Hanging there, between two chutes, in the cold, barely holding on to the wall, bleeding and pained, the memories hit Roge Lifebane.

He was young, so young, toddling around among the dallens who were almost knee-high to him. A man, laughing, telling him to pet them, not scare them.

In another, he was older, running around the yard with a stick he had liberated from a broken crate, swishing it around as if he were Willas The Swift that the pilgrims had been telling tales about. He stumbled on a rock and fell down, skinning his knees. Crying, he limped to the same man who picked him up and carried him to his bed. The man cleaned his knee, telling him it would be ok. He lay his head on the man’s shoulder, forgetting all about the great battles outside the monastery’s walls.

Older still, and two rich merchant boys who had come with their father to the monastery had cornered him in the yard. They were making fun of him, goading him to something he didn’t understand.

There had been only one other baby in the monastery the year before, another orphan, brought to become an acolyte, but it had died of the waxing sickness and was given to the dead. Roge did not know how to respond to the jibes of these boys.

“Don’t you have shoes?” asked the older of the two.

Roge looked down, not understanding. What was wrong with running around barefoot? The soles of his feet were used to the ground at the monastery, and Edmur Eyser said he was growing too fast for shoes.

“No,” he said.

“Stupid acolytes,” said the younger of the boys. “His hair looks like that beaver we saw, the one got run over.”

The other boy laughed.

Roge didn’t know how to react to that. He’d never seen a beaver in his life.

“Who cut your hair, boy?” the older one again.

“Edmur Eyser,” he answered, not sure what was expected here.

“Well he’s stupid,” said the younger boy.

Roge pushed him.

The boys had managed their goal. Now that the first punch, under what rules they were using that counted this as a punch, had taken place, they both lay into him.

One kicked while the other punched, alternating as he tried ineffectively to protect himself. He had never been in a fight, never even seen a fight, for who would come to fight the dead? There was nowhere to run, his back to the wall, and so they pounded him, punching his face and his stomach, until he was on the floor, lying in a ball, and they both kicked at his exposed hands and head.

He didn’t know how long this continued, retreating into himself, crying. At some point, they stopped and went away. It was night before the previous master of ceremonies found him, saying, “Get up, boy.“

When Roge didn’t, he, too, went away.

Soon, Edmur Eyser, then just an acolyte himself, came running. He carefully picked him up and carried him, cradled to his chest, to his own room. He cleaned him up and checked him over. Roge had two broken ribs and lacerations all over his hands and feet that would take weeks to heal fully. His face felt numb, and when he was later able to look at his reflection in a water bowl, a puffy black and blue visage stared back at him, scaring him so much that he fell backward on his ass.

Since that day, he was Edmur Eyser’s shadow throughout the day whenever there were pilgrims in the monastery. He helped the man clean, helped him set the bodies properly, and helped send the dead to their final rest if the pilgrims did not take them along when they left.

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He could not remain hanging like this for long. The men had not bothered closing the shutters and had left once they had dropped the bodies. He did not know what else the men would do or whether they would be back.

He said a quick goodbye to Edmur Eyser, a quick prayer for his passing.

Choosing the right-most chute that the men had not used, he pulled his knee up to the ledge, body straining. His habit, released from its captivity by the ledge once he had dropped down, was still bunched around his torso, leaving his bottom half exposed. His knee scraped along the wall, as did the foot that no longer had a sandal. He would feel the pain if he ever warmed up enough for blood to circulate throughout his body.

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The angle was wrong. With one hand stretched to the other chute’s round exit hole, he could not bring his knee high enough to find any purchase. He did not have the acrobat’s agility required for such a maneuver, and he was already stiff from the cold.

Thinking about what else he could do, he said another prayer to the dead in case he would be meeting them soon. Then, careful not to swing wildly, he moved the right hand further along the chute, creating space for the other. Using his feet, he shifted his body towards the right hand, moving his center of gravity under it. He breathed in deeply, exhaled, then, in one swift motion, released the left hand, grasping the other chute, and moved it to join the right.

His body, now no longer stretched between two chutes, had more room to move. Since he’d already shifted its mass, it did not swing over but did try to pull down. Not wanting to lose momentum, he instead pulled himself up towards the chute. Years of working in the monastery had toughened him. He had walked up and down the mountain, carrying produce and equipment that could not be grown or made there and that horses and carriages could not ferry due to the inaccessible path. He had also carried the dead, and it almost felt like they, far below him, now carried him back.

He pulled himself until his head reached the entrance to the chute. Then, as the wind continued its wailing for the dead, he hugged the chute with his chin and forced first one arm, then the other, into the chute. His fingers looked for anything he could hold onto inside its round shape. The floor, angled, was smooth with years of use. Moving his hands along the sides, he checked the rough stone, looking for anything he could grasp.

On the right, he found a protruding stone, large enough to hold with his hand. On the left, there were only small grooves. His numb fingers found purchase, though he could only tell that his arm was anchored when he tried to pull his wrist.

With both hands clutching what meager support he had, he lifted himself on his elbows, pulling himself up and into the chute. He thought he felt something snap in his left hand but could not afford to check. He brought his upper body in, lying on his stomach, breathing hard, no longer feeling the cold, the exertion, fear, and anger having chased it away. A fire was burning inside of him now.

Dangling between the living and the dead again, legs sticking out, now like something sinister trying to burrow in, he pulled himself fully into the chute. He would need to wait until the men had gone before entering the building. For now, he turned himself on his side, legs pulled up in the same position Edmund Eyser found him after the beating so many years ago, and exhaustion lulled him to sleep.

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The men came again later, though he wasn’t sure how long had passed. He could make out some of the wall, so daybreak was starting. The men were muttering to themselves quietly and threw another body down one of the chutes. They left soon after that.

He was shivering all over, the cold having numbed him to any pain. He inspected his hand, the one that had snapped last night when he climbed. It was throbbing, and he saw one of the had broken and was jutting at an odd angle.

He had done this with the animals in the past and with the dead when their visage needed to be fixed lest they upset their living interlocutors. He’d never done it to a live person, and certainly not to himself. Grabbing the broken finger with his other hand, trusting the cold to numb the pain, he quickly snapped it back into place.

Immediate, intense pain almost made him lose consciousness. Despite the cold, it felt like someone ripped out his finger, the sharp, stabbing pain radiating from it through his hand and up his arm. Hit clenched his teeth, biting on his tongue in the process.

The pain subsided, but now his tongue, too, was hurt. Cursing quietly, he tried to sleep again despite the aches he felt all through his body.

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He woke again, his feet baking in the hot desert Sun. Despite the suffering, his body had given in, and he slept for a few hours while day rose and warmth returned to the world with a vengeance. It was now baking his legs that stuck outside the chute.

He listened but didn’t hear anything. Moving his legs, he found that he only had one sandal. The other foot held a dull ache, and both knees and his stomach ached from scraping against the stone wall of the monastery. His penis and balls were both skinned raw, and his finger was broken. His tongue had swollen while he slept, adding its pounding to his list of complaints.

The most urgent need, though, was his bladder. It had survived a night in the desert cold and was close to bursting. He rotated on his back, using his hands to anchor himself so he didn’t slide down. He then opened his habit and pulled it up. Not bothering to aim, he let gravity angle his cock downwards and relaxed his control.

Piss came out, angling towards the desert below. With it came a sharp pain from his bruised and scraped cock. The pissing stopped, his body cutting off the flow by itself from the pain. He remained there, breathing quickly, controlling the pain, then tried again. Once more, the piss came out, bringing pain the pain with it. He knew to expect it now and controlled his body’s reaction.

From this angle, he could see the stream angle above his torso before dropping below to water the dead. Its pinkish color glistened in the rays of the sun.

That done, he set to exiting the chute. Carefully pushing up the shutter, he glanced through but saw no one. He turned over and crawled out, falling onto the floor.

Standing up, he made his way around the building, leaving red footprints in his wake. He stopped every few steps to listen, but the building was quiet, nothing living making a sound. Passing the chamber where the duke’s retinue had eaten he peered inside. Portions of smoked dallen were still on the table. He took some, eating one while stowing the rest in his pocket.

The next chamber, where before lay the old duke’s, was now empty. It was red with blood but there were no bodies. He said a quick prayer, then moved on.

He went to the balcony that was used to clean the room. Someone had opened it enough for him to go through. He lay down and crawled to the ledg, looking out onto the monastery’s courtyard.

Stephye Mortguard, the young boy who woke him, as well as the other acolytes of the monastery, were all in the courtyard, waiting for him as his heart was remade to match the color of his black wings.