Mhaieiyu

Arc 2, Chapter 9

Vainglory

Emris crunched gravel under his boot as he stared back awkwardly at the soldier’s eyes. The veteran was in disbelief, letting out a humoured chortle and shaking his head, his mind racing to understand what he had just heard.

Having left Corvus to his affairs, the Syndies had wandered off to a small clearing in the woods where they shared a very brief discussion. And the outcome of it was bewildering.

“Ye want me to shoot yer brains out? Really?” Emris said.

“Well, not necessarily. I’m just giving you the power, authority and moral clearness to do as you see fit. No consequences, no complications, nothing,” the bodyguard explained.

Emris sighed, rubbing his nose. The guard had raised a pistol up as an offering, and the veteran took it reluctantly. “Ye’re aware that, even with yer blessin’, I’d get shite for this, right?”

“I was hoping you wouldn’t mention that, but you may get away with it. It's not like you’re the type to follow rules too often. I figured you’d get your anger out on me eventually. I’m just facilitating that so we can move on.” The proposer placed a hand on his chest, huffing from his injury. “Maybe this way we can speed up the grieving process.”

Emris’ eyes fluttered and he raised an accusatory arm. “Ye think that... killin’ people, that’s my remedy?”

“I didn’t say you had to go that far. From where I stand I’m prepared to take a slap on the wrist or a bullet to the head. Dying’s just a nasty possibility. Par of the course.”

Em couldn’t resist a laugh at that one. “And ye figured ye’d get by yer demons easier if ye gave someone like me a gun and said ‘do it’?”

The soldier smiled back. “It has to help somewhat. I sure hope so; I doubt there’s a turning point now.”

“Nay, ye’re right,” Emris said, loading the gun and putting it up to the man’s head. “No way ye’re gettin’ off clean.”

The unarmoured bodyguard flinched, raised his arms and closed his eyes. “No, it sure doesn’t seem it.”

“Aye.” The gun clicked as a bullet loaded into the chamber. “Any words? Vows? Apologies?”

“I ‘vow’ to die fulfilled. I ‘apologise’ for the unusual request.”

“And Kev?”

“I’m sorry I couldn’t make it in time. At least I merked the man responsible, so I doubt he’ll be too upset in heaven.”

Emris’ eyes narrowed as he watched the man carefully. He seemed so nonchalant. It’s as if he’d been rehearsing for this for weeks. “Are ye suicidal, mate…?”

“Never have been, no,” the guard said.

“Why’re ye so pleased? Dyin’s scary.”

“For you, yeah, maybe. Living so long has the downside of getting too used to being alive.”

The barrel was pressed firmly onto his forehead, and he took a deep breath.

Emris clicked his teeth at this display of bravery. “I’m gonna kill ye.”

“That’s what I’m waiting for.”

“Ye said ye weren’t suicidal.”

“I’m not.”

“Ye aren’t scared then? Seriously?”

“Not too much.”

The Brigadier’s jaw hung agape in incredulity. Quickly, he turned the pistol over the man’s shoulder and pulled the trigger, causing a loud bang to resonate through the forest. The gun had fired right next to the guard’s ear and the sheer volume sent him on his knees in pain. Emris took a step back, noticed a chip of wood fall from the tree he shot, and riled up from confusion.

The gun was pushed down onto the back of the guard’s head as Emris shouted, “That was a real bullet just there. Ye gave me a loaded gun — why the shite are ye so casual about this?!”

The royal guard didn’t hear him. He banged his forehead onto some stone to relieve the pressure in his ear, hearing nothing but a prolonged ring. Emris, frustrated and perplexed, yanked the soldier by the strap of his pauldron and hoisted him up, staring him down. Even still, the soldier just bleated.

“Did ye hear me, vermin? What’re ye gettin’ out of this? This some sort of test?”

The victim hissed in pain. “No, just redemption. Victus!”

“Redemption?”

“Agh, my ears!”

“Shut it! What’re ye gettin’ at, damn it?!”

“Are you deranged? There’s no trick you smartass! I need to live with myself so I’ll take consequences to feel fulfilled. Otherwise just fucking kill me!”

Emris choked on his words, pulling back. “Consequences to feel fulfilled? What kind of altruistic bullshite is that?”

The soldier panted from his emotional outburst, raising his head to give the brig a ballsy stare. “The kind I live by. How am I to earn the respect of my similars if I let such failure go unpaid? Kev was a great asset to our efforts, and so——”

“He’s dead! Kev’s dead, and there ain’t no changin’ that, so stop talkin’ about him!” the Guardian shouted, hurling the man against a tree and letting him slide to the dirt. Trying to calm his perpetual gruff, Emris looked down at him. “How’d it happen?”

The man groaned, his head falling. “How did what happen?”

“The kill. Ye said he was shot through the head, right? That man’s got nerves and an instinct of steel. How the shite did he get mowed out of sight?”

“It can happen to anyone, Brigadier,” the guard said, finding time to lift himself with the support of the wood. “Remember the nature of bullets: God’s wrath embodied into a tiny piece of lead and fired at lightning speed. Blackpowder has given us the ability to smite with the push of a trigger.”

Emris raised a brow and flared his teeth. The sheer audacity and bravery of this man were both exhilarating and infuriating. “Good thin’ we’re runnin’ out then.”

“A double-edged sword.”

“So that’s it? Just got shot? Where?”

“Quick as rainfall, a few clicks from Checkpoint A. An enemy blindsided us and pulled the trigger before we could move out of the way. By the time I shot him, Kev was gone.”

Emris’ head turned away from him for a moment. “Are ye tellin’ me some Yanksie was meanderin’ around the dunes all alone? Further from home?”

“Nay, I would bet he was either lost, delirious or was sent to kamikaze the border.”

“Good shot from a kamikaze... And he shot through a Nynx helm?”

“Nay, that’s the tragic part. Kev, he… He removed the helm in the heat. It was much too damaged to serve its purpose either way. We were supposed to be far enough away from the conflict, so he must’ve gotten comfortable.”

Emris’ face muscles tensed again. He shook his head slowly in disbelief. “Somethin’ ain’t right.”

The soldier raised his head. “Go on.”

“He’d never bail on us. Not with Alpha down. Ain’t like him.”

“Yes, you’re right.”

“A flaw in yer alibi.”

“I had to motivate him a bit. He didn’t have any bullets left, so I had options. Are you suggesting something, Brigadier?”

“Not even five minutes ago ye told me ye were a Yanksie yerself. Now ye’re sayin’ ye put him at gunpoint to keep him movin’?”

The bodyguard glared at Emris. “Yes. Defected. I suppose it wasn’t the best plan, but it was either that or let him rejoin the fray.”

“Defected, kicked out, fuckin’ betrayed — makes no difference! Ye were raised to hate our lot. Ye could’ve just as easily shot the man for pissin’ ye off!”

“We weren’t raised to hate. We were raised to protect ourselves from your men.”

Emris grit his teeth. “Aye, is that right? We’ve all got a million ways of interpretin’ ‘protection’. Did ye tell him?”

“About my origin? No. I doubt he even remembered my face. It’s a pity, really.”

“Keep yer gob shut about him, oy.”

“If we return to the dunes, I could show you their bodies.”

“They’re gone, soldier! They’re sixteen inches under sand by now.”

The guard, resigned, stood up to him and stared at him face-to-face. Emris’ brow began to sweat. He only now realised the soldier was taller than him.

With a frown, the man said, “Then evidence is all but gone. You’ll have to either take my truth on blind faith or do away with me out of suspicion.”

“Victus, what the fuck?!” the veteran shoved him back. There was that feeling of impending danger again. he was becoming irrational; paranoid. Rubbing his forehead was all he could do. The Guardian felt tiny in comparison to this mere human. And that made his blood boil. “Yer attitude pisses me off, and I’ve no clue why ye’re so casual about bitin’ the bullet. Men don’t do that. Men don’t look the barrel right in the eye and say ‘shoot’. Men live, ye psychotic bastard. I can tell ye’re a Yanksie. Shite! Why’re ye like this? Ye’re confusin’ me and it makes me nervous and that pisses me off more.”

For each word he said, Emris physically pushed, prodded, pointed, and jabbed with his finger until the man who witnessed the General’s end was pressed against the tree again. The guard let himself be shuffled around. He allowed his lungs to be depressed with a punch to the chest. He permitted his lapel to be grabbed and nearly torn. In his eyes, he had all he needed. The way he saw it, he was giving permission, not submitting. The reason? Because no matter how much Emris shouted and waved his arms about, the man stared him right back into those emerald eyes with not a trace of hesitation. That unbreakable gaze of his left the veteran speechless. It was then he remembered just how much he was losing control — both of his comrades and himself.

Emris’ pupils darted around as he tried in vain to win some staring contest with the soldier, observing his facial features for any tenseness, any sweat, or any hint of hesitation or fear. Nothing. The sole witness of Kev’s murder was as cold as frigid water.

With one last push which toppled the human onto the dirt, crushing the dry leaves beneath him, Emris took the canteen off the uneven stump it stood on, took a swig and popped it in his jacket before taking off in long, hurried steps.

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Before he could leave earshot, the guard’s voice called, saying, “Leaving so prematurely? Are you forgetting your vengeance?”

The Guardian whirled around and raised the small pistol he had pocketed high. Then, he threw it against the earth, and from the impact a gunshot wrang. “Ye can take me vengeance and shove it up yer eastern buddies’ shithole. I’m done here. Take a class in human nature, ye fuckin’ monster.”

The soldier chuckled to himself at that statement, to which Emris tilted his head and challenged him to say more. “You speak endless poison yet refuse to slaughter me. I’m honoured, and I will do right by you, Guardian. You should do the same for Holly.”

Emris clicked his teeth and teetered himself from side to side.

The man, brave as could be, got on his feet and shook the dirt from his knees. “Was I not supposed to know that? That your daughter’s a Lypin, somehow?”

Emris’ frown turned to a scowl as he gave a step forward. “Is that a problem?”

“No, of course not. Say hello from me if you could.”

“Why in the shite do ye think ye’re in any position to be cocky?”

“Because I just gave you a clean opportunity to shoot me and you didn’t do a fucking thing. I’d say I’m in the clear.”

“I can always change my mind, ye rat.”

“Go ahead, but my offer has unfortunately expired,” he said, straightening up and giving a short bow. “I do humbly appreciate your mercy. It’s because of you I’ll continue to see the light of day. Thank you.”

“Aye, aye, eat a bag of cocks ye rascal,” Emris groaned as he moved on out of the clearing with a thump and a crack to his footfalls.

With the danger gone, the bodyguard exhaled, having come so close to losing his temper and pushing Emris over the edge. The fact he hadn’t already was surprising in and of itself, and he could only kiss the heavens for allowing his survival. The current Guardian was not the type for patience. He hated being tested and he showed it often. Even the hint of demand from an inferior he didn’t hold compassion for often meant someone’s gums being cleaned; Syndies only just had a slight edge over that matter. His being a royal bodyguard, a separate division entirely from the military which held itself high in the rankings, was likely the only reason he hadn’t been turned into a stain.

With his hands on his knees and heft in his core, the soldier took deep breaths, but his rest was soon interrupted by the distinct, repetitive and nearing clap of striking palms followed by a drawn-out whistle.

It came from further within the forest. The soldier choked on air and uprighted himself to meet this new individual: he with meticulous combed peach-coloured hair; pearly skin; enchanting green-yellow eyes; perfectly aligned and white teeth; a gorgeous navy gown with the curvy cross insignia of Yanksee, and a smile so bright it could illuminate the whole world. This man, Bliss in the flesh, pushed bush and twig away from his supreme, beautiful self with his mere presence as if all nature feared damaging his perfection.

He walked through and out into the extreme of the clearing, finishing his slow clap and putting his hands behind his back. “What a spectacle! Theatrics most divine, Princhipé. And you've kept yourself busy — I can see that. How long has it been since you left us?”

The ex-Yanksie’s relief turned sour as he faced the noble with a frown. “Aneirin.”

“Don't say my name like that, it comes off the wrong way. Yes, it is I, but you’ll have to call me differently soon enough.”

“How so?”

“Hm, I’ll explain all and more briefly. Come, Elior. It is due time to catch up.”

♦ ♥ ♣ ♠

The crunch of their footsteps was accompanied only by the sound of insects chirping and singing as the forest begun to rest in bliss. The predators too began their routines and patrols, and had they stood alone, the canine and adolescent might’ve easily ran into trouble at some point in the night. But with Noire around, the whole world seemed feeble. If a beast were to attack then the magic man would lay waste to it with finesse. Even if a whole pack of Howlers pounced on the four they would be swept away in a single breath. Such was the seemingly omnipotent power of this charcoal-haired lunatic.

At several points during their trip to the Facility the four would take a few minutes to rest, if only by the insistance of Noire himself. Carrying a teenager around was no simple task, but one might expect more strength and stamina from a man such as he. Perhaps this was his fatal flaw? Mumble would take note of it. This time, however, in the pitch black night and with trees surrounding them, the man ordered to settle down to camp. Sleeping within proximity of the freak was a total no-no. Neither canine nor boy had any intention of catching shut-eye, but right now, Noire’s orders weren’t to be objected against.

Once the camp had been established—consisting of a fallen log chopped into circles by the magician, a fire and a bed of leaves for three—Chloe was sent out to gather meat and berries while Mumble kept the flame spitting. Noire just sat on a stump with a conflicted grin, staring at the fire and hearing the snaps of burning wood.

When the lad looked at his eyes his sight doubled and nauseated him. It was best he didn’t ask too many questions. But something else was troubling him. “Oi,” Mumble said, “Ya ain’t got no water on ya, right?”

Noire nodded. “That is correct. You’ll have to wait for us to arrive tomorrow.”

“Shit… And why aren’t we movin’, exactly?”

“You’re a child. As is the canine. Your bodies demand rest now more than ever for you are still growing,” Noire explained.

Mumble groaned, throwing a stick into the pit. “Spare me the adult talk, man.”

“I was answering your question.”

“Hah! I bet ya were gettin’ tired from luggin’ that jackass all day.”

“That too.”

Mumble gave an impish laugh, his teeth reflecting the light from the fire. But soon, they hid, as his smile became a frown. “Ya killed Bruce back there.”

“Bruce?”

“Yeah. He was a mate of mine.”

“You don’t seem too bothered by it.”

‘Pride’ gave Noire a ballsy look, his head bobbing in comprehension. “Momma told me not to show my weaknesses, like. Made sense to me.”

The man raised his gaze to meet the lad’s activities. He was toying with the earth, poking it with a stick. Despite the grief, not even the suggestion of crying twisted his expression. Admirable resilience, or a lack of emotional connection, perhaps?

“I see. While your mother wasn’t inherently wrong, to abstain from releasing your sadness—by not selfishly imposing it on others—you harm yourself in favour of those around you. Surprisingly virtuous.” Mumble gave him a short look, but Noire wasn’t done. He shrugged his shoulders and spat saliva with an awkward chortle. “It is also depressing. Miserable. Utterly mesmerisingly dreadingly unproductively unappealingly undesirably upsetting. An attitude like yours breeds Sin.”

Mumble stood up then, staring the man down. He just smiled. “Th’ fuck’s ya problem?! Hit ya head or somethin’?!”

“I’m back,” Chloe said, parting through the brush to reach the camp. She held a large rabbit with antlers in her maw, long since killed since her hunt. She dropped it onto a clean rock. “This is the best I could find. I’m sorry, but it will have to do.”

Noire offered the slaughtered beast a strange look of both sympathy and agitation, to which neither of the kids caught on. "A jackalope is abundance enough to sate hunger, so worry not. Your contribution will not be in vain,” Noire said, ignoring the child’s plight and standing up, rubbing his hands in excitement. “I do hunger, I’ll admit. So let’s keep this brief. Mumble, do you know how to cook?”

“Fuckin’...! How do ya think I’m alive?! ‘Course I know how to cook, are ya kiddin’ me?”

“Good! Well, you’re about to get better. Come, sit.”

Tokken’s sight flashed in and out over the span of what felt like aeons. He’d see darkness. He’d see light. He’d see darkness again, but he knew he was seeing it. It wasn’t unconsciousness. Tokken could see the night sky; whatever was left of it to admire. He couldn't tell how long it had been since he stood up to Noire in that suspicious alleyway the pair had run into. In hindsight, had the teen focused more on his surroundings and less on his thoughts, he wouldn’t have run into any of this. Those criminals might not have met such fate either, although they likely would have eventually if their murderer was so discriminatory.

There, standing on the fine line between dreams and reality, Tokken heard a soft voice.

“I think he’s…”

It was followed by a gruffer one.

“ ‘Bout time, shit.”

The second speaker made him feel queasier, but he already felt so warm. So comfortable. He felt like he was being cradled by his mother again.

“Tokken? Tokken, can you hear me?”

There it was again. Like bells that tingled and chimed most gently.

“If you can see me, say something. Please.”

The teenager blinked. It was only a few months now before he’d become an adult. Maybe then he wouldn’t be ashamed of hearing his name.

“Hngh…” Tokken groaned a pitifully weak breath.

“Yes! Yes, he’s conscious! He’s awake!”

The second, more unpleasant voice said, “Oi, jackass, ya gettin’ up or what?”

There in the distance, he saw a faint glow. This glow became something divine: a myriad of colours and textures, shapes and features, all encapsulated in a smudge that moved and squirmed and morphed. This beautiful thing he saw: it was a tinted window; a thick blanket; a dull wall; a wardrobe; a bookcase; a dim light. This thing was beautiful because nothing was more gorgeous than sight itself. Goddess, he felt as if he could spew his whole stomach out his mouth.

Tokken hitched his breath and his cheeks ballooned as bile built in his throat. He leant over the edge of his bed and puked every last bit of food still inside him, breathing deeply as slime dripped from his lip. His skin was paper pale at this point; almost as white as his hair.

“Fuck me, already causin’ trouble?!” Mumble groaned, reeling back from the disgusting sight. “Did ya spill all ya guts, too?!”

He felt like he could.

“Tokken! Tokken, you’ve been asleep for a long time, take it easy!” the Howler, Chloe, ushered, pushing the teen onto his back to rest and dabbing his face awkwardly with a damp towel Mumble provided.

“Gah, hung…” Tokken tried to speak, but all that came of it was noise.

“Hungry? You must be starving… Mumble, please, tell Miss Adelaide he’s awake,” Chloe pleaded, to which the lad just shrugged his shoulders and complied. In the time they’d come to know each other, a feeling of minimal mutual respect had been established between the canine and criminal. Chloe smiled at him as he left, and then grimaced as she turned back to the teen. Tokken stared at the roof with a slacked jaw and half-lidded eyes. He looked as if he were on his death bed. Chloe laid down next to his legs, taking one of his limp hands and pressing it between her forepaws.

“Tokken…” she said, “I’m sorry, but we’re back. I know it’s not what you wanted. I know you wanted to get away. But it was hopeless. We couldn’t stop Noire and he just… He took you.” She gave a sniffle, and then a chuckle. “It’s been a day and a half since you last said a word. You might not be perfect, but you were brave back then. Thank you. It seems you’ve gone off and saved me again.”

Tokken’s head turned towards her slowly. He still looked next to dead. “Ghngh… Aghck…”

Nothing. All he could say were incoherent babbles.

“It’s okay. Don’t strain yourself just to say ‘you’re welcome’. I won’t be exploiting it,” Chloe said with a short titter. “You know, we came by an area of the forest that looked a lot like home on our way here. If you do ever come with me to meet my family, I really hope you’ll be the proof I need that conversation can truly do wonders. I know it’s selfish, but I really need you to, Tokken. Could you do that for me…?”

“Yhg… Nck…”

She smiled, closing her eyes and laying her chin on his palm. “Thank you.”

♦ ♥ ♣ ♠

Twenty-one men and women, most of which were strategist elders and veterans of the Syndicate’s workforce, lined the boardroom and made rampant debate of the tricky circumstances currently underway. The cacophony of flawed ideas could be heard three rooms away as even their quiet and structured nature had faltered in the face of the latest complications which had left the Facility awry and disproportionally lacking in morale.

All was noise and ruckus until the doors slammed open with much fierceness. Each of the strategists turned their head to meet two soldiers at the entrance of the room. By the look on their faces, now was no time to argue about door knocking.

The two soldiers put an arm behind their backs and thumped their hearts with the other, then raising it beside them and showing four digits. The standard salute among the Syndicate. Each finger represented one of the four Heads.

“Sirs, we come bearing terrible news!” the one on the right said. “A small raft was identified and retrieved off the north-western coasts. Two women and sixteen children. According to them, Zwaarstrich has fallen!”

Gasps flooded the room and mutters began to spread about. Before the noise would resume, however, a withering old man with a long, grey beard, Hoern, stood up with a raised hand.

“Forgive me for asking this now, but can we be sure the rescuees aren’t Crimsoneers themselves?”

The soldier on the left shook his head, giving a bow as she explained, “Investigation regarding their identities was brief. Their names were quickly identified. They are, without a doubt, Zwaarsts.”

“Good Goddess, no…” Hoern said, dropping back down on his seat with his head resting between his fingertips.

Another tactician stood. “You mean to tell us the Crimsoneers have officially commenced their march? What of Brigadier Xavier?”

“We don’t know yet, sirs. We only have a report of one presumed Red so far. A young man drenched in old blood. He calls himself the Harbinger of Famine.”

Nervous sweat began to bead off most of those within’s foreheads. Two of the elites hurled their meals right then and there.

A woman well in her sixties, Merean, spoke up, “What of the refugees? This may truly be Famine, but if there’s only one reported instance, where are the rest of the rafts? Were they destroyed?”

“Reports say they were undamaged.”

“So where are they, then? Are they coming now? Should we send a team to collect them?” another planner suggested, only to be shut down by the solemn shake of the female trooper’s head.

“It brings me great sorrow to say this, but there will be no such need. Those that survived the initial attack fled to the Bunker, as per protocol.”

“Then we must prepare a team to rescue them at once! With that many people, they won’t have the resources to survive longer than a week——!”

“I’m afraid,” the male soldier said, “that won’t be necessary either. The Bunker has already been breached.”

“Good Goddess… And the people within…?”

“Like lambs to the slaughter.”