CHAPTER SIX // Bloodied One
"Just fucking go, if you're gonna go," Arha snarled, refusing to meet his eyes. "I have work to do."
Grakke was standing there, just on the outskirts of her vision - towering but penitent, shoulders slumped and rucksack slung over his back. Arha couldn't look at him. Couldn't see the expression that she knew he had to be wearing. The sight of it would surely break her.
"Arha, please," came that low, rumbling voice. "Let's not end it like this."
"End it like what?" Arha scoffed, cold as the bitterest winter storm. "You said your part. I said mine. Now get lost."
"Arha-"
"You," she started, and now her hands were trembling, "said you were leaving. So just leave already, for fuck's sake, and quit dragging it out. Can't you see I'm done talking to you?"
"I didn't-" an abortive attempt at a sentence. And then: "I'm sorry, Ar."
"Sorry for what?!" Arha all but spat, whirling on her former Shadow and feeling her own face twist in a mask of contempt. "Go on, be specific! Say that you’re sorry for abandoning your family – that you’re sorry for abandoning me!"
She saw him, finally, and she was struck then by just how small the big man looked, standing there amidst the waving reeds.
"One month," was all Grakke managed to croak out.
"What?" Arha demanded. She was allowing her ire to rise free and unchecked right now because she was terrified of the other feelings lurking beneath those baser instincts. When the rage did fade, she knew that those same feelings would come rushing to the forefront, but for now she would delay their coming for as long as she possibly could.
"You lied," Grakke said, and his voice strained as though the utterance had cost him a physical toll. "You promised me that we would be here just one month. It's been three."
"This place is a paradise!" Arha shot back, exasperated and confused. "Our people are happy and our people are safe! What else could we possibly-"
"I don't sleep at night!" Grakke shouted, and Arha fell abruptly silent. Even now the pain was visible on his leathery features. Even now his scars twisted the side of his mouth into a gruesome false sneer. "My thoughts, they’re...they’re so loud, Ar. And I'm restless, so restless, always moving always pacing always thinking like an animal in a cage and I get these, I get these dreams-"
"You think you're the only one who doesn’t sleep?" Arha interrupted bitterly.
"I've been fighting it for so long!" Grakke all but roared, jabbing a finger against the side of his skull. "This damned rage that turns me into a stupid, slavering beast! And every day that voice gets louder and louder and louder and Arha I don't think I can do it anymore. It's too quiet here, Ar. It's too quiet and I can hear my own thoughts far too clearly." His next words were all but a whimper. "I wasn't built for a life like this."
"But..." Arha trailed off. Her mind whirled desperately, searching in vain for the right combination of words to say that would keep him from leaving because she needed him and how was she supposed to keep doing this without him?
"There's a sickness in my soul," Grakke declared somberly, shaking his head. "I feel like a-like a half-man. Like I’m just a shade of a real person. I shouldn't be around these people and I can't be around these people and I just gotta...I just have to..." He looked down at her, his expression painted with the naked desperation of a starving man. "I gotta go, Ar."
"They'll never forgive you," Arha said, because it was the only thing she could think of, and instantly she regretted it because Grakke was a good man and he did not deserve to hear those words spoken aloud.
"I know," Grakke nodded, his voice all but a whisper. "I'm sorry. I just..." If there was more, it never came. The Shadow's mouth closed and his eyes turned away and then he was gone, his figure receding further and further and further until he disappeared into the edge of that blackened treeline.
And then the trees were contorting together and the ground was giving way and Arha saw that they were not trees but teeth, ninety-nine gleaming teeth and the ground beneath his feet was an endless portal of yawning dark and she was screaming and screaming and screaming until her throat was shredded and her voice was a ragged whistle but Grakke did not hear and he kept walking and the teeth were closing and then the teeth snapped shut and Grakke was gone and Arha fell to her knees, sobbing and sobbing and when she looked up it was Tekarn was stood over her, his features twisted with visceral, violent contempt. Arha tried to plead, to beg, to apologize a thousand times over but not a sound emerged from between her lips.
"Failure," her father spat.
Arha woke up.
In an instant, she was a blur of motion, a sword all but materializing in her hand as she leapt from her bed and dropped to a crouch, ready in an instant to annihilate whatever foe might before her. Death flowed through her veins, up her arm, across her sword and all the way to the point of the blade.
It was a beautiful morning in the Voshtarri village. Sunlight streamed lazily through cracks in the walls, and pleasant birdsong filtered down from the roof above.
Arha was panting as though she had just run a marathon. Her hair was dripping with sweat and matted to the side of her face. She held that pose for a moment longer, out of little more than stubborn pride - then dropped it with a heavy sigh, rising to her full height and allowing her shoulders to slump. The sword she tossed onto the bed, and her hair she was pinning back now, tying it into a loose ponytail as she willed her heartbeat to slow.
It had been nearly nine months since Grakke's departure and still she was having these dreams. Each time she said something different – sometimes begging, sometimes accusing, sometimes attempting to bargain and sometimes just outright insulting him – and yet each time Grakke’s response was exactly the same. She couldn’t even remember what she had actually said to him anymore, though she knew it had been something shameful and mean-spirited.
Silently, the former Eltok derided her own lack of mental fortitude as she dropped to the floor and performed two-hundred push-ups in rapid succession. Pull-ups followed, on a rafter-beam set in place for exactly that purpose, and with each successive repetition Arha was pushing herself further and further away from that half-remembered hellscape. When she was done with those, she donned her usual outfit - baggy pants and a sleeveless white shirt - affixed both sheath and sword to her belt, then turned and caught a glimpse of her reflection in a broken shard of mirror.
What stared back was one steel-grey eye and one mass of knotted scar tissue, both set into the pale, scar-crossed skull of a woman with disheveled red hair. What stared back was some wild, feral creature, playing at domestication but always and forever a beast at heart. What stared back was a creature that Arha loathed with every fiber of her being.
“You should be dead,” Arha spat, overcome by sudden vitriol. She could feel the bile rising in the back of her throat at just the sight of that wretched thing. And the thing was glaring back, too, its one eye wide with vivid hatred.
“Yeah, well,” the other woman sighed, after a moment, and her expression softened somewhat. “I’m not.”
“You should be,” Arha reiterated. “What do you think you’re playing at, living amongst these people? Pretending to be something you’re not? If they knew – if they even suspected who you really were, they’d eat you alive. And you’d deserve it, too.”
“Maybe,” the one-eyed woman admitted. “Maybe not. I’ve done a lot for these people, you know.”
“What you’ve done for them is a drop in the bucket compared to what you would have done to them,” Arha shot back. “Now you get to enjoy comfort and good fortune that we both know you have not earned. What you have earned, you miserable fucking Winnower, is nothing more than a sword straight through your gut.”
“This is your idea of penance, is it?” the woman demanded. She had heard all this a thousand times before. “Total self-destruction?”
“You’re still alive, aren’t you?”
“I’m dying slow,” she snapped. “You’re killing me slow, one day at a time. And for what? To what end do I suffer? Makran is happy. Nageth is happy. Zekval is the happiest I’ve ever seen him. The Voshtarri are enjoying safety and security the likes of which they’ve never known. I did good, for fuck’s sake!”
“Yeah?” Arha snarled. “And how’s Grakke doing these days?”
At that, the other woman fell mercifully silent.
“That’s what I thought,” Arha scoffed, turning away, and then her reflection was gone and she was alone.
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It was a brisk morning, and Arha felt the chill against her bare arms as the sky above wavered with a pale and uncertain shade of blue. The tips of the trees were pure black against it, marking the surrounding horizon with a jagged, contrasting edge. And though the Voshtarri were all but still asleep as Arha made her way down the hill – her hut was located on the far outskirts of the village, and the path to the longhouse was a bit of a hike – she knew full well of one man who was almost certainly awake.
Even still, she was unprepared for Zekval to simply appear like a phantom from behind one of the huts, and at his jovial exclamation of mornin, Ar! every one of Arha’s Winnower-trained instincts fired off at once, her sword leaping from its sheath as she prepared to-
“Oh, you asshole,” Arha sighed, sheathing her weapon as Zekval snickered noisily to himself.
“Sorry, sorry,” he said, though the impish little smirk on his face indicated that he was anything but. “It’s just - you and Makran will literally jump at anything, I swear.”
Out of everyone, it was surprisingly Zekval who had stepped up after Grakke's departure, acting now as almost a replacement Shadow - running security, organizing patrols, helping Arha with whatever she needed and generally just keeping tabs on everyone at all times. Moreso than any of the other exiles, Zekval's time in this place had changed him, and he had grown right before her eyes into a confident, mature, intelligent little smartass whom Arha wanted very much to strangle for intentionally startling her again.
“You really try that shit with Makran?” Arha scoffed, her heart still pumping – old habits died very, very hard – to which Zekval gave a smug nod. “You’re lucky she doesn’t take your head off.”
“Oh, she tries,” Zekval grinned. “But she’s real sluggish in the mornings. If only she didn’t drink so much...”
“You’re lucky I don’t take your head off, then,” Arha declared, to which Zekval tilted his head and conceded the point. Then, after a moment longer, his smile faded, and then it was straight to business.
“You remember our discussion a few nights prior?” Zekval asked, hooking his thumbs through a belt that sported no less than six daggers – four for throwing, and two for a much messier sort of work. “About people watching the village from the eastern treeline?” There was a casual, easygoing sort of confidence to his words, even as his voice grew low and consequential.
“I do,” Arha said, drawing to her full height and letting one hand rest comfortably on her sword-hilt. Being an ordinary villager was, for Arha, extraordinarily difficult. Being a soldier, a leader – now that was all but effortless.
“Well, they were back again last night,” Zekval grimaced. “I watched ‘em for hours, and they watched the village for about the same. Very little movement – just observing the entire village in silence.” He reached up, scratched idly at the back of his head. “I gotta tell ya, these guys know their stuff. Come morning, there wasn’t a single trace of evidence left behind. No sign that these people ever even existed at all.”
The sun was cresting the horizon, now, and the village was beginning to stir. Doors were creaking open and the line at the mess hall was beginning to fill and already the air was warming around them. Arha’s one eye cast towards the people she had sworn to protect – then back to her tireless subordinate.
“We’re being scouted,” Arha declared, and Zekval gave a grim nod.
“My thoughts exactly,” he agreed. “This has gotta be a prelude to something bigger.”
In the span of about a year, Arha and her exiles had driven off no less than three bands of cannibals and slavers, slaughtering any too foolish to run and displaying their bodies at the far outskirts of the clearing in grisly fashion – a brutal practice of which the Voshtarri remained blissfully unaware, though Elder Seko had at one point offered his tacit approval. For three months since they had enjoyed a period of relative peace and quiet.
But that was when Grakke was still with them – Grakke, who fought with the strength of ten men and whose physical stature was such that some no doubt believed him to be yet another abomination of that cursed forest. Makran was still a terrifying fighter and Nageth was still an unyielding sentinel and Zekval was still a quick, darting blade in the night – but Arha could feel her own skills steadily atrophying as she slipped further and further into listless self-loathing and malaise. And amidst these three months of quiet, a feeling had been growing day by day in the back of Arha’s skull, a product perhaps of some primordial instinct buried deep in the depths of her reptilian hindbrain. Something was going to happen, Arha was certain, though she wasn’t even fully conscious of this knowledge. But she did know that the four of them could very well be entirely unprepared for any calamity that might soon come to pass. Vague and formless dread itched constantly at the surface of her mind.
She wondered, at times, if this was how Grakke had felt.
“Have you spoken to Hiega?” Arha asked, pushing that nebulous unease to the side. There was work to be done, after all.
“Her and Seko both,” Zekval nodded. “They’re deferring to your judgement, for now.”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
“Alright then,” Arha said. “For now, we keep this to ourselves – just you, me, and the others. No need to show our hand just yet. And when our new friends finally decide to show theirs, we’ll be ready.” She paused. “I’ll loop Olta in as well.”
Zekval cocked his head to the side.
“You sure about that?” he asked – not challenging, just double-checking. That was his job, after all. “Look, I know you guys are close – but if we bring him in before he’s ready…”
“He’s ready enough,” Arha said sharply, carefully avoiding the first half of that second sentence. “The best way to learn is by doing. And, well, truth be told we could use an extra hand.”
“Can’t argue with that,” Zekval admitted, inclining his head. “Just be careful with him, alright? He’s just a man, Ar. He isn’t like us.”
“I know,” Arha muttered, glancing away. “I know.”
The awkward silence between them lasted for but a short few seconds before Zekval’s expression brightened at once, and before her very eyes he had transformed from hard-eyed killer to jovial villager once more.
“Hey, by the way,” he started, and there again was that damned mischievous glint in his eyes. “You’re coming to the feast tonight, right?”
“Of course,” Arha replied, not looking at him. She had all but entirely vanished within her hut for the duration of the past five, after all. And she was also well aware of a concerted and ongoing effort to coerce her into showing her face every once in a while, an effort for which Zekval was clearly either the ringleader or the chosen messenger.”
“You are so full of shit,” Zekval scoffed, fixing her with an exaggerated scowl. “You do know that people like you, right? That they wanna talk to you, wanna see your face every now and then? Are you aware of concepts such as these?”
“You’re being annoying,” Arha said sharply, cutting him off before he could get really get going. “I said I’ll be there, so I’ll be there. Simple as that.”
“You know it’s Illina’s cooking tonight?” Zekval pressed, utterly undeterred. Illina was the Voshtarri woman that Zekval had, to the bafflement of his fellow exiles, actually been successfully courting for some months now. The two were all but joined at the hip and Arha strongly suspected that a great deal of the young man’s personal growth was owed to that woman in particular. “She’ll be insulted if you don’t show up – and then she’ll skin me alive for not dragging you in there! Now, does that seem fair to you?”
“Zekval,” Arha interrupted, a faint smile on her face despite herself. “I got it. Okay? I’ll be right on time.”
“Hey, you better,” Zekval said, clicking his tongue. “It’s my ass on the line, after all.”
And then the two were striding away in opposite directions, Zekval off on patrol and Arha making for the mess hall – and all the while that damned worry was gnawing away at her soul.
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Arha grabbed her meal at the longhouse in silence, avoiding other people as much as possible and eating quickly in the shadow of a dilapidated hut - one that she was fairly certain Nageth and a few others were planning to tear down today. One less place to hide, then. After she had cleaned her plate and surreptitiously returned said plate to the mess hall, she set out for the western outskirts with a sword on her belt and a piece of straw clenched between her teeth. Soon, she was beyond the huts and striding through lengths of waist-high grass - and then she was at edge of the forest, at the twilight where the trees became husks and the daylight turned to mournful shadow.
She stepped between two withered oaks and into a clearing that seemed almost frozen in time; a place that was dark and quiet and yet somehow very different from the sacrosanct stillness of the Blackwoods themselves. Dug into the ground was a circle in the style of an old Winnower dueling pit – and leaning back against a nearby tree, arms folded, was none other than Olta himself.
“You’re late,” the Voshtarri said, which was his way of saying hello.
“Don’t nag,” Arha chided, which was her way of saying hello back. “And you can blame Zekval for running his mouth all damn morning.” At that, Olta’s expression was entirely unimpressed.
“At least he’s punctual,” the Voshtarri retorted, to which Arha gave an exaggerated roll of her eyes as she set one foot into the ring. Then, she gave the goat-man a very particular sort of look.
“So are we doing this?” she demanded. “Or are you just gonna stand there and bitch all day?”
“We are absolutely doing this,” Olta replied, stepping into the ring as well and tossing his cloak aside. His hand drifted down to the sheath on his belt, and from said sheath there emerged a longsword of even weight, flat-bladed and double-edged and specifically chosen for the Voshtarri warrior by Arha herself. It was a well-balanced and versatile weapon - if somewhat slow and defensively-minded – and a tool that rewarded patience and intelligence above all else.
“Suit yourself,” Arha replied, trying to suppress her growing smile, because in truth this was the only time of day wherein her miserable thoughts dimmed to the background and she could actually feel like herself for some short period of time. She unsheathed her own weapon, now – a lightweight, ever-so-slightly curved saber that had, after many unsuccessful tries, been crafted to her exact specifications by a Voshtarri blacksmith. Tekarn had long taught his pupil that the nature of the tool mattered little, so long as it was wielded by the hand of a master – but Arha had long disagreed. Truth be told, she was incredibly picky about her swords, and had amassed quite a collection of them before her exile and betrayal.
All that nitpicking was worth it, now, because this weapon felt nothing short of absolutely perfect in her hand – like a pure extension of her own arm. She twirled it idly now, pacing back and forth like a tiger on the prowl as Olta watched with narrowed eyes and shifted into a defensive stance.
“What’s my objective?” Olta asked, his words as cold and hard as steel. The Voshtarri’s focus was absolute. “Attack you? Defend myself?”
“Let’s just fight,” Arha replied, coming to an abrupt halt and drawing her left foot back. Her body tensed like a coiled spring, ready to explode at a moment’s notice. “First to ten points wins. You ready?”
“Always,” Olta said firmly – and then the two were a blur of motion, and red-hot sparks were flying in all directions, and then Arha’s blade was at his neck.
“One,” Arha said, and abruptly the two separated and drew back, pacing and stalking one another for a few seconds before leaping into the fray once more. Arha blocked a swing, ducked under another and put the point of her weapon against his heart, right at the space between his fifth and sixth ribs. “Two.”
On paper, they made for an incongruous pair – the fiery, prideful warrior (who, granted, was moreso quite melancholy these days) and the stern, serious protector. Yet from the day they met the two had immediately clicked, and from then on out they had been all but inseparable. They talked the same, they thought the same, and they even had the same sense of humor – and even in areas where they didn’t align, they offset and complimented one another in subtle, subconscious ways. And now, as the two of them fought at breakneck pace within the bounds of the circle, both exile and Voshtarri were grinning wide and ecstatic at the electric current sparking between them with each and every blow.
Olta parried two attacks, turned, shifted to counterattack – and Arha seized on a half-second opening, stepping forward before he could react and hooking her ankle around his own. She yanked, the goat-man stumbled, and before he had even hit the ground the point of her sword was just beneath his chin, completely and utterly still.
“That’s ten,” Arha said, and for a moment the two of them just held that position, both breathing heavily and smiling deliriously. Then, the adrenaline began to fade, and Arha’s sword was pulled away in favor of a heavily-scarred hand that Olta accepted at once, allowing the former Eltok to haul him to his feet. Again, the two of them shared a wild, adrenaline-fueled stare – and then they broke into peals of abrupt laughter and sheathed their weapons in unison.
“Ten to zero again, huh?” Olta mused, running a hand through his hair. There was no bitterness in his voice; this was all but a regular occurrence between them. “Close fight.”
“Oh, shut up,” Arha laughed, folding her arms as Olta stepped aside to fetch twin canisters of water. “You’re getting better every day, and I know that you know that.”
“I mean, I’d certainly hope so,” Olta replied dryly, tossing her a canteen. “This’d be some pretty shit training if I was actively getting worse.”
“Just take the damn compliment,” Arha ordered, taking a long swig of river-water and letting out a satisfied sigh. Her eye flicked up to meet the goat-man’s own. “Seriously, Olta, that was pretty phenomenal stuff - you’re leaps and bounds ahead of where you started. By the Wastes, do you remember what your footwork used to be like?”
“Now that,” Olta declared, lowering himself to the forest floor and leaning his head back against an enormous, char-blackened tree, “was as backhanded a compliment as I’ve ever received.”
“I’m just being honest,” Arha shrugged, moving to join him. She sat down against that same tree and neither voiced complaint as their shoulders pressed together. “You were awful back then. And you’re pretty good now, in my expert opinion.”
“Alright, alright,” Olta chuckled, rolling his eyes. “That’s enough flattery. Thank you, Arha. I’ll quit my whining now.”
“Hey,” Arha interjected suddenly, and without thinking her hand was on his arm and the two were locked into yet another all-encompassing stare. Her voice had gone low and serious and even a bit vulnerable, too. “Seriously, Olta. You impress me every day.”
Olta did impress her every day. He wasn’t some exceptional, naturally talented prodigy; he was neither a deft hand nor a particularly fast learner. He fought like an ordinary villager who had never received formal training would, rather than the favored scion of a culture built entirely upon a foundation of physical violence. But, nevertheless, Olta’s determination was nothing short of limitless, and inch by inch he was climbing higher and higher towards what had once seemed like an insurmountable peak. He never wavered. He never faltered. No matter how impossible and far-off the goal of true mastery was – no matter how wildly unfair Arha was as an opponent – Olta just. Kept. Going.
Seko had explained to Arha, once, that every Voshtarri departed for a directionless and decade-long pilgrimage into the wider world upon reaching the age of eighteen. It was an ancient tradition that likes of which even the Elder himself could not speak out against, one wherein the Voshtarri proved their strength and their gratitude for Al’Varok’s sacrifice by selflessly forsaking the paradise that they had been given. This was why the village had been unguarded for so long, protected only by the remote and inhospitable nature of its surroundings – all men and women of fighting age were gone, and the few who did successfully return at the end of their pilgrimages did so with crippling scars both within and without.
Yet it was Olta alone – brave, steadfast young Olta, having only just turned eighteen years of age – who had chosen to abandon his pilgrimage, and who had forever shamed himself so as to see that his people were safe and protected. It was this determined young man who had decided to take the weight of the entire world upon his back, and it was the Olta of the present who carried that weight even still. Always with dignity. Always without complaint. It was a far nobler thing than anything Arha had ever done, and in truth there were times that she found herself in genuine awe of the man now sitting beside her.
Really, it was no wonder that the two were so fond of one another. Lost as she was, Olta’s steady presence and unwavering convictions were the perfect weight with which Arha could anchor herself, and he brought about a calm within her that even her own adopted family could not produce. And for Olta, Arha’s incredible prowess had finally allowed him to shed some of the burden upon his back, providing for his people the stability and security that he never truly could.
And so, they were friends – or perhaps something more. And that was why it sickened Arha core to know that her people had slaughtered Olta’s parents, and why every morning she stared at her reflection and loathed the woman that stared back.
“Thanks, Arha,” Olta said, quietly, and then: “Did you get any sleep last night?”
“Some,” Arha muttered, glancing away, because she knew damn well that she didn’t deserve an ounce of his sympathy and every time he worried for her it was like a knife twisting in her gut. But Olta knew her too well, and he knew exactly what it meant when she refused to meet his eyes.
“The same nightmare?” Olta pressed, gentle but insistent. “With Grakke, and the teeth?”
“Yeah,” Arha conceded, after a moment. “This time, I uh…I screamed in his face. I told him just fucking go, if you’re gonna go.” She shook her head. “That’s how I chose to say goodbye to the man who supported me for half my entire life.”
“Hey,” Olta interjected – and then, more ugnently, “hey. Look at me.”
Arha did so reluctantly. She knew exactly what he was seeing, then – that cold, unfeeling grey eye that could only belong to a creature with no heart. And so she was drowning in her shame.
“Grakke was a troubled man,” Olta said, his voice calm and even. As always, his steadfast presence was a beacon in the dark. “I don’t know the details, not like you do – but I know he had a hard life, and I could see the storm in him from a mile away. He deserved better, yes. But you gave him the best you possibly could. You gave him the chance to settle down, to enjoy a peaceful life – and he chose the hard road instead. That’s not on you.” What he said next, he said with such overflowing conviction that Arha could almost believe it to be true.
“You’re a good person, Arha,” he declared, and now it was his hand on her shoulder and even as his words were all but blistering agony to her ears Arha never, ever wanted that hand to move away.
And then she could take the guilt and the shame no longer and so she shot abruptly to her feet and, before Olta could utter even a word, she asked him if he was planning on attending tonight’s feast.
“I-what?” Olta blurted out, taken momentarily aback. His brow furrowed with equal parts confusion and concern. “Of course I am. Wait-are you going?”
“I…think so, yeah,” Arha trailed off, reluctantly, as the goat-man clambered to his feet and dusted himself off. “I think it could be fun.”
“You do?” Olta asked, his surprise growing by the minute. “I genuinely can’t remember the last time I saw you even eat a meal in the longhouse.”
“Alright, you got me,” Arha sighed, waving him off. “Zek’s been on my ass about it. Nageth, Makran, Illina – probably a bunch of others – they’ve appointed him head of the worry-incessantly-about-Arha committee.” She scoffed. “I might be able to stave ‘em off for a little while if I go to this thing tonight. Hopefully.”
“I mean…” Olta drawled, and suddenly Arha realized that he was trying very hard to hide a smile and just like that the truth of the matter dawned upon her. “Doesn’t sound like a bad idea to me.”
“You absolute bastard,” Arha was already saying, her one eye wide with disbelief. “You’re in on this too, aren’t you?!”
“Well, that’s not exactly-” Olta began, sheepishly, which was about as rare a look for him as it got.
“If I can’t even trust you, who can I trust?” Arha demanded, throwing up her hands in faux-exasperation. “I’m surrounded on all sides!”
“I think you’ll have fun!” Olta insisted. “Seriously, Arha, this is gonna be good for you.”
“Fine,” Arha sighed, delivering a soft-but-not-that-soft punch to the goat-man’s arm. “Zekval wins. But you-” she jabbed a finger, “-are coming with me, and you are gonna be by my side the entire time, you got that?”
“Where else would I be?” Olta smirked, holding up his hands in surrender. Arha tried to glare at him – wasn’t quite able to conjure the necessary disdain – and was finally overtaken by a rueful smirk of her own.
“Don’t be a kiss-ass,” she chided, unsheathing her blade once more and twirling it in one hand. “Now get your sword and get the fuck back in the ring.”
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And so, despite her misgivings, Arha did in fact have quite a bit of fun that night. The feast, like any thrown by Elder Seko, was a wild and boisterous occasion - a horde of drunken villagers were packed into a longhouse within which both flute and drums sounded off in breakneck, ecstatic rhythm. The air was warm and the food was excellent – Illina, Arha admitted, had truly outdone herself – and for a few hours, everything was pure bliss and nothing more.
Arha had found herself seated at the head of a table, somehow, with a quietly-smiling Olta on her left and an booming, drunken Makran on her right. The short-statured exile was regaling all present with a crude and violent and darkly funny tale as Nageth interjected periodically, accenting her stories with some wryly-delivered little detail or memory of his own. All of these were anecdotes from their time as Winnowers, of course, though the details were fuzzed enough to make the association unclear and Arha had drank enough that she could simply accept the tales at face value. Of course that brawl had taken place when a merchant caravan had tried to rip them off – not when a Second Host Winnower had insulted Zekval and Nageth had replied by smashing the man’s skull against the floor.
Only Zekval was missing that night – having swapped shifts with Makran so as to allow her to attend, he was out on patrol, watching with a diligent and tireless eye for anything that could disrupt the Voshtarri celebration. The same man who had orchestrated Arha’s appearance tonight was himself nowhere to be seen, and it was because of his glaring absence that the looming threat of spies in the dark continued to nag at the back of Arha’s mind, though they were heavily muted by alcohol and good spirits both.
Finally, Arha could feel herself fading, and so she turned to Olta – who was sitting there with that annoyingly smug smile on his stupid annoying smug face – and tapped the goat-man on the wrist.
“Alright, everybody,” Olta said at once, rapping his knuckles twice against the tabletop and rising to his feet. “I think we’re gonna head out. Have a good night, guys.”
“Bye, Arha,” Makran slurred, clutching onto her former Eltok’s arm as she attempted to stand. “I’ll miss you…”
“Have a good night,” Illina replied, offering a little wave.
“See ya, Ar,” Nageth said, tilting his chin up. “We’ll talk business tomorrow.”
There were numerous other goodbyes from numerous other attendees and Arha was overcome, then, by a sudden and unexpected surge of emotion, and for a moment she did not know quite what to say.
“Thanks, everyone,” she said, quietly. And then she and Olta were parting through the crowd and out the doors and then they were outside, stumbling down a dirt-path road amidst the cold night air. The moon shone brilliant overhead, all-seeing and all-knowing – a timeless sentinel against that vast expanse of encroaching black.
Arha didn’t go home that night. But she did dream – and this time there was no Grakke, no Tekarn. There were only ninety-nine teeth and a fat, lolling tongue and a hunger that could never ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever ever be sated.
Arha, Eltok and Bloodied One of the Third Host, awoke in Olta’s bed to find his arm wrapped tight around her chest and his head tucked neatly into the crook of her neck. And as she stared up at the ceiling with a blank, expressionless face and a mind that swirled with apocalyptic thought, she reminded herself of the immutable truth:
Happiness was a thing for other people.