I listen to the rhythmic crashing of the solitary waterfall in Unadeam. The water that punches through the dark cliffs has made one of two tunnels that I know of that do not contain teratolion but are near untraversable due to the life-giving fluid that flow in and out of them. My clothes sit next to me drying in the sun, most of the blood having been painstakingly washed out of the threads, but stains still spatter them as testament to my recent ventures.

I’ve agreed to die for Uzuri if I can’t find some other way to save her. A part of me still doesn’t fully accept this, as I stare at the lip of the cliff above me. I walk to the sheer walls and place my hand on their crystalline surface. The cliff is incredibly smooth to the touch, and the cracks that do form what could be handholds are razor sharp. If I placed my hand on one such handhold, my fingers would be severed instantly. I cannot climb the cliffs, and if I attempted to dig my way to salvation, it could take lifetimes. Only the teratolion have learned to live within the walls that keep me from the rest of the world, and they do not take kindly to humans.

I return to the stone I was sitting on and try to clear my thoughts. I just need a moment of peace from the barrage of my own insecurities and worries. However, even in attempting to achieve silence the curse of my inheritance plunders my peace. Voices suppressed by years of training rush into my consciousness. The whispers of the forest berate me from all angles. Whispers that don’t speak to my ears but something more primal within me.

I open my eyes and the world that once was bathed in light now appears shrouded in foggy shadow. Trees appear to be composed of a mist that flows like water, cackles with lightning, but despite seeming to be composed of a flowing substance the mist holds a solid structure. Glimmering spheres float within the center of the spectral trees. The rocks, ground, and cliffs also appear to be composed of the mist, but it is thinner and the lightning that is prominent in the trees and the spheres that also dwell within the trees are not present within these objects.

I quickly look for something to focus on to quell the whispers, or at least make them more manageable. In front of me is a flower and with all the force of my will I bring my full attention to the flower. Within seconds my vision darkens, and the glimmering sphere of the flower appears to be the only light to my vision.

“My composition and yours are compatible,” whispers the flower now replacing the overwhelming deluge that once pounded into my being, “if your body experiences a fever, my petals contain a compound to reduce it. Beware, that consuming to much of me could destroy your stomach.”

I take a few deep breaths and the whispers of the flower cease. Though my eyes are open, it feels like my eyes are opening as light and color now paint the landscape once more. I lost control, are my nerves really that on edge? I remember when the whispers would overwhelm me in my childhood as if at random and it would take my mother’s embrace to bring me back to my senses. My father doesn’t know what causes these whisper fits and doesn’t know what the mist or glimmering spheres are, and all he could do to help me was teach me to quell the voices.

The strange thing about the mist-borne voices though is that they speak true. Everything they share with me seems to be correct. The flower below me is in fact good for reducing fevers. In addition, the mist I see also seems to be the source of my father’s power, as he releases it from himself and manipulates it to lift rocks, or even transform it to make things as if from thin air. The glimmering sphere within him every time he uses the mist replaces the mist whenever it is expended. My father’s power is linked to the mist and is limited only by the supply of mist he has inside himself or produced by the glowing ball in his chest, but my father says that the mist doesn’t exist. He tells me that his magic is limited, and if he uses too much he could die, and he gauges his limit by how he feels.

Why can I see the mist, and he cannot? Why is the mist I produce different than his? I permit my vision to fall into the mist again and look at the mist within my hand. I focus as hard as I can and try to force the mist out of my finger. Much like when I showed the small flame to Gareth, sheer agony wracks my body. I feel my muscles constrict as the pain gets worse. Yet, I still muster shards of my will to force a single tendril of mist from my fingertip, that fades as fast as I can push more of the mist from my body. I quickly focus on igniting it and the small flame returns, fed from the mist weakly exiting my body. After maintaining the flame for a few seconds, my focus wanes and I lose control of my body as the agony finally surmounts my will and I collapse to the ground.

I feel so cold, as I shiver on the ground. My body had broken into a cold sweat and each hair on my body felt like it was standing at attention. I take a few deep breaths trying to overcome the weakness that had overcome me. Something within me felt like it was vibrating, it felt like something was straining against me to escape but was still somehow firmly bound inside.

Passes upon passes I have tried to master the mist, but that weak flame is all I can produce and only for about ten seconds before my body gives out. After so much trial and error, and so much soul rending suffering a mere candle can outdo me.

Am I just too human, is that why I can’t do what a celandil should? Did I inherit all the worst aspects of my parents? I’m weak and small because of my father and didn’t inherit the more bulky and large build of the villagers. I inherited my humanity from my mother, which may have weakened the abilities my father possesses as a celandil. Perhaps my mixed heritage of human and celandil is what causes the whisper fits. On top of all of these traits, I am an outsider by my father, but I still have the obligation to participate in the Amolacrimae and the trials of Martog by my mother.

If only I was born just a bit different. With the body of Gareth, and the powers of my father, maybe I could have saved Uzuri, and even be desired by the village, but I am me. Now, I need to be more than me, and I don’t think it is possible. I look back at the cliffs, and feel just as imprisoned as Uzuri, as I’m a prisoner to my body, and a prisoner to my fatal fate.

Enough! I scream in myself! Enough! I’ve told myself these things hundreds of times before. I turn my view from the waterfall and to the tree behind me. A rotting noose hangs from its branches. My internal vigor restores itself, remembering a grim promise I made to myself. I need to focus on how far I’ve come. Under my own power I freed Uzuri once, it wasn’t the powerful frame of Gareth that did it, but my own planning and action. Under my own power and not some mist I was able to show Uzuri the stars. It was Uzuri, and her kindness that drove me to such feats, and it was her that saved me from that swinging desperation.

Maybe I have been doing things wrong this whole time. Maybe I have to develop power in my own way. I am not a celandil or entirely human, I am me. I cannot expect that the solution will be the same as those that came before, even if I can learn from where they stand.

I put on my clothes, and before I leave the waterfall I crouch down and pick the flower that whispered to me. Another for my collection of medicinal plants, I think to myself whilst smiling. I’ll probably make this small flower into a powder to make fever reducing teas, or maybe fill an easily swallowed puff cracker with the powder for the same purpose. I beam as I ponder on all the possibilities, as becoming a healer is what I desire for my future, or at least I hope to live long enough to become a healer.

My thoughts though distracted briefly and given respite by the flower; wander back to the challenges that I must face. I have one pass, but that doesn’t mean I’ll die, and it doesn’t mean that I won’t see the world. If I spend the remainder of my life struggling as hard as I can to achieve my goals, my life will still be worth the time I had, or at least I hope so. Succeeding at freeing Uzuri would definitely be better than dying a failure though. Living long enough to become a healer while having saved Uzuri, would be even better. Living long enough to hear Uzuri confirm what Gareth said, and to walk beside Uzuri free… I clasp my hands together remembering her fingers intertwined with mine. Blood flushes to my face and I shake my head to clear my thoughts.

I’ve wasted too much time here, and so I start running to the northern wood, where my family dwells far from the villages influence. I run as fast as I can and race against the deer that prance through the trees. I almost vow to myself to enjoy the time I do have as much as I can, given that it is now far more limited than ever.

This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

I arrive at my family’s home close to the setting of another day. I see my father in his broad brimmed hat sitting on a wooden bench he placed in the front yard of my family’s cabin. He plucks his lute, singing to himself. The tune I know extremely well. It is a song he sings to my mother every time they see each other. When my father sees me, he drops his lute and rushes toward me.

“Skath, are you all right my boy,” says my father looking at my bloodied clothes, “Your mother just passed by telling me that Gehenna had you strung up for robbery. She thought I had come to rescue you and is worried sick about you. What happened?”

“I tried to help Uzuri escape her father, but I wasn’t careful enough,” I say looking at the ground, and falling into my father’s embrace, “Gareth set me free.”

“Wait the hellish bastard,” says my father pushing me from his embrace while placing his hands on my shoulders to more fully look me in the eyes, “the same one that beats the ever-living shit out of you on a near weekly basis.”

“His hunts only occur a few times a season,” I say shrugging my shoulders, “I heal so fast that it’s not that much of an inconvenience. Martog’s maw, the brute is surprisingly nice when you get to know him, or rather work with him.”

“First, we say ‘Hell’ here none of this Martog bullshit. Also, I taught you how the calendar works, none of this seasons and passes stuff,” says my father with a smile signaling for me to follow him, “let’s get you into some clean clothes, and lets burn those rags before your mother sees ‘em. There will be all ‘hell’ to pay if she sees your clothes bloodied like this.”

For the first time in nearly a week I feel at ease and safe. I enter my father’s home and feel the warmth of the hearth. I hear a cauldron bubble with boar stew and I’m finally home. My father tosses me a fresh pair of clothes, and I duck into a small bedroom, my bedroom, to change. The walls are covered in herbs hanging to dry. The strong scent of herbs used to cook seem to combat the more bitter scents of the medicinal herbs which in turn mask the scent of blood on my clothes and my scent that hangs in the air of the room. A mortar and pestle sit on a desk where a book also lies with several pressed plants in its pages. My bed and stuffy deer sit in the corner begging for me to come and rest. But I can’t rest yet, I still have a few things to do.

I exit my room wearing a fresh tunic, pants, and shoes that do not have gaping bloody holes in them. I see my father stirring the stew and when he sees me, he says, “I hope you don’t mind that I used some of the herbs and spices from your collection, the stew doesn’t taste quite right without them.”

I sit down and warm myself at the hearth and I feel my father cover my shoulders with a blanket as he continues to talk to me, “you must have gone through a lot these last few days. From what I hear if you weren’t even partially a celandil you would have probably died, lost your arms, or possibly never be able to walk again.”

I begin to hear my father cry as he massages my shoulders behind me, “why can’t we find peace in this world. Even you who are so human can’t seem to find peace. I’m so sorry that you bare my blood, if you were born of pure villager blood you wouldn’t have to endure so much.”

“Is there any way to run to the world beyond the cliffs?” I ask getting up and pouring myself a bowl of soup.

“Go ahead and help yourself to as much soup as you can. You have a lot of blood to regenerate,” says my father watching me, “why do you ask, isn’t Unadeam your home?”

“Unadeam is just as much your home as it is mine,” I say downing a bowl of broth before filling my bowl a second time with broth, meat, and vegetables.

“Unadeam is my home. You and your mother are here. What are you saying Skath,” says my father joining me at the cauldron, “your Amolacrimae will go smoothly and you will be accepted into the village, you’ll see.”

“I’m not you dad,” I say quietly, it was difficult to muster the courage and energy to speak, “besides you and Gehenna, no boy has lived through the trials in recent memory. What even are the trials anyway? Why do so many have to die to them?”

I look into my father’s eyes and it appears like for the first time he realizes that perhaps he had put too much confidence in the legacy he gave me. I see him sit down in a chair covered in pelts with his bowl of soup and watch him drain the liquid as quickly as I did with my first bowl.

“I hadn’t really thought about it,” he admits taking off his hat and placing it to his side, “I always thought that you would take on that barbarian ritual with ease. However, now that I remember my own experience with the trials, perhaps I relied too much on the magics of our forefathers.”

“What did you have to do during your trials?” I ask, digging into another bowl of soup. The flavor dances on my tongue, as I enjoy the tangy broth, soft meat, and flavorful vegetables.

“The trials change every year. Sometimes there are repeats, but that is rather rare as the brutal creativity of the high matriarch is vast,” says my father picking up a piece of wood he had been whittling into a boar figurine, “For my trials, I was starved for three days and then had to take on a boar bare handed, only to make the trek back to the village without sating my hunger or thirst. Honestly, if Gehenna wasn’t more beast than man, he wouldn’t have had the strength to surpass the trials, and as for me if it wasn’t for my magics, I wouldn’t have made it either.”

“I possess neither of those things,” I say getting yet another bowl of soup, “I’m not a monster of a man, or a powerful celandil. The only way for me to avoid the trials now is to learn how to fly or become a powerful sorcerer which even with your help these past few years, I’m no better than what I was at the beginning of your lessons. Even if I face the trials the best result will be that my death will help free Uzuri.”

“You need to stop trying to free that girl,” my father says coldly, “sometimes you need to think about yourself above others. This girl unfortunately is tied to powers that if you tamper with them, it could bring suffering upon many.”

“That’s rich coming from the man who supposedly recued mother from those zealots,” I say now glaring at my father, placing my bowl to the side.

I see my father duck his head and stutter only to say, “You are right about that… It is horrible what they are doing to that girl. However, her existence provides them salvation and peace.”

“What do you mean?” I ask getting up and walking toward my father, “what are you not telling me?

“The mountains were not peaceful before her birth, and now they are. That is as much as I am going to say,” says my father putting his hand on my head.

“Why not just tell me! If what you aren’t telling me can save her, you are just as guilty as the village,” I yell at my father, knocking his hand from my head.

“Tell me, if I could this very night free you from Unadeam and take you into the world beyond, would you accept my offer?” says my father, getting up from his chair to face me.

Where did that come from? One second, we were talking about Uzuri, now I’m offered salvation. I can’t abandon Uzuri, especially after the conviction I felt, and after swearing to Gareth that I would save her. Then again, can I really turn down the chance to live? Noises stutter from my lips, and I bite my lip as I turn my gaze away from my father. I can’t answer him.

“Your hesitation is enough of an answer. Unadeam is still your home as you are tied to it still,” says my father putting a hand on my shoulder, “the girl means a lot to you, but I can’t have you throw your life away for her. Are you truly willing to partake in the consequences of saving her?”

“I am,” I mutter feeling conflicted at saying even that much.

“Your salvation, and hers may damn a people to oblivion. In addition, you may have to pay a great price just to obtain the power and influence necessary to obtain freedom. Does this sound like something you can live with?” asks my father, his second hand now pressing on my chin to look him in the eyes.

I remain silent trying to grasp the significance of what my father was saying. The weight I already bore grows with each word my father spoke. What did he mean by damn a people to oblivion? I promised Uzuri that I would never harm another. I swore to her this promise when I was certain that I would be a healer in the future. Can I really betray my promise and aspirations by bringing harm upon several others? Maybe my father is just trying to scare me or make me waver. I can’t be sure, but at this moment I know that Uzuri suffers, and I will continue forward hoping that my father’s words are empty warnings, or fear inducing bluffs. I nod in response to my father’s question, hoping that I saw through a ruse, rather than listened to my father speaking true.

“I ask one last question of you. If you could free her, but her fate was larger than you realized. Her destiny being one that would grant her authority so great that it could change the history of the world. Though, in giving her all this you would not be able to stand by her, would you still desire her freedom no matter the cost?” asks my father, his hand moving from my chin to my shoulder.

A solitary thought returned to my mind, ‘with or without me I want her to see a world without walls.’ For so long I wished to be by her side, but if I could give her the ability to not only see the stars but have the power to achieve her own destiny and I wouldn’t be able to be with her would I still want that. I feel so selfish thinking that, but I want to be with her still, and if the price is despite both of us being alive and free, we must be separated, is that a price too great for me to pay?

“I still want to be with her,” I admit, tears filling my eyes.

“There is no other way,” my father says, “for her to truly be free, and for you to live, you will have to step away from her side and permit her to claim her stolen legacy.”

“Then I have no other choice,” I say looking him in the eyes, “I will do what I must to save her!”

“Finish eating, and prepare yourself,” says my father collecting his cap and putting it on his head, “once you finish, we are leaving.”

“Where are we going?” I ask, perplexed by the suddenness of my father’s decisive change of pace.

“To make a deal with the devil,” says my father taking a deep breath and sighing with what seems like the entire weight of his soul, “I may not be the best teacher for you, but perhaps I know someone who is more capable.”