Since the Old Ages, Farthans still upheld their duty. It was only when one of them turned against their God, that the world changed.
— Study IV of Tarkas, Third Verse
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Run.
That was all she could think of—to reach the Central Plaza in time. She was already exhausted, feet bloodied and aching, sweat running down her face and breathing heavy with all the running she did before, and now she had to press on another three floors, a cobbled stone bridge, and a likely filled plaza. She gritted her teeth, forcing herself to push through as she slowed down with every step she took. By now, there were drops of blood trailing behind her, and when she looked down, she saw that her feet had seen better days.
First came denial. This can’t be happening, she thought.
All the effort they spent, wasted.
All the work they put in, wasted.
All the time they sank, wasted.
It was all fruitless. Like a withered vineyard. There was no fruit to collect, no vines to prune, no plants to grow, no people to feed. Now they were left starving, with rhetorical, unanswered questions among themselves.
Then came bargaining.
Why didn’t they anticipate this?
Were they just incomplete in their preparations?
Was there a variable they failed to account for?
Why did we fail?
So many questions, and so little answers. She could hear it, a voice echoing in her head, reminding her of her incompetence. Was this what she deserved for leaving her homeland? Perhaps it was true that Percas was right, that leaving her home would be dangerous, not for herself, but those around her.
She knew the task was too great for her and them. They were a team of three, against an entire castle, a city, a kingdom, and here they failed, miserably. They didn’t get even so close to succeeding. Not at all.
Then came resentment.
It wasn’t her fault, then.
It wasn’t their fault, either.
It was them.
They were the problem.
The people, the city, the kingdom, the king, the skewed morals they’ve instilled among themselves.
Who was there to blame but them? They were the ones who started it, after all. It didn’t matter who, what, when, where, or how the circumstances began. It was about the morals of the matter—the meaning behind the motion. It was inherently broken, destroyed and fallen right under into a crack that no man could reach. It was unsolvable, and she had the gall to suggest even fixing that crack. In fact, she just widened the fissure.
Then came acceptance.
Then it was her fault, then. Perhaps she was better off leaving the city—to find out what her purpose was. She needn’t involve anybody else, in fact, it wasn’t their problem. She had the audacity to involve other people and look at what happened.
She hurt them. She hurt others. She hurt herself.
Yes, she wasn’t human. Not at all. So she didn’t need to concern herself with them. They were different, completely apart—two different races fated to never meet. Isn’t that right? She believed. Perhaps that was why her kind was so indifferent to the people, simply because they could not be involved with one another.
Then, she stumbled out of the entrance of the castle. Not a single soul was in sight as she fell face-first into the stone. Now her head was bleeding, falling against the crooked, jagged cobblestone which protruded every few steps.
Picking herself back up, she continued forward. She could feel the weight of her problems pulling against her legs. Now, it wasn’t a matter of exhaustion. It was herself, the many instances of guilt dragging her back to where she belonged; sheltered, in a castle, forever to be a bird stuck in a cage like the little princess she was.
Slowly, she crept upon a crowd. Her running had turned into a sluggish walk, back hunched over, with one hand on her stomach and the other holding on to anything remotely static. She had to pull herself up, and her vision was running faint, blurry and dark as she crept upon the crowd.
She was in the Central Plaza now, head pushing through bodies as she listened to the large crowd clamour. With her ears ringing, she pushed ever so forward until she reached the open space within the crowd. She winced in pain, shoes stepping on her already bloodied feet and bodies pushing her against another as her feeble self slowly broke into pieces. Then, she saw the clearing, the large open space which dominated the Central Plaza was now taken over by a large gallow. The once serene plaza was now a land of chaos, and the fountain in its centre became a sitting stone for the best view in the show.
She was in a circus, and soon she was to be its cast.
However, Varna didn’t see a single familiar face. Sure, there were some people who’d entered her inn a few times as she worked, and she noticed them, but she couldn’t find the children, Kallas, Einwald, or even Brodovar, the prison guard. She felt relief, initially, but knew and came to realise that relief was unfounded.
Suddenly, the crowd was silenced. The ringing had somewhat subsided, and Varna, surprised at the sudden quiet, looked up at a large imposing figure. The figure of a king. The figure of a man, who dominated over tens of thousands of people over many territories in a continent that he himself owned. That was King Donovan, current king of the Marlyn Continent, who raised his hand to silence the masses.
But in the split second that he silenced the crowd, Varna could notice an indescribable expression creep upon his face.
He looked lonely.
“Thank you, all for coming.” He spoke, large and imposing. “I understand that many of you are confused at my sudden disappearance. I would be too, given that we did win the last battle. But I assure you, that there is not a single thing that you should concern yourself with.
“I’ve spent the time thinking to myself of the last battle. There were many casualties, and for that I sincerely apologise,” He said, lowering his head, “however I hope you come to realise that is not the fault of our men. Rather, it is these people!”
King Donovan shouted, suddenly in fierce anger as the familiar faces she’d hoped to see are now in cuffs, led by Brodovar toward the front of the gallow. Among them was Ellen, who, rather than having her usual distant look, appeared dishevelled and crying. Right behind Brodovar, was Kallas, who appeared worn out and beaten, his uniform dirtied and partly ripped as he walked with his head lowered in cuffs like the children behind him.
You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.
King Donovan hissed. “These people— No, Sterling scum have come to our lands still, and after losing their battle have resorted to cruel and unjust tactics!
“Look at their leader, young and broken, who used a band of childish thieves to infiltrate and assassinate many of our men! Is it not the fault of Earl Sterling that these people have been imprisoned and sentenced to their untimely demise!”
“Your Highness, I—” Kallas pleaded.
“Silence!”
Kallas was quickly silenced, and his face beaten by Brodovar for speaking up.
“I wish to give these criminals a second chance at their life, I really do, but I also cannot let these scum roam across our streets like the rats they are.” King Donovan claimed. “As such, I will be enforcing a new decree upon this land.”
The people clamoured amongst themselves.
“All those, found to be working in relation to Earl Sterling, or found to be related to him, will be sent to immediate hanging under the name of treason!”
There, the prisoners looked up at King Donovan. They didn’t see the merciful king that they once did. All they saw was a cold hearted, cruel man, twisted by the horrors of the world as he set out to punish those who’ve wronged him once and once only.
“I hope this speech finds you in good faith, and I hope that this speech finds those scum in bad faith as well. And, I appreciate those of you who have taken the time to listen. Thank you.”
There, King Donovan stepped off the gallow platform and retreated into the crowd. The cape he wore was now overshadowed by the many bodies, as the crowd worked themselves up yet again. Panic ensued among the faces of the prisoners, and Kallas, struggling, had yet to accept their fate.
“Quiet!” Brodovar yelled, and the crowd went silent. “Let us hear what these criminals have to say for themselves.”
He smirked, and yanked the chain as Kallas fell forward to his feet; the children also fell suit. Brodovar, filled with an improper feeling of joy, placed his foot on the side of his face, pinning him to the ground.
“Brodovar, you—”
“Go on then, tell us. Tell us what you have to say for yourself.” Brodovar lifted his foot slightly off Kallas’ face. “Ah, or is it that you’d be leaving them to die if you did?”
“I—”
Brodovar removed his foot and grabbed the top of Kallas’ hair, pulling him up. His body coiled upward, and the chains dangled as he did so. Bending down, he whispered next to his ear in a cold, freezing voice.
“Do you see now? The truth of your righteousness? None of it matters here, nor there, nor anywhere in all of Marlyn. You mean nothing, you are nothing.” He wiped the dirt off Kallas’ shoulder. “You are simply just a bad product.”
“Brodovar…” Kallas said, glaring at him. “A bad product still exists for the economy. Something that you could never hope to achieve.”
“And what of it?”
“Isn’t that why you’re a prison guard? You failed to sell to the economy. The Tribunes. Climbed so far only to fall so far down, like the shitty ware you are. A useless, faulty machine.” He spat, chuckling to himself as the dirt on his hair fell to the ground.
Then Kallas found himself on the floor, groaning. His face was met with the heel of Brodovar’s boot several times over, spit coughing out of his mouth every time his head impacted the ground.
“You fuck!” He shouted at him. “It’s all your fault that I’m here, that I work in this shithole! You know how hard I worked my ass off, kissing the feet of higher officers just so I could earn myself an honourable title.”
He turned Kallas over to his side with his boot, kicking him in the stomach.
“And you ruined it! All of it! Fucked it up grandly because of your stupid morals! News flash, buddy— The world doesn’t work that way! We don’t work that way!”
There, Kallas, subject to the abuse, now started spitting blood out of his mouth, coughing and wheezing for air after having the wind knocked out of him several times. The children behind him began whimpering, watching as Brodovar beat the living sense out of him, scared that they would be subject to that same abuse in turn. Most were crying, Ellen including, who desperately begged Brodovar to stop, before getting up and grabbing a hold of his leg in her best attempt.
“You—!” Brodovar kicked Ellen out of the way. She stumbled across the ground, landing next to the chains as the other children were dragged with her.
Varna, horrified and looking around, cried for help with her broken language. She expected the crowd to be repulsed, shocked by this abhorrent behaviour, and here they were shouting for more and yelling acclaims to Brodovar.
“Beat that criminal!” One yelled.
“They have no life here!” Another said.
“Fuck Sterling!” Said a third.
Horrible. Disgusting. Vile. Repulsive. Hellish. There were no words to describe what she saw. She thought her hometown was dreadful, banishing those who showed even the slightest bit of hesitation against them to the Outskirts, leaving them to fend for themselves. But at least they could survive. At least they had the means to live their day-to-day lives. They may have been humiliated, shamed, expunged from their home and life, but at least they had a shred of conscience.
Here, there was none. There was only anger, hatred, brutality, shame, humiliation, and countless other synonyms that described the situation. Perhaps this was what punishment looked like. Perhaps the stars have cursed her for leaving her homeland. Perhaps she deserved this.
No. She couldn’t let this happen.
Seething with resentment, she ran into the man-made circle by herself. If nobody was there to help her, then she would do it herself. She started the problem; she incited the incident; it was only proper that she helped solve it.
Needle in hand from her pocket, she charged into Brodovar, who hadn’t expected a passerby to run into him. The needle was only a hand’s width long, but that was enough to pierce through the soldier’s clothes and enter his collarbone. She could feel the needle piercing through the flesh, and lodging itself just behind the bone itself.
Gagging, Brodovar stepped back holding the needle at the base of his neck as he glared at Varna. Yet, she could care less of the man she impaled, and placed all her focus on Kallas.
“You bitch!” Brodovar grabbed Varna by the hand, smashing her head into Kallas’ body. She could feel the Scarf she’d given him run across the ground as she impacted the unconscious man. She immediately got up and grabbed the Scarf, holding it by her arms as she glared at Brodovar.
“So you’re the girl he’s been seeing.” Brodovar held her by the arm. “Lovely Scarf, isn’t it. I take it that was your gift to him? He’s been wearing it ever since.”
She stayed silent.
“Not one to talk to, eh?” Brodovar grunted, grabbing the Scarf from her arms. Varna screamed.
“Oh, so that’s what gets ya.” He dangled the Scarf in her face. “Did’ja make this? It’s really pretty. I bet it could fetch a solid price on the market.”
“No, no, please. Stop.” Varna begged him.
Brodovar just gave a smile. “Don’t worry, I won’t sell it. I’m not that kind.”
“What?”
The Scarf was thrown to the ground with fury, and Varna screamed. She reached out for the Scarf, but was turned away when Brodovar pulled her to the side with her arm. He Trampled on the Scarf, its prismatic glow instead being overshadowed with dirt, grime and dust. Brown specks found themselves in the seams of the Scarf, and its once beautiful shine was now utterly disgusting.
Varna cried. Tears spilled down her face as she begged the soldier to stop. She deserved it, she really did. She believed it was her fault. Everything was her fault. Kallas, Ellen, Einwald, the children, Brodovar—it all came back to her and her idealism. She was just like Kallas in that right; she was naive and uneducated, unprepared and unfit for the cruel world around her. She should have stayed a bird in a cage, at home, where she would inherit her uncle’s unlasting bloodline.
In all that time, Brodovar was laughing, face with joy and content with all things as he’d finally released his pent up frustration. He hadn’t noticed that the Scarf began glowing brighter than the dirt surrounding it. He was simply too ecstatic.
And in all that time, Varna was too obsessed over her self-loathing to notice it too. Just when everything seemed to fall to ash, a wave of energy burst over the city, all coming from the Scarf.
And suddenly, the world cracked open.