Eyes opened to greet the rising sun long before the designated arrival of that which had brought them to this sight. A low and bright star hung tightly to the horizon, illuminating the gently-lapping crimson waves at the shore of the river below in an orange and yellow light that felt more belonging in a painting than the physical world.
Henry did not eat in the morning, not for lack of hunger or routine but of opportunity. Amanda was nowhere to be seen, possibly performing some sort of morning training routine, and none of the others present seemed to eat at all on the expedition. It was unnerving, but his own lack of physical hunger kept the thoughts from racing in anxiety at the implications of such a thing. Lack of hunger wasn’t something to find distasteful— it was useful, even if the act of not eating presented a certain mental discomfort.
For lack of company Henry simply waited, watching the sun rise. It wasn’t something he ever had occasion for in the past. The sun simply rose without fanfare. It wasn’t something that normally deserved his attention, more a fact of life like hunger or death… and yet both were now absent. It was like the fundamental realities of life had been inverted to something no less real, nor even unpleasant, yet off-putting all the same. A vibrant sun wasn’t something he was used to seeing. It was a pleasant sight with the all-too-familiar feeling of tingling skin in the warmth of a morning whose day would be much hotter.
Such a familiar thing shouldn’t have been novel, and yet sitting on the grass hilltop outside his canvas tent, Henry couldn’t help but think about how funny life could be sometimes. He’d watched the sun rise countless times, and yet only now did he finally see it. He could see something in its rays, not quite hope but of a reality setting that had formerly been absent. It was like the sunrise had never been real before, just a myth or a digital painting arising from the lies of discretized light on a cold monitor. He knew this shouldn’t have mattered, and yet could feel all the same that this memory would never leave him.
As morning transitioned into day the camp was disassembled and its small army of inhabitants gathered around the beachside in preparation for the arrival of the goods they had come for. Two small ships appeared in the distance, bristling with oars to either side on this windless day, and with the closing of their arrival came a sense of dread. Now was the time for ambush, and now was the time Henry would face what it meant to live in a fantasy world— the power inherent to every drop of water infused with the blood of a god that rocked gently in small waves before him.
It was no surprise when Zorvilon introduced himself. The ships stood on the shore, small wagons of goods having been unloaded by combination of magic and physical power, planks still extended on the beach. The waves lapped gently at ship and shore alike, and the appearance of this short man wearing a bright red cloak did not disrupt that. It was tinged with orange rays of what seemed to be fire gently shifting in chaotic patterns of noise at the sleeves, hood, and bottom of the cloak. His hood was up, but beneath it two eyes like rays of fire shone brightly as though miniature stars.
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“Greetings, travelers! I am Zorvilon, perhaps you’ve heard of me? Hand over the goods or you’ll soon find out why my name is known.”
Regulus said nothing, but dropped his center of gravity slightly as though preparing to tackle someone. His Scourgeborne troops let down the goods they had been unloading to the sand to form a semi-circle around the commanders, and Amanda near-silently cursed. Though a whisper, Henry could just make out what was said.
“fuck… a suicide mission.”
She went on, but Henry didn’t need to hear anything else. His thoughts began to race in perfect order.
“Why had I been sent here? To die. Why were Amanda and Regulus sent with me? They must have displeased their superiors. Why have I been subjected to this? To rid the Triumvirate of a possible enemy. How would I be stopped from regenerating? Being captured and chained up as a prisoner of war.”
It had all become clear to him now, and yet even as the unclarity of this situation revealed what had always been its true nature, a single thought began at first a whisper in his mind. It was the fate of a prisoner captured in battle. Such a thing was never pleasant, and yet always ended in the divulging of information. Normally that which came after the spilling of guts was a quick death or a prisoner swap. In this case neither would be possible, and yet Henry held precious little information with which to trade a reduction of torture. He could lie, and yet with so little knowledge of the world would accomplish little other than to make his captors believe he was a bad liar. Even in telling the truth he would encounter the lingering doubts of the possibility of reincarnation occurring at all. If it were common in this world it would have progressed beyond swords and sorcery, he knew.
And yet in a calm voice Amanda began to speak as though she had done this a thousand times before.
“If we give you what you’ve asked for, will you let us go?” she said in a loud but even voice.
Zorvilon threw back his hooded head and began to laugh maniacally.
“Hahahahahahahahahahahahahahahahaha…” he began, finally pausing after some ten or twenty seconds, then straightened himself back up and responded in the same tone as Amanda, somewhat loud and yet devoid of inflection.
“No, of course not.”
He then began to laugh once again, this time all the more deranged, finally adding between fits of what could almost be described as the shrieks of a dying man,
“You’re all going to die here.”