One other characteristic of Farthans was: they themselves aren’t privy to the nature of fate. Though they weaved it, they had no control over their own—a pity, one could say. They were stuck without their own grace.
— Study II of Tarkas, Third Verse
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The two sat down the next day at the same place and time. Kallas, rubbing his eyes, proceeded to draw a diagram on the catacomb floor, bone dust floating around the tunnels. It looked crude, and wasn’t particularly neat, but an image of the surrounding castle was somewhat recognizable. Kallas marked their location and exit with an “x” with an “o” respectively. Tapping the ground with a piece of bone, he watched the children behind bars for a moment. They played amongst themselves—a little game of hopscotch. That was the best they could do with their confinement.
Raising his dominant hand, Kallas rested his upper lip against his fist, slouching slightly as he spoke.
“This is a map of the castle. Well, the surroundings of it, if you couldn’t tell.” Kallas tapped their location, before drawing a line to the exit, and further beyond. “This is where we are, and this is where we want to leave the castle. That, ahead, is where we want to be at the end of the plan.”
Varna raised an eyebrow toward the new path. It was unmapped.
“I haven’t mapped it yet, but if we want the children to escape, we’ll have to go further than the Central Road. The city is too risky for them.”
“Central Road?” Varna asked. Truthfully, she hadn’t a single clue to the layout of the city, and had only gotten by asking other people for directions—though, that was exhausting in and of itself. “What’s that?”
“What do you mean, ‘what’s that?’. You’re telling me you got down here without knowing the single, most prominent street in Marlyn?” Kallas asked, flabbergasted.
Varna nodded. Stammering, she tried to explain. “New. I— I don’t know.”
“Don’t know what?”
“The city.”
Only a sigh left Kallas’ mouth. He rubbed his temple slightly, before roughly mapping the rest of the city. With the Marlyn Castle just below its centre, he labelled its Western, Southern, and Eastern District. Outside the city, resided the Outer Capital and the Riverbank Town—which were northeast of the capital. He’d even gone so far to label the lesser-known Atlier Road, which was directly below the city.
“Look. Here’s a more detailed map of the city. Burn it into your memory, because you’re gonna need it when we carry out the plan.”
Varna stared at the map, memorising as much of it as possible. “I will.”
“Anyways, I was going to say: from the castle, we need to get from here,” Kallas drew a longer, more grandiose line, out toward the outskirts of the capital, “to here.”
“What’s there?”
“Our key to success.” He claimed, boldly. “Whether or not the kids survive is up to him.”
Looking up from the diagram, Varna stared at Kallas. He was determined, and the once fragile smile from his face was reinforced into something greater. Life filled his eyes, and a fire he once lost was rekindled. Something about him was admirable to Varna. Perhaps she was missing something he had—something she so desperately sought for.
“What’s wrong?” Kallas noticed her staring. “Is there something on my face?”
Varna paused, before fumbling a response. “Oh, uh. Face.”
“Face?”
“Grinning. You, grinning.” She pulled her cheeks to force a smile, trying to articulate her thoughts in action.
Kallas reached for his mouth, his fingertips rubbing his cheeks as he relaxed his muscles. He minorly awed at himself. A smile hadn’t risen from him since the civil war. Slowly, his grin began to fade, and was replaced with a serious expression.
“Thanks.” He said, to which Varna nodded. “I didn’t realise it until now, but we really need to work on your speech.”
“My speech?” She asked.
“You don’t speak Marlyn very well, do you?”
Varna nodded. Putting down his stick, Kallas crawled next to the metal bars to rest his back. He turned his head to face the children, all of whom had fallen asleep from exhaustion. Again, it was only Ellen who stayed up, this time passing the time by fiddling with small pebbles on the floor. It had only been Varna’s second day with Ellen, yet she noticed an attachment toward Kallas. And at the same time, she saw no malice present in her eyes against those who held her in captivity. She could only pity the child, for the inherent humanity to mankind was robbed greatly of her.
Noticing Varna’s expression, Kallas whispered. “I think her strength is admirable.”
He paused.
“It’s not often you’ll see someone like her, moving forward like she’s got nothing to fear. I sure as hell couldn’t.”
“Yeah.”
Kallas turned back to the diagram, slouching over and leaning on his arm. His legs were crossed, and his elbow rested on his thigh.
“Anyway—.” He said, before being interrupted.
“Children, save, earlier. Why not?” Varna asked, terribly skewed.
“Oh. Well, uh, there’s two problems.” Kallas raised his finger. “One, the children are under constant supervision. Their connection to Earl Sterling doesn’t help either. And two, the dealer only comes once a month, which just so happens to be their execution date.”
“Key to success?”
Kallas clenched his fists. “Yes. Key to success. So, if we want to succeed, we need to do it right when they’re about to be executed.”
Varna paused, rubbing the hem of her hooded coat with her fingers. A slight, uncomfortable texture enveloped her hands. Something about the explanation felt off, like there was a piece missing to the puzzle. If they were children, then why feel the need to set up a public execution? It all felt too natural, like there was an odd element that the two hadn’t factored.
“Varna, are you alright?”
She jumped up, responding. “Yes. Fine.”
“Good. Unfortunately, since I don’t have the fine details on the execution procedures, we’ll have to continue discussing tomorrow.”
Kallas stood up from the ground, making his way next to Ellen. Flicking the pebble one last time, she looked to see the young soldier, the silver linings around his uniform accentuated by the yellow lights. She stared at him, face unchanging, yet with a slight change to the brow did a hint of desperation appear on her face. Turning back, Kallas waved off Varna.
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“It’s getting late now, so you should be heading back.” He paused. “Don’t worry about me, I’ll think things over— you should too.”
Varna nodded, staring at Kallas whilst he crouched down to entertain Ellen. The scene felt oddly surreal, yet natural all the while—like it seemed Kallas was suited less to guard work than anything else. The more Varna interacted with him, the more she felt he too, was a pitiable individual, thrust in a whirlpool he couldn’t control.
“I will.”
There, she set her sights on one more goal.
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On that same night, Varna laid still on her bed. It was rough—the mattress was stuffed with cotton, though a portion of it was mixed with feathers as well. The head-sized pillow was no different having an identical layering to twin-sized mattress. Part of her felt uncomfortable, though less from the pleasantries of her free-of-charge in, and more from the circumstances she had pulled herself into. There were no thoughts accompanying her increasing unease, only the silence which creeped up slowly across her back. It felt like a weight pressed down on her body, sinking her into the impressionable mattress; a void increasing ever so slowly grew inside of her—erasing into an imperfect nothingness to a knock on her door.
“Young miss, might you be awake?” Drystan called out her door. A source of light could be seen piercing through the bottom of the door.
Varna rose from her bed, a slight wave of nausea overcoming her as she approached the door with an audible nod. Drystan’s fine-clothed clothing hung loosely over himself, and the lantern he held illuminated the rest of the dark hall. The orange light showed only himself, alone and seeking for something. The metal creaked as he waved the lantern around slightly.
“I know it is quite late, but would it be alright to accompany me on a slight walk? There are some things I’d like to discuss—nothing extravagant, I assure.” He asked, his expression with a tinge of worry.
A slight pause. “Alright.”
The departure from Farthos still whirled fresh in her mind. Imagery of her perhaps final farewell to the lonely city remained vivid even now, and her extraordinary circumstances invoked slight emotions of longing. Though the disgust of her hometown propelled her steps forward, the incessant curiosity to her acquaintances surfaced here and there. She wondered if they were alright, still surrounded by the suffocating atmosphere of the city; for she, herself, could only find solace in the one place bare of Farthan life.
Having exited the inn, the two of them walked in silence down the Central Road. The stone-cold pavement echoed dryly past the numerous homes, and the scattered lights illuminated the dark path. Subtle noises of a slight breeze passed through the capital, accompanied by the chirping from the critters which appeared only in the darkness. The groaning lantern created a slight discordance with the natural orchestra, and the flickering of flames brought forth an odd, tranquil atmosphere.
There, the moon and the stars decorated the rest of the world and the clouds curtained the stage of the land. Constellations, glowing upon the night sky presented themselves as abstract imagery. And with an eye so curious, it could almost seem as if the stars pointed themselves toward the castle.
Stopping themselves upon an open plaza, Drystan rested his lantern on the centre fountain. The noise of running water entered the two’s ears as it exited the pores of the stone. Drystan groaned slightly as he sat down on the fountain’s edge, before patting a spot next to him. Varna followed suit, staring at the ground as she kicked the sides of the fount with an inability to stay still. She had felt slightly awkward without her Scarf for a while now. Yet, appearing to pay no mind, Drystan stared down the empty road as he broke the silence.
“Young miss, have you heard the tale of ‘The Fool’? There is no shame in admitting your unknowing. You are a traveller, after all.”
Stopping her feet, she looked to face Drystan. The orange hue lightened one side of his head, though she could only see the light reaching slightly over his nose. Shadow encompassed the rest of his facial features, and a subdued expression floated across his face. There seemed, albeit faintly, a bereft air to the old inntaker.
“No.”
Drystan held his hands together, beginning. “Well, then let me tell it to you: the tale follows a young man, one who matured in poverty, and one who had great ambition. The man, whose name was unknown, lived with his small family, tending to his cattle and providing for his two siblings. He enjoyed his simplistic lifestyle, sincerely, and having been the first-born child, understood that it was his duty to succeed his parents. Yet, deep in his heart, he knew that his considerable ambition gnawed away at his core.
“One day, the man tended to his gardens, fed the cattle in his farms, and served food to the needs of his family—only to stop amidst the table that late afternoon. He spoke out of the blue to his parents, ‘Father, Mother, I wish to provide something greater to the lands’, earning the ire of his mother. Though, perhaps fuelled by the encouragement of his father, the young man’s new goal was to enlist in his country’s army.”
There, the lantern’s light flickered slightly, breaking the immersion of Drystan’s storytelling. Checking the contents of the lantern, he waved the fire and refuelled its oil, lighting it once more so as to keep the surroundings warm. With a cough, he proceeded.
“And so, under the instruction of his father, the young man left the modesty of his home with the intention of providing for his family. He brought nothing but a stick and knapsack, two day’s worth of food, and the unwavering ambition to fulfil his goal. He travelled for the upcoming days, eventually settling in a nearby city, and perhaps by the guise of fate, he joined its militia after its recruitment.
“There, the young man made a name for himself. ‘The Gifted’, they called him, for he displayed a natural talent to the workings of warfare. The man grew confident, and perhaps due to his outstanding acclimation, believed that this was his destiny—not to be a mere farmer, but a man recognized by others for his militaristic talent. The young man’s name grew so widespread, such that he had been scouted by the king, and sent off on a mission to better the city.
“The young man left yet again, fulfilling the task given to him. And then, when the word of his success reached his king, he’d arrived in the throne room filled with joy. Perhaps to his folly, the young man was knighted by the king, and given a medal of valour. Though, all this time he had not seen his family. So, when the young man awoke one day, he left to prove his achievements to his parents and siblings.
“He travelled four days, with proper food and conditioning, even bringing a carriage filled with pleasantries as a gift for the family. And yet, when he came to his village, what showed before him was not the modesty of his home, but the desolation of a ruined town. There, the young man had realised but one unfortunate truth; his mission to fame had ultimately caused the erasure of his hometown. In shame, and in sorrow, the man fell to his knees, cursing the title they called him. He was no ‘Gifted’ individual, only a fool who fell prey to his own desires.”
The story, ending as a subtle, yet strong wind blew through the plaza, resounded in Varna’s small ears for a few moments. It was a tale she hadn’t heard before, yet felt all too familiar to her. The ‘Fool’, who had been naive enough to cause his own downfall, struck the deep consciousness of her heart, and she knew intuitively what it bothered.
She could still recall it, when her father had left Farthan City after growing infuriated with its shallow manner.
“This city is not right.” He had said, his voice seething with hatred of his own kind. “I will search far and wide for you—for your mother.”
She had shivered, for the strong hands which embraced her shook with a nervousness unknown to her. Her eyes, partially closed, could see the carriage outside her strewn, thatched-roof home. She had known where he was going to go, she just didn’t want to accept it.
“Honey.” He had said, his eyes tearing as he spoke with fogging glasses. “We will see each other again. And I will be here with enough for you two to live richly for the rest of your lives. Don’t— don’t be like them. Don’t be like me. Be yourself.”
Varna stared at the night sky, stars flying across the space as an uneasy feeling swirled through herself. She tightened her hands, gripping the edge of the fountain as a wave of silent anger seethed through her body. Only then did Drystan speak.
“Young miss.” He said, pausing before he spoke his next words. “I know you have been seeing the castle these nights.”
Surprise. Bewilderment. Disappointment. Three emotions created an amalgamation which kept her silent. It was only her expression that conveyed meaning.
Drystan chuckled. “Do not be so surprised. You are rather clumsy, after all—a lot like somebody I knew.”
“I see.”
“Though, that is none of the matter. What I’m meaning to say is: let sleeping dogs lie.” For a moment, his expression hardened, and it almost seemed as if his hands shook in the night. “It is not worth poking what should not be poked.”
“I see.”
“The Capital is more than you think, young miss. You wouldn’t want to see it.”
Silence.
The chirping stopped then, and only the flickering of flames and the running water could be heard by the two of them. There, Drystan grabbed the handle of his lantern, which creaked as the metal clashed against itself. Uncomfortable, Varna spoke.
“I—”
“It is getting late now, young miss. Come on, I suggest we get ready for the next day.”
Varna hesitated her next words, standing from the fountain as the two of them began walking down the lone road. “Yeah. Alright.”
With a smile, Drystan responded very briefly.
“As it should, Varna.”