Remus stared at the fireworks through the bars of his cell’s window, positively miserable.
The sparks of colour were hundreds of feet away, and yet he felt as though if he could just wiggle his arm through the metal rods, he’d be able to catch the mini explosions in his palm. Of course, they were too narrowly placed together, and attempting so proved impossible. Defeated, he sat on his lone stool in a cubed section of the room so sparse, it was hardly worth describing. But Remus mentally did so anyway, knowing with a wistful certainty that he wouldn't have access to much other entertainment for a long while. It merely consisted of a pail for drinking suspiciously brackish water, a strip of stuffed cloth next to a carpet some sorry soul had mistaken for a bed, and the two foot long window he was currently peeping through. Through the cold air that provoked his stuffy nose, Remus observed the splashes of dye staining the skies, each of them representing a separate Divine Rank.
A simple eruption of gold was delivered for Engorged, an allude to the divine nectar that set everyone off onto their ascension to power. How ironic that it's so far off, Remus spat inwardly. What’s more plausible, reaching up there, or a Death-Marked achieving Engorged?
Within seconds, this was followed up by a fiery twin explosion of burning crimson, the first a wick of light for Enkindled, and the second a blazing massacre, meant to represent the effect a godly Mark acquired after becoming Emblazed, and fully grown. As the hour dragged by, Remus was momentarily able to forget all about his troubles, watching the spectacle so intensely that nothing else seemed to matter. His angers, his fears, his insecurities, they all ceased into a comfortable non-existence in the airborne bonfire, made up of a sea of sparks. Each one representing an individual Foot-Soldier, before coalescing into the three separating blasts of varying shades that were the Splintered Ranks. With them leading a collection of Foot-Soldiers, an army legion was almost complete. All that was missing was the most vital piece: a Warlord.
Three more replicas of the Splintered Ranks — consisting of Vanguard, Warden, and Mercenary — materialised, whisking around one another before colliding into one blinding blast of white. This pyrotechnic seemed to sear itself onto the paint-splattered canvas of reality, bigger still than all the Splintered Ranks put together.
Remus watched raptly, eyes wincing from the miniature moon situated firmly at the forefront of the legion. A tinge of emotion that could only be recognised as reluctant admiration settled behind his chest, the structure of the teams that kept the Unbounded at bay alongside his great grandfather sustaining him with another strange sensation. It was almost like he was beginning to grow patriotic.
“You’ve been huddled by that window for an awfully long time.” A voice caused Remus to jump out of his skin. He’d almost forgotten that his solitude was self-inflicted, and not a conscious consequence on behalf of the cell’s layout. “Do you think if you stare hard enough, the bars will simply undo themselves?”
“As useful as that’d be, I don’t believe the designers of this place would let such a fatal flaw slip through.”
The figure who had spoken, a man wrapped in a moth-eaten blanket right outside of Remus’ section of the facility, peered down at the floor flaccidly. “Suppose yer right.”
Feeling braver than usual, Remus advanced towards the man, abandoning the firework display that only proved to depress him, then sliding down next to the other prisoner. They were old and uncouth, with his only visible eyelid through the darkness closed, as if he was always on the verge of finally getting some shut-eye, and long grey hairs that couldn’t have been washed in aeons streamed from his scalp. He didn’t object to his presence, so Remus remained as he was.
“So, how did a young soul like you end up in here?” They questioned, breath reeking of alcohol.
Getting personal already are we? Remus internally thought, but told the elderly man regardless. “Theft.”
“Come on, don’t generalise so much — what did you steal?”
“Droplets from the Ruling front. Or should I say, it was attempted theft. That’s at least what my guard wrote down after I was apprehended, anyway . . .”
The stranger titled his head upwards, interest perked. “Let me guess, those floating eyeballs spotted you too?”
“Yeah . . . “ Remus said, the use of the word ‘too’ grasping his attention. “Did you happen to be caught by them?”
The old man shrugged. “Possibly, I couldn’t really see at the time. I’m blind in one eye, you see,” he added, with a small chuckle that Remus had almost mistaken for a cough. “After getting into a bit of a tussle with one of Damosh’s men. I don’t think they appreciated my pilfering endeavours much. Imagine a sea of coinage being hurtled towards your direction, except in a way that’s not nearly as nice as that may initially sound. An Inkling struck my right eye, and I’ve been stuck having to rely on the left ever since.”
Remus said nothing, merely patting the old-timer softly on the shoulder. “I’ve had my fair share of scraps with the Wealth Sect myself, those sort are deplorable.”
Raising his head fully for the first time since they’d met, revealing a strip of cloth concealing his maimed eye, the man‘s wrinkled face inspected Remus. “Not in that state, you haven’t.”
“Your meaning?”
“Perhaps you did have a rough encounter with one, but you didn’t fight them. There’s no way in hell you would have left such a fight unscathed, no scars to tell the tale of your encounter. They were holding back. Lucky you, many of us don’t get the privilege.”
A rankled objection was working its way along Remus’ vocal cords, before dissolving as better judgement swayed him to understanding. “I’m sorry about your eye. Damosh is truly, truly evil.”
“Ah, don’t you concern yourself. I’m well adjusted now.” He pulled something out of his waistcoat pocket that made a swishing sound. “Fancy a beverage on this chilly night?”
In the dim light, Remus could still identify the unmistakable shape of a beer bottle. Given that he didn’t tend to drink much in the first place — succumbing to the realms of intoxication within a sip or two — and that their current environs didn’t seem to lend themselves as an ample drinking environment, he declined. Nevertheless, he found himself deeply intrigued.
“How’d you-”
“Smuggle this in?” The man winked with his one functional eye. “I have my ways.”
Remus’ next words didn’t see the time of day to surface, before the old man cut him off. “Oh, I know that look. That beaming gleam that lights up the features of youth when the prospect of rebellion is hung before you. We’ve had enough escapees this Duration alone with Nova’s daughter fleeing, we do not need another.”
Holding that tiny nugget of information in the back of his memory for safe keeping, Remus edged eagerly closer. “So you do have a way out of here?”
“No!” The man spat. “The guards here simply don’t mind giving out favours if you promise not to make a fuss. Makes their job easier if you’re not a constant annoyance.”
“Like that guy?” Asked Remus, pointing to the man guarding the entrance, a green cloak covering the back facing them.
“Oh no, that’s Elmore. Strictest of the bunch. From the The Wild Sect, it appears, trying to become the clan’s perfect future leader. I’ve already given up on ever trying to bribe him.”
The old man indulged in another swig, the only sound resounding around them, save the distant explosions of the last of the night’s fireworks.
“How long have you been in here?” Remus asked. He had been making numerous enquiries tonight, but the man didn’t seem to mind. There evidently wasn’t much else to get up to.
“Gods, do I know. A decade maybe. I was in and out before. Then they had had enough of my petty thievery, and made the very sage decision to just throw me in the cell forever. My potential future offendings done and dusted with before they could spring into existence.”
“Why’d you steal in the first place?”
The man almost spat out his drink. “You’re one to speak.”
“Ah, forgive m-”
The man waved Remus’ hasty apologies away. “No, no, I was only pulling your leg. I’ll tell you, it doesn’t trouble me.”
“If you’re certain it's not too much of a bother.”
“It's not.”
The old man exhaled deeply, as if releasing something else he’d kept pent-up other than withheld air. “Look around this room boy, what do you notice?”
Remus obliged, but felt rather stupid as he scanned the bland cell. “It's a prison.”
“Always so general! I want detail.”
This time, Remus concentrated.
“The defences seem relatively paltry.”
“And?”
“They let multiple people coexist in one shared environment.”
Remus could sense the man’s widening grin. “Meaning?”
“They don’t take us as a threat.”
“Why?”
All these one-worded questions were starting to give the poor boy a headache. He was about to declare such when a notion wormed its way through the nexus of his thoughts. “ . . . because we’re not even Engorged.”
“No.” The elder shifted to face him with an unblinking eye. “Because we’re Death-Marked.”
All minute details within the room became a thousand times more apparent. The tight grip with which the stranger held his bottle; the fading light slowly rendering the room to a perfectly pitch darkness; the accelerating thump of his own heartbeat. But above all else, Remus’ own astonishment caused him to simply stare at the elderly man, mouth agape.
It was the old man’s next words which swept him out of his stupefied reverie. “I couldn’t serve my family of the Lightning Sect for that very reason. I’ve always felt I’ve had to somehow compensate, for their sake. Especially in recent years, with the oncoming tide of trouble Damosh is brewing. So I stole. I take no pride in it, but I did what I thought I had to. Even when my clan urged me to refrain after I’d massacred their good name a thousand times over already, I couldn’t bring myself to sit around and do nothing while good people were suffering.”
The story has been taken without consent; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
“What god stained you?” Remus said, only just believing their every word, some of which were beginning to hit alarmingly close to home.
The man laughed darkly to himself. “We’ve only just met, and I’m spilling out my life story like the blood from a wound. But if you must know, Doron.”
“Doron? Haven’t heard of him.”
“You wouldn’t have. Not many have, and neither would I, if not for this wretched Mark he’s given me, even in death. He’s the deity of Defeat.” A long, sorrowful laugh blurted out of the man in quick succession to the first. “I think you can guess why he didn’t last long in the War.”
Remus watched in a silence so heavy that it seemed to crystallise around him, as the man lowered his head and parted his hair. There, the precise image of a vague figure lay, stabbed through the chest with a blade, and with a broken crown over his head.
“Now, it appears to be your turn to speak. Come on, I’ve done my due. Don’t leave an old man in anticipation.”
Lifting the arm of his shirt upwards, Remus revealed his own Mark.
Or, he would have, if not for the fact he was currently crumpling across the floor in intense agony.
“Young man!” The figure jolted to his feet, grasping a trembling Remus by the shoulders. ”Young man! I just got someone to speak to for the first time in decades, and now you decide to keel over and die on me!”
With shaky hands, Remus grasped him, the remainder of the firework show seeming to take place in the centre of his cranium. “I’m . . . I’m fi- gah!”
“What’s happening? Do you . . .” His head turned to a dormant Elmore, who was too busy pursuing through a novel to take notice of the dying man. “ . . . need me to get help?”
“No!” Remus whisper-shouted, the tone of that certain range a tad difficult to pull off when your own body is rebelling against you, resulting in the syllable releasing in more of a screech than anything. “There’s something you should know, something I was reluctant to tell you at first.”
“What?” The man asked a heaving Remus desperately. “What is it?”
“It just so turns out,” Remus began, tugging up his tunic’s arm with spasming fingers. “That my future career in thievery may be brighter than I ever dared to imagine.”
The old man recognised the deity of Peace streaking across Remus’ shoulder, as if she was standing directly before him. But the gods surrounding Amani appeared to be . . . blazing away. The deity smiled contently amidst a spiral of flame, the Mark seeming to disintegrate by the second, with her being the last piece of the picture to succumb to the onslaught. Realisation flickered in the man’s eyes, and Remus laughed amid the pain.
“Surprise.” He grinned, as his blood goldened into a divine syrup. “It appears just a sip of the stuff sufficed.”
The old man cackled madly as Remus began to settle, a repeating orchestra condensed into one, continuous sound that was certain to break several promises he’d made to weary guards.
“Shut up in there!” Elmore shouted, having to make himself heard at his post for the first time since he’d earned the position. “Lights out.”
----------------------------------------
Remus awoke the next day with a searing migraine, muscles that wanted to tear themselves out from the inside, and the body of an Engorged.
His bed lay a few feet away, unused and yet to be slept in. It was evident that he had collapsed the second the cell’s lights had been shut off, leaving him to drift away in a heavy slumber upon the prison’s hard ground. That explained the aches panging through his back . . .
Physically, there were very few occasions where he’d felt worse — for some reason, the vague image of a very angry bald man in a golden waistcoat came to mind — but mentally? His own bouts of booming laughter was enough to gauge that.
His fellow prisoner groaned audibly, rolling out of his covers, and rubbing his eyes drearily. “Must you intrude on an old man’s sleep?”
Remus realised he’d been laughing aloud, and composed himself. “Apologies, but it worked. It actually, for once, beyond any shadow of a doubt, worked.”
“And whilst you have earned my unwavering respect for accomplishing that little manoeuvre young man, you’ve also earned my title of a sad fool.”
“Why?” Remus asked, not appreciating any glum comments raining on his parade, when it had only just started. “I’m Engorged! I have godly blood flowing—” He toned down his voice, remembering that Elmore was only a stone’s throw away. “—through me. I must be like, the first Death-Marked in history to achieve a Divine Rank.”
“Oh no, no, no.” The old man chided. “Don’t you go about earning an ego now. You’re Engorged, not God-Graced, most people have a Droplet put into their milk when they're a few days old. You, my friend, are on the verge of adulthood with the power equivalent to a newborn.”
Remus opened his mouth to protest, then shut it. He seemed to be doing that a lot lately, especially in this man’s presence.
“And plus, your hopes of attaining Enkindled, a Rank achieved by anyone with enough cognitive function to channel Ichor to their Marks, are so unfeasibly non-existent that considering to do so would only result in a tremendous waste of time.”
“People said I couldn’t achieve Engorged, and I did it.” Remus argued.
“For Engorged, you needed to attain a Droplet.” The man prolonged the words, as if explaining something incredibly simple to a particularly inept three you old. “Enkindled, however, requires you to already have a pre-existing, usable Mark. Yours, my friend, vanished promptly upon advancing to the first Rank.”
Inspecting his shoulder, Remus was only met with an empty, standard patch of skin. “I thought Marks only faded if you channelled Ichor to another Mark in favour of them, when advancing to Enkindled.”
“That comes down to another thing I should mention. You’re not the first Death-Marked to achieve Engorged. Well, according to centuries old records, anyway.” He rubbed his head, glaring at the look Remus was giving him. “I’ve done my research in these things, didn’t you think to research the history of your condition?”
Remus’ guilty silence was a serviceable answer.
“As I mentioned earlier, it's been done before. On numerous occasions, actually. Some sects happened to supply their Death-Marked Droplets, either because of a lack of knowledge, spare riches lying around, or simply from the generosity of their hearts.”
“But that doesn’t explain-”
“I’m getting to that! Gosh, didn’t your clan teach you patience?” The man exhaled before continuing; a red-faced Remus shifting gawkily before him. “As I was saying before, a few of them attempted to activate their Mark, only for it to blaze away, as if recalling that it probably shouldn’t have existed up to that point. I assume that’s what happened to you. Perhaps you activated it by accident, in the passion of the moment?”
“I do seem to remember focusing on my Mark for a second there, but I didn’t think I was actually tugging any Ichor towards it.”
“Perhaps your Ichor control is weak. The older you are when you achieve Engorged, the more of a toll it has on your body. The extreme young are as susceptible to change as the seasons, always growing, but you? An adult in less than a Rebirth based on the look of you? You don’t have much growing left, or at least the bulk has already been enacted. Your body's well adjusted to having regular old, unchangeable blood of red. This outburst of divine might must have really come as a shock to the system.”
Considering the man’s words, Remus stood up, his body flooding with so much energy he found it impossible to stand still. He stretched; did a dashing sprint across the room; leaped as far as he could without crashing head-first into the nearest wall; and closed and opened his fist as if his own body was the most interesting instrument in the world. He felt refreshed — revitalised, and reforged with a newfound vigour beyond standard human comprehension. All it took was a good night’s sleep, and a few hours to get his blood flowing, to subdue any initial fatigue, it seemed.
“Is this how good everyone feels all the time?” He heard himself saying.
“Wouldn’t know,” the old man replied grumpily. “But I presume the initial excitement wears off after a while.”
“I need to compare any strength differences.” He mused aloud, strolling laps around the prison. “Mind if I make a bit of a racket?”
“Be my guest.”
Taking in a breath that seemed to fill his lungs faster than ever before, Remus dropped to the ground, eager to exert himself. After formulating his most recent, highly secretive plan, Remus had found himself instilled with a newfound motivation to train his body in preparation for future endeavours. This involved a bodyweight exercise routine designed to define his scrawny body into something more prone to taking constant abuse. Something that would become commonplace if he ever did manage to escape the cell’s confining walls.
Minutes later, he found himself sprawled out on the floor, a huffing mess soaking in his own perspiration. Despite the spryness new to his step, it turned out that it was still very possible to exhaust himself. Nevertheless, Remus was rather pleased with the results. Thrilled, actually.
“That’s almost a double increase in everything.” He muttered to himself in amazement.
“You’re still a far cry from the heights of what the human body is capable of.” The other prisoner said, not sparing any bluntness from his words. “But it's a start.”
Content for the first time in a long while, Remus sat, knees crossed, facing his fellow Death-Marked. “I have a plan in mind that may sway even your doubts that Enkindled is impossible, but first, I need your advice.”
The old man stared at him with hard features. “I don’t want to put a damper on your plans, truly, but in all these years, not one Death-Marked has achieved Enkindled. Not one. Because some things in this world can't be gained out of the valour of one's own efforts, only through the sheer luck of inheritance.”
“That’s not true.” Remus was quick to intercept. “Well, maybe for some things, but not for a Mark. Is it not true that one could garner the respect from a deity, and thus be bestowed their power as a reward for overcoming tribulations?”
“Ignoring the established fact that most gods keep their distance from any trace of their dead kin — out of guilt, I do not know — acting that into reality will be a lot more difficult than simply letting your blind optimism run wild.”
“Trust me on this.” Remus put a hand into his pocket, revealing a page torn out of a book. “I’ve done my research.”
He handed it to the old man confidently. Sighing, and with great incertitude, his eyes scanned its contents. Squinting, he needed to pull it closer to garner the words’ meaning, his sight obviously failing him in his old age. A second later, and the man’s face set into a rigid portrait of deliberate indifference.
“It could . . . work.” He allowed, after a second’s reluctance. “The Trials of the Earnest. I’m not saying it’ll be easy-”
“Never implied it would be.”
“-but possible. Though let me stress, it will be excruciatingly difficult, and you’ll likely perish before you manage to complete one of the three tasks.”
“The price a Death-Marked must pay.”
“And don’t you think this all a little excessive just for Enkindled? Perhaps I would understand if this would ascend you straight to God-Graced, but I can’t help but think your efforts would better be put elsewhere.”
“Perhaps, but someone around here needs to make sacrifices.” Remus retorted. “Everyone is sitting around idly while the foundations of our shared city are pulled out beneath us. And for what? To feed a callous man’s insatiable hunger? As much as it pains me to admit, the leader of my own sect is living out his last days. A sect that doesn’t specialise in something with the potential to birth an equal within the next coming Rebirths on their own. So if extreme lengths I must go, then so be it, I’ll conquer them, then do it all over again if I have to. And if that requires me to earn the respect of the god of Ambition through some frivolous missions of questionable difficulty, then I’ll attempt them gladly.”
“No wonder Tanish has so few men,” the man scoffed. “With such high requirements for simply joining his sect. Speaking of which, will you even still be of your own clan, when all is said and done? If you succeed, you’ll be one of Tanish’s own, won’t you?”
The question was the chink in the armour of Remus’ already dubious plan. “I’ll . . . face that problem if I ever live to get that far.”
“Now,” Remus said suddenly, bouncing up, and walking towards the bars of his cell window. “Didn’t you say this place was built to confine base mortals? People not even of an Engorged’s meagre strength?”
“Yes . . . you were listening, weren’t you?”
The boy’s reply was delayed, whilst he grappled onto the bars before him; they appeared to be rather old, like stone already weathered from the persistent beatings of mother nature. “To every word. Now, judging by the right state of this window’s railings, I’d say they didn’t bother to account for anyone much higher on the Rank scaling than that. An embarrassing oversight.”
Beneath his enhanced grip, Remus felt the bars tremble.
“What are you doing?” The man shouted, getting to his feet. “It isn't even breakfast!”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Remus grunted in reply, sweet sunlight raining down on him. “I’m getting us out of here.”
There was a tremendous clanging, followed swiftly by an eruption of stone and brick. Remus heard Elmore yelp in horror, but largely left the distracting noise to hide in a corner of his mind, as he swept the sweat from his brow.
“Quickly.” He said, stretching out a welcoming hand. “Come now if you want to leave with me. I can’t ensure your safety, but maybe you could flee to an outside sect, beyond the shadow of First Rite.”
The old man looked unsure for a moment, before any glimmer of hesitance vanished from his face. He jumped forth and grasped Remus’ hands with startling strength.
“Your name?” Remus prompted.
“Tal.” He said, as if the word was unfamiliar to his jaded tongue. “My name is Tal."