet the ivory complexion, but his did not spiral as much—a gentle, wavy, golden-blonde hair, a slim, straight nose tilted faintly upwards, and above all: the inherited gem birthmark, and a forehead spanning a close measure from his rough, ample brows of dark—that tucked his slender eyes of almond deep, thickened with dense lashes that naturally flared up at the middle unevenly then sloped gently down and fluffed that gave the sides sharp edges then ran down the bottom thinly and ceased halfway—to his hairline. And at its center shone a red diamond-shaped gem—the distinct heritage of the Qudan of Henggen, it paired the eyes that souls gone had uttered as death.
Though he did not have his momma’s manly jaw, like his poppa, his was a well-angled, narrow jaw, his high-cheekbones remained hidden beneath and his thin peach lips with sharp corners, they hinted at a keenness that might have been more evident were it not for his plumpness. But he didn’t just burn into a blotchy red under the sun; he could tan. His mother had blessed him with the harmonious blend of, not only the brightness of a golden undertone but also the richness of a honey undertone (and that girls had adored the radiance of a sun-drenched caramel look when the sun didn’t hide for long), along with a little freckle just below the sharp tip of his left eye.
“The ignorant are often the most certain,” said his poppa finally.
“Nuh. Poppa, please…” pleaded Segen. “That’s not—I’m eager to hear more about the tales—!”
“Which—?”
“I just said it!”
“Haven’t you asked enough of this already?”
“Yet you’ve yet to tell me!” Well Segen was, in fact, very vexed; he could just shout in anger at his poppa. “TELL. ME.”
“Now, now,” he said—laughing loudly. “What did your momma tell you?”
“Buuuut——”
He held up a hand, “What was it? The Wanderer’s words… Oh, it was—patience is a quiet teacher!” It did not come out as old nor wise, but more like a duck speaking; and the horrible attempt creased his mind all the more. “Have patience, and you shall learn of it…” His poppa strode towards an ashen sinuous root descending from the canopy, numerous of them and thick—his gaze fixed upon the other side as if to judge the merit of a pendulous swing. And deep below was a water of black—deadly still. “There’s no other way.”
But Segen’s face was twisted with bottled vexation, and with a wild snort, he bellowed. He rushed towards his poppa and charged his gloved fist towards his hindquarters.
“You go first—OW! You brat, I told you to—and stop it! Uhhh...I can see your momma in you—!” He tripped from the barrage of his fists, and a clod of earth crumbled into the still water as Segen stopped with ragged breaths. “Alright then, stay behind.”
Segen stood, a defiant smirk was all he put up. “No! Wait!”
His poppa uttered a low grunt; then, he charged his limbs against the cliff’s edge and leapt forth—seeking another hold to swing by, and yet another—in a dance of daring. Until, at last, his soles met the solid earth on the other side.
“Agh,” Segen gulped. “No, no, no… Poppa!”
He held a breath, the tension coiling at his belly upon the abyss; and then, his poppa’s words came: “Come now Segen! Swing!”
‘Swing? Will I make it?’ Segen sank at the thought. “How poppa?”—his breaths turned heavy—“I can’t do it!”
“Do not question!” he snapped. “Swing now!”
“Swing! I can’t! I just can’t...” His limbs tingled with fire—it would be a swing of many, and a terrible fall—but, the other choice was to stay, and a coward. He once told them he was no coward. “I…”
Something stirred—a rustling behind, a sudden hush—and the hairs on his skin rose.
He trod with a heavy heart and the earth crunched beneath his feet. He looked above—there loomed a creature vast as Gran Bubo’s black woof. Hirsute as dark as the monkeys of Billon. Its long chalk-like limbs thrashed in wild abandon, and its sapphire eyes darted with mad fervor and with a shriek that pierced the air—almost like the wail of Redwraiths just as told—towards him!
Segen surged with a yelp and everything loomed—grew taller with every step. He ran with all his might and the branches slapped at his face; the boughs and twigs lashed. His breaths turned harsh and dry. The ground rose beneath him, and with a leap, he seized the gnarled roots of a side-bent snag that leant towards him—and scrambled upward. He was astride a high branch, his face smeared with grime.
The thing was near. Its jaws open wide and its claws raking the bark. “Swing, boy!” his poppa bellowed.
“Ah, what the hell!” he did as bidden. Segen leapt, his arms stretching—to catch a root, but only a hand—a grip with all limbs—a pull, and then he barely managed to get another.
“Poppa, save me!” He screamed. Many rustling and creaking—and Segen was turned to look behind; a dark mass of Archanosans were crawling; a great many eyes were glinting; a great many claws were raking the bark of the tree, and they were all groaning like doors on creaky hinges.
And his poppa—swift upon the gnarled root—extended forth his hand; “Quick Segen!”
Segen’s belly tightened as he tried to heave the root—his limbs wrought with effort; his grasp turned treacherous, yet his palms were sheathed in leather. “I can’t… I’ll fall!”
“Segen, don’t be afraid, take my hand!”
“Poppa...!”
“Do it, NOW!”
Segen sealed his eyes and parted his lips—a cry unbidden, and the breath of life was drawn swift into his breast. His arm was caught, a painful yank upon his shoulder, his fingers clawing on his poppa. The next moment, he was lifted; and his poppa was upon the firm ground once more.
“What are you doing?!” His poppa gave a flick. “Fear will be the death of you!”
“Poppa,” said Segen quietly, “I am…” His eyes were a crimson so deep...they quivered almost aflame.
“Stop! Look at me.”
“I…” He did. He looked at the pulse of it; yet darkness took his sight…not the kind of dark that showed any mercy. It was unkind, relentless, blaring even, and nothing to see but void as he felt his eyes tear until;
“Look me in the eye, son.” Seginus let out a long breath and those red eyes of his reflected Segen’s quivers. “If you’re not brave enough, you’ll go nowhere. Nothing. Dead. And the dead have no sayings.” He was not impressed. “You are not ready, boy. The skies fell those who cower,” he left as they wailed, “The Silverfangs have been alarmed.”
“Mhm.”
They hastened through the underbrush—his poppa cleaving a path through a barricade of tendrils with a keen-edged blade—a blunt wide crescent tip, as if this dark forest loved him not.
Segen matched stride behind his poppa, whose greatsword was drawn—a flash of crimson amidst the gloom of this dreary place. They say it as ‘Malignance,’ just as they say of him—for it had sundered many a thread of life, and kin upon kin had lamented. The Grand Heldors of Heseltine had consecrated it in Heldian Ceremony. It stood as lofty as his poppa’s shoulder; wide as a palm, its tip was cresent and the inner of it was jutting golden—marked with lines, leading to its crescent-ebon crossguard spread wide; the grip wrought in silver, and the pommel was a little trident tip—each keen-edged. His poppa had spoken of its creation in Rakkar steel, forged by the hand of Gromp of Helm within his baron-mountain, and it bore the black sigils of the Cross of Heselia—the Reborn.
Not only was it such; it reeked malignance in presence...
With all thus spoken, Segen unsheathed his blade; in fact, it was too short, rusty and arguably modest—murmuring in discontent at the sight. It was a gift from his friend—older brother Sarmin, upon the road to Cersi of Hillton; the dagger was more destined for the archives, to pare the gungsho of old Bumee (and… I dare say, once found him tending the crinkled skin on both his well-worn and disgustingly oozing black and unsightly feet); it was his sole armament. In fact, neither his poppa nor momma had bestowed upon him a true weapon yet; save for the moments within the halls of training, or occasionally fighting his rivals he never knew he even had—especially that mysterious old man spitting nonsense with his rotten breath…he merely managed a draw with his grandsire at that; but truly so he was armed naught and nor was he even allowed to. He was embittered about it! And it was another vexation that poured at him once more; for all his life he was regarded but a lil’ stinky brat.
His poppa’s sword, of both precision and cleaving, was severing in mere sight; the Rakkar steel, aglow as if in rage, would cleave the flesh of the Silverfang Molsers—they have only met two so far.
And yet, they must not fell too many; lest they beckon calamity upon their fellow folk dwelling near. For the Silverfang Molsers—those hairy bear-like predators in the shadows, Bangal Tigan (or the horned big cats in these so called ‘Tigan’s Stone’) among them—have held them at bay, in a way forbidding their passage through.
Above all else, Segen’s breaths were ragged and there was a dry choking feeling in his throat; his gut, twisted by hunger as they breached a curtain of drooping moss—revealing a fracture in the dome. His poppa halted... They stood at the eastern boundary of the Bangals—a domain Segen knew to be the haunt of the Kapre renegades. They made their way into a glade. His poppa’s hand was a reassuring weight in his own, guiding him through a sea of daisies...their cerulean eyes mirroring the heavens until, at last, they stood in a clearing.
Somewhere along the meandering meadows, where the heath sprawled wide into a fen then a babbling of a brook, and there were butterflies flit from bloom to bloom. And quite a lot of them; bearing many shades each of their own; some are twinned with mates, and others may be solitary—sipping nectar from the cerulean petals. They sailed across the tall reeds and the tussocks of grass, but life’s peace is oft a fragile thing; for storms do rise, and a butterfly, pale as a driven snow, had succumbed. It had fell and had drifted to the earth; Segen beheld this corpse, and of shared sorrow as it seemed, another alighted upon his nose with wilted wings.
“Poppa, what is wrong with this butterfly?” asked Segen.
His poppa did not speak. He did not seem to hear.
The lowly hillocks, in the slightly heaving green—a holdfast was forged on the foot of a hill, and a winding fenced road before them, rutted and worn (there was, also, a couple of cobbled-footpaths that branched to a few open huts of wood) and beside was a wooden fort, yawning wide. Therein, were five boys—bare as the sun blotted by a little bit of white—knelt. The walk here had not been full of pleasures, Segen thought to himself as his eyes took in the fort; the many herdsman’s tools lying idle and some of were plopped in a mess.
“Take no heed of them,” said a boy to them: “Their insolence has cost them dear. All of the uncle’s sheep have been lost—taken by wolves in the grazing.” He called down from the roof with haste then rolled down the cart and: “Uncle Seginus,” he said, his head bowed in fealty.
“Ah, boy, it’s you,” uttered he; laying a hand upon the boy’s short tawny hair—common among the Teekish folk. “Where’s your poppa?” His gaze turned towards the holdfast. “Is he here?”
“No, sir,” said the boy politely. “They all left six.”
“That early?” Segen sniffled an itch. “It seems to be quite the late morning now…and more or less past the time for my snacks, long before lunch—hah-ha,” and he had said his thoughts about. “Well, if you have snacks of any, I’ll suppose I need a bite; or I might just really pass out from my hunger...” An honest thought of his was that a stomach was something worse when it is heated in hunger—like boiling nothing with all its rumblings and whatnot.
“Eh, it seems a matter of pressing errand, and not their usual trump into the woods…” said his poppa. “Far south was they?”
The boy nodded. “Uncle Dano went to trace the pack of wolves—they crossed paths with a mercenary group,” the boy told his poppa, as though yearning for the clash of steel.
The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.
Before any could begin to speak, Segen’s stomach had rumbled its protest—aloud, of course. “Oh, just what we needed, a pause,” he grumbled darkly. His hunger was certainly a relentless beast if any, leaving him weak-kneed for even bringing his presence here. The sneaking and the pursuit of his poppa had demanded much, and now he chided himself; it had to be known he was only a mere youth and, of all, unversed in such escapades. Regrettably and regretfully, he did not and could not even pack a few more bites in his sack bag. “I’m hungry!” he bemoaned, though his words were for his own ears alone.
“It’s been long; they shall be back in little.”
“You’ve been with your poppa, boy?” Segen looked at his poppa’s smile—the smile of the killing. “At hunt?” The boy’s eyes, slanted in a forbidding mien, were as lethal as the deed itself, for the eyes—they betray no falsehoods.
The boy gave a nod.
“What was the last time? He wrote me something of big trouble around here,” he said. “They seemed to be tales for the children—of there are many horrors and…the forest turning into a living being—that is utter madness, surely.” These lands hereabouts were old—older than they; and such things, as those he had written, were not known in this land.
“They are no tales sir,” swore the boy to him.
“Oh, I see... Tell me more about it.”
“Aye sir. Last hunt, we met many... A thousand arrows and a hundred bolts were shot—and they were not spared a moment’s rest, and none escaped. The blood-curdling howls and the dying screams of the men; a hundred men lay slain; the ground was littered with bodies—some were torn apart; their insides fell apart…some were impaled, and others crushed; one had his head ripped off—”
“Im hungry!” said Segen aloud. And he had no fondness for such things—blood and corpses and whatever the boy spoke of.
His poppa turned to him.
“… I’m hungry.”
“Alright, you’ve heard enough,” he gazed away.
“Segen!” shouted a voice afar.
Segen’s head bent towards the enchanting voice from afar… There ran Eidana; a maiden of such loveliness, as one might say; she was as fair as the meadows that slope gently to the river’s embrace; as delightful as the heavens graced by the tender ascent of the sun. And this time, she was clothed in a blue cotton skirt; and her white woolen shawl was wrapped tight.
All that Segen’s eyes could find was her—she with a tiny cauldron of water in her grasp. As she scampered, the water sloshed and spilled as if it were the drool of a ghastly creature. She set it down by a table strewn with the remains of a hearty feast; and then she fell into Segen’s waiting arms. “I’ve missed you,” she uttered; her smile bright as the morning—before stepping away. “Good morning, Uncle; you must be here for poppa. I’ve spotted them across.”
She dipped a curtsy, her gaze shyly downward, hands clasped over her heart in the manner of Teekish womenfolk. Segen found himself quite taken by her smile—her lips were slight, her cheeks flushed with a bloom.
So charming was she that, before he knew it, his hand had sought hers; her touch was gentle, as delicate as a swan’s feathers.
Segen found himself saying nothing—if only he could—but no words came. Instead, a warm glow crept across his face; his chest rose in a mighty swell.
SEGINUS
“Off you go,” he urged Segen with a nudge—and as he moved forward, he beheld a sight: thirty riders approaching, lightly armed, with no trace of recent strife upon them. The sound of their hooves grew louder—a steady drumming upon the earth as they neared.
One came charging—fierce, with a braided brown beard; his head tightly tied in a sash of white; his thick black gambeson, partly lined with sheepskin, swelled by his own form; pauldrons and a cape billowing behind him like a storm cloud. And his visage was that of a Northern Teekish, the Painted Ones were the survivors called—with their chest inked of Zingers’ Seventh Summons, and their dark eyes was set, and more robust—a mirror of a few kin around him.
“Brother, the years have been all kind to you,” declared the man, alighting from his courser steed and almost caught his foot at the stirrups and thus landed in a wobble.
“Can’t wait to see your brother…eh?” Seginus gave a thin smile.
“It’s not often you come here after all.”
His face broke—a smile wide: “Oh, old man, what words?”
“Look at that old fool over there,” he laughed. “Looking like a tree.”
“Hah-ha! You look like a tree, older and older by the years.” Seginus and Eilbaad were afoot with laughter—as they enfolded one another in a wide hug. “It is a pleasure to see you again, brother.”
“You…ungrateful brats!” Bobo bit out, the woodcutter, his visage and voice as coarse as oak bark. Back then, he lived inside a stone on Baramid for long, now he has an axe for an arm. That and he could turn nothings to something with his stories, and he always had the childrens’ laugh with either words or carved toys.
The back and forth brought a ripple of amusement from the others gathered nearby. “Aye,” one chimed in with a laugh, “Don’t bully Old Bo’ too far.”
“…you’re still the same as ever,” Eilbaad drew away with a pat. “Get up!”—he said to the kneeling boys—“Ready the tables! Ready the lambs! A feast we shall have this day!”
“Aye sir!” said them all.
“Eigi,” added Eilbaad.
“I’ll see them to it,” said the boy in a nod.
And as he watched them scurrying off—to their work—he spoke to him, “Brother, how long has it been?”
“A year. A single bloom.” He leaned his head with a knowing nod, reaching forth his hand; Dano clasped it with his own.
“Aye, a year, too long.” A familiar gaudy man came, taking the sword and the reins away. “What is your business here?”
“Nothing but a stop by,” he said, as both walked away. “I’ve been given freedom. Not yet. But after this is done.”
“Orders from the Oran?” Eilbaad scratched his ear with a thumb. “I have heard… Is it the stolen heart? The Morgel Heart?”
“Their word’s do spread fast only when it concerns their being,” he spat out.
“It is, of course,” he said. “Everyone knows about it now. And… the Betrayer’s name is hard to miss...”
“Oh. Right, well...” His face grew grim. “I would be the one to end him.”
Eilbaad said none to that.
“The one who Gadre calls a master—”
“Is a fool, I know,” scowled Eilbaad; “Unpleasant man. No honor to himself.”
A light smile of agreement crept on Seginus’s face. “That bastard Ozan did it—he spread the words and possibly his idea. The council fears their Father, the Lord Eye Oreis, is yet to awaken; he’d kill him—them first, no doubt. And his daughter, who wrote the truth upon me,” Seginus told him. “It was said the Betrayer was the one who invaded the temple on that day, with the aid of all the Raeganfolk of the north; but there were none of them. Crackles of death, she said; and winds of fury, and spears of skies were set to come down. Heaven itself roared with rage.”
“Heh. I’ve heard he was the one to do it. I did not believe it, but to think it would be the heavens in rage...” pondered Eilbaad. “They’re blaming him for a reason,” he said with certainty.
“I have my own thoughts about it—”
“A legion, a men of a thousand Tridon warriors—how could they pass that?”
“Indeed not him. The sky wielders—as they say of when one wields the spears of sky,” put forth Seginus with iron assurance. “Only with immense—”
“Even if not, the scythe still reaps its wicked harvest,” he overheard. Indeed, the dishonored’s cruel deeds were known; it had claimed the lives of young and old alike. In him, he could only yearn to cry out for vengeance—yet he was a brother once.
“…”
“I still miss him...the days of old. I’ve heard they’ve made him fled into the Black Spine. Heh. Only a creature graced with wings could reach such heights… it is why the dire need for you,” he confided; “The Orans, I fear, hold little regard for oaths once they see something of value. The blood of brother Torgen staining their hands—it is still in me, unforgiven.”
“...,” lost in thought.
Eilbaad bestowed upon him a look of quiet sorrow—a visage fierce with braided beard and all. He beheld him—Seginus was not with the usual malignance reserved for enemies, but it was of uncertainty... Could he bring himself to slay a brother?
“...how fate might have been,” he looked afar, “had the blade not found their throats.”
Eilbaad sighed. “Evil is evil, ” he said; “And dead is dead. It was not that he killed both sceptars. You know he’s not there; he is dead.” He knew he was on the cusp of speech, “No, the spirit has taken his mind; there is no return, not evermore… Bring him peace.”
He heaved a breath. “Then I shall bring him peace.” He felt the coarseness—the finely wrought handle of his blade; each notch and curve clasped his palm, a glint of shiver or determination was it that took hold of his crimson gaze.
“If so, you have my blessings.” He nodded. “So, you’re on rousing the flame, are you?”
“Indeed, quite so,” he said with a smile. “The skies, I’ve missed them as well.”
“All feel it, brother. One of these creatures by your side, you’d be claiming lands far and wide.” As foreseen—his seeking of the dragon was not born of a desire for might—but from a bond profound: “Gargen had such a beast, and with it, he subdued nigh a fourth of Ryria.”
“What do you say then old man?” chortled Seginus. “I’ll be their ruler. Given what they are, I can only be their king...by fear.”
“Now, I might have to stop you with that—”
“What?” teased Seginus. “You ought to be kingslayer? In your age?”
“Ever since you’ve been well-preserved... Atleast I look like a man!”
All he got was a laugh.
“Am I that old?” he asked the air—groping his beard.
“We are both old Eilbaad…” Seginus let out a hearty chuckle—knowing full well he could stand against the Orans of Triskelon. Yet, the dragon’s condition, heavy with young, and chose not to chance it: “Lands and adoration of many as they seek hold none for me. What I seek is freedom and peace—the hills, the fields, the gentle rivers—my wives and child.”
“Oh, your son is coming along as well?” He let out a wry chuckle then to a yawn—recalling the time the boy had gobbled up all the red mushrooms, stirring quite the hole of trouble.
“Mhm. He followed me along,” said Seginus in a light shiver. “Illana’s bound to be in a right state; I reckon. Can’t fathom what mischief led him to slip away like that.”
He chuckled. “Ah, Illana, indeed, I remember her well; a fierce one she is. You’re sure to catch it from her, and I do feel for you,” he glanced towards the meadows, where Segen and Eidana were sharing a laugh amidst a flutter of butterflies. “Time goes on and I see it clearly. The boy’s the spitting image of you—maybe he’s got a touch of your ability to cause trouble?” he mused. “We’ve had our share of adventures, and what all he needs is a bit of that experience, to, you know, carry on your name—your legacy.”
“You’ve said the cause, ‘he’s barely ten!’ she said to me,” he spoke. “My eyes were as dark as a night without the moons for the entire day.” Minera’s—in truth, Minera’s were, and known for their heavy hands; such was the family’s way—yet all this, well worth it, for her beauty was indeed the very essence of it.
“Though I wonder—how she came to consent that the boy should go without a full name?”
“It was a hard time,” he halted—wrestling with the words. “I ought to have given her more, for all her fierceness. I vowed more to her; she’s quite the mother, to long for more little rats.”
“But he’s your only inheritor?”
“Mhm… Eilbaad,” he said, invoking his name to command undivided attention, “Say, where was it that you encountered the boy? There is a hunger for killing in his eyes, I can see it—stronger than the last.”
“Hunger?” His eyebrows raised.
“There is,” said Seginus. “You’ve seen the signs too. I see no harm in it, not at all, but…”
“Ah, the boy was quite the hunter, the last time. You were right to ask,” said Eilbaad with a sigh. “He took his first kill a year past, and he’s taken to it like a fish to water; he’s already slain five, and it was a sight to see. The boy had his first taste of the blood, and he’s been eager to have more”—he shrugged—“It means he’s got the fire, and I can’t deny it.”
“You know, brother,” said Seginus, “I still see the days when we were no older.”
And so it was that there was much to recount…for as old brothers they were, and yet, not in idle gossip did they do indulge; but rather in the shared remembrance of past things that brought forth laughter. Such were the tales of the time Seginus filched the gold from beneath Vane Hold’s mountainous keep, and the account of Eilbaad’s clash with the Ka’angan Pirates. Though they were young; it hindered them not from doing all sorts of crazy things.
They were, in fact, quite notorious and hated by many; and no, there would even be no stopping, even if they did bother stopping them so—such as taking (lots of ) pirates’ wines; for many of them (you could say) scouring the Sea of Fire held a deep fondness for such; especially Bando Sando—the Iron Red himself. Above all, they yet possessed most of Bando Sando’s exactly two hundred and five-year-old wine, the Old Woody; and he had the exact maeser for it, too…
Alas, life was no longer as colorful.
The vigor of youth was no longer his…a smidgen was ineffable even. As they say: “The bones of innocence do wane with age,” and in this; they spoke true.
And now and then, as the sky’s white and blue were reddened within his eyes, a fleeting thought crossed his mind: past the searing of souls, he wished he could go back in time, not to change things…but to feel those moments a couple more times.
SEGEN
A quarter of an hour had passed, and Segen’s mind was far from thoughts of hunger as they played upon the butterfly-kissed fields. Albeit this time, victory was his; with five petos to Eidana’s four. Truly, the search through the meadows was a toil that gnawed at his belly—yet it was merely to serve and while away the hours. A quarter turned into half. Outside the holdfast, they beheld the usual flat field of grass—distant from Uncle Dano’s bleating lambs and cows; his little farm and the stables (you wouldn’t know what strange food he’d be feeding them…there was only five lambs left—ten something cows, and the unshovelled leftovers; their pooping smelled insanely horrid and was dumped everywhere that is)—where merry and some singing was abundant, and most of the youngsters hammered rhythm on the tables with their loud music. For that, Segen sat atop a tall woodpile, dangling his legs, and cradling a wooden flagon in hand, taking a sip now and then when, “Segen, lad?” he heard an old voice behind him say. “How have you been?”
“Mhm?” he turned around and wiped his mouth, climbing down carefully. “Gran-Gran?” he took her free left hand and slightly bowed. Her long dark-brown hair cascaded over a flowing brown shawl, ears studded lightly in rings of gold, and she wore two golden bracelets on each wrist…her touch was more wrinkled now than it had been—but her perfect smile, of which she took great pride that is…remained unchanged.
“Seg’, my boy, have you been following my sayings?”
“Yes,” he said with a sure smile. “I brush my teeth every time I wake up and—”
“Open your mouth,” she leaned in to inspect. “A bit wider… Your teeth came in early, straight and strong and you…already have all your teeth?” she smiled, a touch of pride in her eyes.
“Yah,” he uttered with a faint nod.
“Clench them,” she said. “Haah—you have a perfect bite, a pretty perfect smile, and I must say, I’m quite envious. It’s not flaring out… I told that brat Ghill to stop sucking his fingers, and now look at him…” she trailed off with a sigh.
Segen felt a warm glow at her praise. “I have never done that.”
“A smile is one of a person’s greatest features,” she sighed again. “He will come to regret it soon, hah-hah, when he can’t fascinate a woman with his crooked teeth…”
“Also, I’m quite curious.”
“Hmm?”
“Open your mouth wide,” she said, gently taking hold of his cheeks and peering into every nook and cranny with his left eye. “You have fangs and…multiple sets of quasi-canines back there. It’s rather… I found it odd then. Is it your mom’s?”
“Yeah, it’s my momma’s,” smiled Segen. “I’ve been to her home—me and my father! But they all had teeth sharper than mine. And-and, Uncle said it’s been that way because for ages they have been used to eat these big black hairy bulls with long, long horns like this,” Segen stretched his arms wide. “It was very tough to eat when my uncle took me out for a hunt!”
“I suppose that’s why your teeth are so perfect,” she said, nodding thoughtfully. “Must be from years of hard chewing, keeping everything in good order.”
“Mhm!”
“So...you’re always eating meat?” she pinched his nose then kneaded his tubby cheeks. “What’s the other thing I said—?”
“Vegetables? Yes, I’ve been eating those too—”
“Good, good.”
“…and also a lot of fruits.”
“Segen, Segen!” called Eidana’s voice from afar. “Look, look—Gran Gran! Look, I found five petos!” She offered her hand, breathless with excitement, “I must be so lucky today!”
“I know—it’s your complete win.”
Segen frowned as faint as the smell of booze-soaked wooden tables that were brought and now stood in rows, and long benches flanked each side. Side by side they sat; their friendship was quite deep after all; They had missed one another, it was clear as, surprisingly, the daylight that had cleared above. Then approached two men bearing a hefty wooden board, upon which rested two lambs—roasted to perfection, glistening with oil and seasoned richly, the scent of red mushrooms prominent.
‘Better without,’ mused Segen, recalling how the last indulgence of Pork Mushroom had left him with a grievous stomach; the fault was, he simply had eaten too many—a whole basket in fact. The taste of oily red little things lingering in his mouth, that was damp and overpowering in both sour and sweetness.
Back then, it had been a month or a crown since he’d eaten well, and now the aroma brought it all back...
Then the feast grew—a merry array of fare; roasted pheasant, vegetables charred upon the grill, and stews aplenty; served in plates of wood and delicate leaf motifs, or even both. Bowls and plates brimmed with fruits; among them the kangoes—rare ones of green color, with scaly flesh that of a snake and it grew red spicy leaves—and were plump and very, very sweet; the pride of the land’s bounteous orchards.
“Goodness, where might the both of them be?” said Uncle Odang, in a quite old voice—as befitting someone more his age. “We are to start the prayers, and yet still not here!”
“Ghill saw them!” yelled Uncle Dodong. “Right Pipso? Tell them!”
The young Ghill gave a nod. “Uncle is right.” His hair was very Teekish and very curly, and his ears were the smallest.
Suddenly, there was a loud bang on the table. “Where’s that fool!” All eyes laid on him; with a very fierce visage—bull-knecked in fact—bald head that shone in its smoothness and was slithered through with a scar then his eye-cover and his cloak worn by his boulder of a shoulder that draped over one side. “Is he not here? His son is here!” he looked at Segen, and gave him a little fright.
“They went that way,” Ghill gestured, over the east. “They took horses with them…to the black forest!”
“Of all... Those woods!” he said back in his hoarse voice; and “They’ve gone to see them!” with that, he was gone—as swiftly as he had come, leaving naught but ripples of hushes and whispers in his wake.
“Cursed woods! Cursed woods!” chanted the Old Fool Bolly. “I say!—cursed woods!”
“True enough! Even from afar, cries reached my ears!” put up another. “And a sight of black-eyed ones, too! Flocks of them!”
“Black-eyed, you say?” came the other. “Hedes! Ordi, you kept this quiet! Bad omens those woods always had, but a whole flock?” she crossed her arms as if a chill struck her.
All visage drooped a bit, for they spoke of the black forest, and ever since the seamstress had wandered there, she was gone; never to be seen again...
“Come along now, lads! It’s the Chief!” lightly yelled Uncle Rosa, a short beady firgure with a tangle of beard. “He’s ventured there and back again; unscathed and whole—surely they will be well.”
“Quiet…! O Quiet, all of you!” said Gran Gran Deeni with a merry laugh. But the conversations had in low muttering did not cease. “The childrens are all getting hungry!”
“Hungry! Hungry!” chanted the old Fool Bolly, drooling. “Me! Bolly, hungry!”
“Bolly, fool, you are not a child. Look-look, you have a beard!” Ghill held his stomach, laughing—then he bolted off. “Hey! Sorry! I was joking! Help me!”
“Bolly, I have your ball!” said Eidana; Ghill led Bolly round and round among the tables and by that they rattled a column of stacked plates. And all the youngsters boomed their laughed.
“Tch. Stop! Silence! All of you! Ready your candles!” said Uncle Odang. “We are about to pray to the Goddess, and she shall grant us a bountiful harvest, and we shall all feast well! Now...we shall light the candles!”
The mutters and singing ceased. All was ready…and all of the folk were gathered in a circle around the table, and each of them was holding a Chimeta; as they call these special candles. “Here you go,” smiled Eidana, presenting a white wax of a steel ring, wrapped in red cloth—ribbon-braided.
“Thank you!” he smiled back.
“We gather together, in the presence of our holy crown...” began Uncle Odang; “And we thank you for the warmth you have provided...”
All the folk and the boys and girls had chimetas; and all were lit—the chimetas glowed, and a soft murmuring sound filled the air as they prayed, as was the custom, for ever a bountiful harvest...
“Medes...”
“In the light of the divine, Medesari,” they all said together, and hung their chimetas in a Bechalon—a carved pole of wood, of which spread branches with hook tips about.
And when all of that was done, all fell silent, and then began all kinds of talks: mostly stories about lands far away. Being as how the free folk stood only in one place away from the others’ rule. The children and the youngsters grew fond of such tales. There was one that boasted of a glowing forest, of fruits glowing like a lantern.
“Oh, the day’s getting brighter,” Eidana teased.
“Is it the sun?” said Segen with a shrug, his mouth stuffed a part of lamb.
“No, it’s not the sun,” she giggled, “it’s your smile.”
Segen choked and coughed, “Well, that’s a good one.”
“Awww, you’re so cute, you’re even red!” She poked his cheeks.
“I’m not…” he mumbled, his face growing hot. “Stop it!”
Gran Gran Deeni tiptoed as she heaped a plate high with sizzling vegetables and tossed it to Segen. Her eyes twinkling with the expectation that he would soon be enjoying it all.
A breath, then another, just to be sure. “No vegetables for me please,” he wished to say. Yet, he held his tongue, he felt bad about the lie earlier.
“Gran gran,” giggled Eidana, “Segen has never taken to vegetables—”
“What! Wa-wha-what are you saying!” sputtered Segen, his cheeks reddening as he found himself amidst the vegetables.
“I said—”
“I adore vegetables! I love them!” Yet, this was, very obviously, a ruse; for neither he nor Egen cared for them—possibly due to Momma Nora’s preparation, which left a notably very bitter taste. “I truly do—I eat lots of them each day!”
“You told me—”
“I did not!” said Segen, grabbing more and eating all in a fluster that made it even more unbelievable.
“You did—”
“No. Nuh. No.”
“Yes, you did, you did!”
“You’re wrong,” he managed to mutter—his mouth stuffed. “I did not.”
“Oh, look,” Eidana pointed with a voice as sweet as a bell, “you’ve gotten your chin full with them.”
“Huh? Where?” Segen groped his chin, and found the offending morsel, which he quickly ate.
“See? Now you’ve gotten even more full—”
“...and, it is the way of life,” they heard her say. “And if you want to live, you must eat what the Goddess provides, and she provides for us all. And so, if we don’t eat her bounty, then we shall not have it.”
“But...”
“No, no, no buts!” she said sternly. “You shall have a mouthful of vegetables, or you shall not have any more meat!”
Segen stared, his face reddening.
“You must have your fill,” cut in Ghill; then in a deep voice of Uncle Eilbaad: “and, as the Chief once said: ‘Vegetables are the essence of the earth, and they will bring you strength’!”
“I hate them all,” grumbled Segen as he poured his cup, from a nearby pitcher, of Jamba-Juice. It tasted like oil.
“Ah, I do love the sweet onions and the tangy greens,” added Eidana, reaching across the table with her hands to pluck at the plate of greens. “But not the bitter ones—I can’t stand the bitter ones.”
“No, not the bitter ones,” agreed Ghill. “Only the sweet ones, and the ones that crunch.” Then Ghill opened his mouth wide: “Aaaaahhh! It’s not so bad—see? I’m eating all the vegetables.” He was a bit older than them both: “I have had to do it myself before.”
Segen grabbed one of pale yellow—sautéed in a pan and served on a bed of rice—and well… “I hate them all the most;” he said in another grumble.
By some grace, thought Segen—that gave him the will to eat his grilled greens—he rinsed his mouth by stuffing it with sweet fruits. But this time, the taste of the vegetables clung to his tongue, stubborn as any unpleasant thing he’d ever eaten.