Chapter Twenty-One: Homecoming

Tom awoke to deep green light. Bird song trilled lightly nearby. Menacing shadows stretched and yawned about him. He jolted upright as his memories caught up with his mind.

Orcs! Where are they!? he flailed around. Movement at the corner of his eye caught his attention.

Tom’s head whipped around just in time to see a face peering at him, before ducking back out through the door.

A door..? I’m …in a room? His brain stuttered and skewed like a cart on icy cobbles as it tried to align all the information coming in.

I’m on a bed. I’m not bound. I’m in a room. I’m in a room.

Tom looked around more carefully. The green light was coming from several crystals set into a mobile hanging over his bed. The bird song was really just beeping coming from an enchanted device next to him. As the mobile rotated, it was casting shadows from a collection of inscrutable objects sitting on tidy shelves placed around the room. He wore an unfamiliar robe, simple and white.

Hospital. I’m in a hospital, he concluded. The thought was a bright light shone briefly into a cave. He knew it to be true, for a moment, but he still couldn’t accept it as an enduring truth. He was sweating, his heart was still racing, and he couldn’t seem to unclench his fists from where he’d grasped handfuls of bedsheets in a rictus.

He caught the sound of crisp footsteps from where the door had been left ajar. Voices floated to him shortly after.

“...Not long, Healer. I poked my head in when the alarm went off,” a youthful sounding voice said.

“Well, good. Not a moment too soon. The Council is in a furor…” said an authoritative woman. They trailed off as they entered the room.

The speaker was an older woman with chin length brown curls and spectacles perched on a severe face. Two more people followed her in, a middle aged balding man, whose chubbiness made him look kindly, and a thin, nervous looking youth, obviously an assistant or trainee of some kind. They all wore the white garb of the Healers.

“Good, you’re awake,” said the woman. “You are in St. Aloe’s Hospital. I’m Healer Rain and this is Healer Smith.” She gestured perfunctorily to the chubby man. He smiled at Tom and gave him a gentle nod.

“Junior Fuller will also be joining us,” she finished absently.

Tom didn’t reply. His mind had only just accepted where he was. Now this new reality with people talking to him had occurred, and his mind was playing catch up once again. His mouth worked soundlessly.

“How are you feeling?” Smith asked. “Not in any pain, I hope.” He paused when he saw Tom struggling still, a concerned frown flickering across his face.

“It’s okay. You’ve been unconscious for several days, young man. Just lie back for me. There you go, now hold still…” His hands shimmered like the air above a stove on a winter morning. He passed them gently over Tom’s head, then prodded at some nearby enchanted objects with the dexterity born of thousands of repetitions. Rain stood there, the rims of her spectacles glowing a faint pink as she observed him closely.

“Everything seems fine,” said Rain.

“Agreed,” Smith said. “Two Healers and three days under renewal lights will do that for you.” He gave Tom another gentle smile.

“Just a bit of lingering shock, I suspect,” Smith continued, perching himself gingerly on the bed. “Tell me, son, what’s your name?”

Tom floundered for a few more seconds before Fuller grabbed up a glass from a nearby unit and offered it to him. He gulped down the water, and immediately brought on a coughing fit.

“Cutter,” he managed eventually. “Tom Cutter.”

Smith nodded kindly. Rain watched him like a hawk from behind her spectacles. Fuller jotted down notes with furious speed.

“Junior, please see that the Cutters are notified,” Rain said.

“Immediately,” she added, when it became clear Fuller simply noted it. “Notify the Council too, please, if you would.”

Fuller gulped and jumped to, nearly sprinting from the room.

“What’s going on?” Tom asked. “How did I get here, I was in the Green and then…”

Images of orcs flashed through his mind. Memories of unrelenting howls in the distance. Of running and running and running. Of being tackled. Of desperate fighting. Of having his throat crushed.

“Master Cutter, a Hunter found you and brought you back to Wayrest. They’ve been telling some …fanciful stories,” Rain said.

“Orcs!” Tom almost yelled. “There were Orcs! I need to tell the Council! Please!”

“Please refrain from yelling in the hospital, Master Cutter,” she said, sternly. “That is the …story the Hunter told. The rumour spread quickly. That is why the Council… they need to address this before it …gets out of hand.”

“Ridiculous. Orcs, in the Green? There haven’t been orcs anywhere in hundreds of years,” Rain continued, half to herself.

“Go easy on the lad, Nel,” Smith chided. “He’s been in the Green for two months. Over a month completely alone, going by the other survivors. We can’t imagine what he’s been through. He’s still in shock, is all.”

Rain looked chastised, but her scepticism was still plain on her face.

“I swear it’s true!” Tom pleaded. “There’s orcs in the Green! We need to prepare! They have Ideals!”

Rain gave a disbelieving huff. Smith looked at him with a carefully neutral expression. The shimmer appeared around his hands and he moved them around Tom’s head again.

“I’m not crazy!” Tom said, trying to jerk away and finding himself held in place. “It’s true!”

Smith finished his examination and turned to Rain, shaking his head slightly. Tom slumped back in the bed, no longer held still by some invisible force.

After a moment of communication through meaningful glances, Smith turned his attention back to Tom.

“Master Cutter, we understand you’ve been through an incredibly traumatic experience,” he said. “A handful of survivors from your unit returned almost a fortnight ago. They reported your unit being destroyed by a village-killer swarm.”

He sighed, removing his glasses and rubbing the bridge of his nose. Rain peered at Tom disapprovingly from over Smith’s shoulder.

“Most of those who returned have been …unsettled, to say the least,” he explained. “There’s no shame in it. Many people find whatever refuge they can to get them through events such as that. The Council has some interest in …testing the veracity of these claims though. Just the stories of a village-killer swarm have the rings worried. Not to mention all the families after news of loved ones. Not many have returned.”

He looked at Tom expectantly. For Tom’s part, he said nothing. His reality was firming back up around him, and it was clear these two were not going to believe him. It didn’t matter. Once he explained to the Council, they would sort the rest.

Rain cleared her throat impatiently. “The Council has asked to see you as soon as you’re able. By my judgement, that would be tomorrow. You can register with the Church while you’re there. Saves us from calling in a priest.”

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“The Church?” Tom asked, confused.

“Yes, boy. You’ve obviously manifested. We’ve spent the last few days observing your body with our skills. No normal human could survive the injuries you took. You were filthy, covered in cuts and abrasions, and had zero signs of infection. In fact, we detected buffs of some description. You’ll need to register.”

Tom couldn’t think of anything to say. I’m an Idealist, he thought. The concept seemed different in some intangible way now that he was back in Wayrest.

All citizens of Wayrest had to register with the Church of Truth when they manifested. It allowed the different Idealist organisations in Wayrest to keep an eye on those they might like to recruit. It also gave the Church first pick at any newly manifested citizens, which Tom was sure was just a happy coincidence. He knew there was at least one member of the clergy on the Council.

Tom nodded and thanked the pair of Healers. Smith performed a last few checks while Rain made some calibrations to the enchanted equipment positioned about the bed. They took their leave afterwards, showing him a small circle to press on a plate next to his arm if he needed anything.

Tom slumped back into the bed. For a long while, he luxuriated in the feeling of the mattress under him, the pillow, the sheets, the cleanness of his body, the lack of aches and pain. His mind slowly absorbed everything, fitting all the facts together into a coherent timeline.

A Hunter found me. They must have driven off the orcs, Tom reasoned. They’ll be able to corroborate my story. Or I’ll be able to corroborate theirs, I guess. Although having a Hunter on my side is almost as bad as having no one at all.

I can’t have been far from Wayrest, he realised, with no small amount of pride. I almost made it out all by myself.

Suddenly, an image of Clairvine’s head bobbing around, tied to a makeshift mail skirt surfaced. Gad’s chest, a ruin of red, fleshy wounds. A soldier, seizing and twitching and frothing. Another, pleading with a look as he was dragged soundlessly away. Sam’s lifeless eyes, inches away from his face.

Tears leaked down Tom’s face. All my fault, he thought. I should have been stronger. Should have done more.

He knew, realistically, there was nothing he could have done. But feelings ever had nothing to do with realism.

He had grown close to his unit over the Reaping. He wouldn’t have called them friends, but sharing such an experience builds bonds. Elensfield, Markhart, Kawlstone and Gracefield. Dead. Clairvine, who selflessly protected their small group of survivors. Dead. Gad, who bullied him for years, and whom Tom failed to save as his very first act as an Idealist. Dead.

Tom spent a time crying. Eventually, the tears stopped. His chest ached, and his eyes burned, but he felt better. Lighter. It wasn’t his fault that so many people died, but he did take some measure of responsibility for them. He allowed himself to feel sorrow for their deaths, but he tried not to wallow. That wouldn’t help anyone.

If he had greater responsibilities now as an Idealist, he had to hold himself to a higher standard. He needed to be strong, so that he could protect people in the future. The way Tom saw it, many people confused strength with hardness, and it made them brittle. Tom’s own father was one. A sword could protect people, but it didn’t care if it did. And if it broke, then it couldn’t protect anyone.

For Tom, strength was more than being hard. Yes, it was the strength of the blade. But it was also the stoicism of a mountain. The flexibility of the sea - shifting to admit, and flowing to fill. It was the unrelenting wind. The continuous paring away and growing new of the forest. And most importantly, the nature of the heart.

He once heard a travelling monk preach that desire is the cause of all suffering, and Tom desired to help people.

His thoughts turned to the living. There were other survivors. A surge of relief welled in him.

I’ll find out who, Tom promised himself, glad that at least a few others had made it back from their hellish Reaping. He found himself hoping that Ella had made it back. Her words, although in anger, had been invaluable to him, and he wanted to show her how they had helped him.

A pang of guilt ran through him. I’ll need to tell her about Gad too.

I wonder how the other units went. I wonder if any others ran into orcs. Tom hoped fervently that they hadn’t. The distances in the Deep Green were vast. Staggeringly so. If any other units had run into any orcs, then the infestation was already too big to stop.

Hopefully the Sowing took, as well, he thought. If it had failed, and almost an entire unit was lost as well, it would be a black mark in Wayrest’s history.

Finally he turned to his wisp. It bobbed placidly in the corner of the room nearest him. He tugged it over with a thought, Status.

Ideal One (Classic): Suffering.

Skill One (Classic): Agony (Active):

Mana cost: Low.

Cooldown: Short.

Range: Moderate.

Damage: Low.

Damage over time: Moderate.

Duration: Moderate.

Inflict pain on target. Damage is typeless.

Skill Two (Classic): Sweet Suffering (Passive).

Debuffs and poisons are negated, and instead give an equal and opposite buff. Buffs last for as long as any debuffs would have. Immune to disease and damage-over-time effects.

Ideal Two (Classic): Silence.

Skill One (Classic): Hush (Active).

Mana cost: Moderate.

Cooldown: Moderate.

Range: Medium.

Duration: Moderate.

Apply Silence debuff to target. Puts caster to sleep if self-targeted.

Ideal Three (Classic): Survival (Classic).

Skill One (Classic): Survival of the Fittest (Ritual (Familiar)).

Mana cost: Extreme.

Cooldown: Extreme.

Requirements: Fifty life essence, five hunger essence, five sleep essence, five cold essence, five blood essence and one wild essence. Five aspect essence.

When summoned: Familiar can make extreme or heavy damage physical attacks. Familiar’s physical attacks have a minor damage bleed over time effect. Familiar has an attack that deals moderate magic damage up to short range and low damage up to moderate range. Moderate cooldown on ranged attack.

When subsumed: Caster gains increased toughness, strength, and their physical attacks gain a trivial bleed over time effect. Extreme buff to caster’s sense of smell.

Skill Two (Classic): Grit (Passive).

Caster’s toughness increases the lower their health is.

Tom’s eyes lit up as he read through his status. I’ve manifested another skill! he thought, jubilant. Helps explain how I survived that fight with the orcs, not to mention getting dragged back to Wayrest. I’ll have my Ideals uplifted to Complete in no time if this keeps up.

It was a good feeling, one he sorely needed after his experience. His three Ideals were …unusual, to say the least. He’d never heard of anyone with any of the three. Suffering, especially, was strange. Tom resolved to be proud of them, though. He had spent so many years struggling and striving to manifest, he would not allow anyone to rain on his parade.

The strangeness of his Ideals was a minor consideration beside him having manifested three Ideals in the first place. That was almost unheard of. Tom could think of only a handful of people who’d manifested a fall in a single Reaping.

He had done it. He’d manifested not one, not two, but three Ideals. Their House was saved. The peerage would be clamouring to get in the Cutters’ good graces. He’d made it back to Wayrest to warn them of the orcish infestation growing outside the walls.

His parents were going to be so proud.