Interlude – Memories of The Lost
Grief was an interesting feeling to think about.
As you got older, or as you suffered through a life of woes, you learned about its intricacies – though few can actively learn from it while feeling it. Grief was, after all, by definition, a sensation that overtook your life – and allowed very little room for philosophy.
And yet, it remained an interesting topic to meditate upon. Sad and gloom, yes, but do try and reflect on how it can bloom and grow.
For example, one could grieve someone’s passing, feeling sad by their inability to see them – missing someone so deeply after they are gone that you become a crying mess for, sometimes, months in a row.
Even more interesting, it didn’t even have to be a person. How many people have mourned the passing of a pet – that old cat you always complained about or the drooling and silly dog that kept you company while growing up.
Or, perhaps, the passing of a character on the movie screen or within the pages of a book, so charmed by their stories you end up feeling their deaths as if they were real.
As if they were people.
And yet, grieving, as a process, was something that far surpassed the idea that it only happens when death reaches its grubby hands and snuffs out someone's life. No – a person would experience far more endings than beginnings during their lifetime, and so very few involved a stopping heart.
To grieve was to experience finality. The end of something you once had – be they events, places, relationships, and, yes, people.
But all endings require a kind of grieving – in that, they were united regardless of what had terminated. And to ignore that was to allow a wound to fester, to harm oneself further.
Perhaps, someone would choose to ignore the process because they wanted to feel the pain. Maybe they considered themselves the reason for the loss, mayhaps it was their punishment for losing something – as if loss, in itself, was not punishment enough.
There is, of course, more that can be said. Ideas and philosophies and reflections over grief that would take days to process and explain, infinite debates of what it meant and how to overcome it.
Regardless, the conclusions tend to always be the same – and there was only one of them.
Like all things, all grief ends.
So it is, so it was, so it will be. And on this day, under the maddening sun and gray skies of what exists in the In-Between, a [Survivor] was pushed to take the first step on the road, prompted by a hand that cared not about how it ended – only that it continued.
May he develop successfully – or not at all.
***
Kurian awoke to blistering, all-encompassing fear. It was in his heart, crawling under the dark pink skin of his like a thousand worms, burrowing inside his flesh and leaving only tunnels for more of the insidious emotion to fill.
His eyes opened between blinks, and the sight in front of him was one of nightmares. A bad dream he had already experienced in the flesh, though the perspective was different.
He was walking, prowling, with his companions in an attempt to circle him. The Python. The [Plague Mage].
Sybillus Eskiamus.
The name came suddenly, unprompted, to the forefront of his mind. He had heard it somewhere – but where? and when?
He tried to force the memory, but it wouldn’t come – and he had no time to try harder. Kurian watched through eyes not his as the sickly flames scoured people he knew his entire life, their flesh oozing with yellow pus as it scoured them with sickness and decay.
And yet, his face turned, away from the gore and the fear emanating. He could feel the body move with purpose, taking steps that brought them as close to Sybillus as they dared to be.
Clutching at the pendant around his chest – a small gift Kurian could feel was made of wood and shaped like a flower – he looked towards one of his companions.
And Kurian knew this was his punishment.
Magrik had never been a large fan of his, nor had he been a fan of the older boy. They had shared a mutual dislike that only grew with how close they lived to each other. He was a bully, he was unkind, he was rude, and he had kicked mud at his face more than once.
Well, yes, these things had happened years ago – but he had not forgotten, nor did he forgive the boy.
And yet… When Kurian looked through the eyes of another and heard Magrik hiss a low affirmative, the boy wished they had been friends.
Would it change things? Would it make him feel better? Because Kurian knew what was going to happen.
Sickness cared not for one’s bravery.
Kurian’s body ran forwards, dodging the already rotten bones on the road where other groups attempted to pressure Sybillus with numbers, while Magrik took to the skies with wings of air.
Both struck, one of half a dozen pairs attempting to strike from multiple angles – a well-known and well-used tactic by the Imps, perfect for drowning larger beasts in numbers – but it was not meant to be.
The strike teams in the sky felt it first – a sudden need to cough and a feverish heat that made them dizzy, limbs unable to move forwards as unknown pathogens destroyed tissue and flesh.
It was in the air. Kurian realized after seeing the first of the Imps fall onto the wrecked road, fleeing. He had been foolish to think only the sickly yellow flame was a threat – the man had turned the very atmosphere into poison.
Many Imps still tried, fighting the weakening of their bodies and extending their claws and weapons, trying to gouge the Python’s skin and render it into ribbons – but the rotten tunic he wore stopped every edge as if a suit of armor.
No. Not the tunic. What lived under it – something Kurian could only see due to how close he was now. The Python’s scales were covered in a writhing mass of worms, producing silk quickly enough to constantly protect Sybillus from their attacks.
And the spells’ bombardment remained useless as well. Whatever wand spells not dodged were consumed by his flames and broken into fundamental mana.
How? How could they defeat such a monster? Kurian’s consciousness despaired, watching his kind once more be defeated by a single man – played around like infants as Sybillus laughed at their struggle, holding that dark crystal that pulsed with every spell.
He knew what came next. Kurian felt the awful dread set in their stomach, the fear growing and growing with each hurried step they took – levels in a different Class giving him the agility to think and move towards Sybillus in the spawn of seconds.
It wasn’t enough.
Noticing he was surrounded, the Python slithered its tongue out – riddled with holes and burrowing maggots – and his words brought rot into the world.
“[Putrid Flames: Burst The Pustule]”
A wave of decaying energy heralded the sickly flames that exploded from Sybillus, engulfing the bodies of all that tried to approach the [Plague Mage]. Kurian felt them licking his body, engulfing him completely – and this time there was no Dominic to stem the disease with an axe’s edge.
Kurian felt the fire rotting the skin, dark pink turning into violet as necrosis took hold. Where the toxic smoke touched, the muscles weakened or paralyzed. Pustules grew and burst in a yellowish mixture of pus and blood.
He was dying. And he could feel all of it.
When the large patches of flesh began to slough off his bones, he could no longer scream – the lungs had filled with smoke and choked him from the insides, turning the soft tissue into rancid slime that pooled at their bottom.
It lasted a minute. It felt like days. But sweet relief came with the smell of home and incense, the stale taste of ikriats, and the sound of flowing blood.
***
When he awoke next, Kurian felt calmer.
Not in peace, not scared, but oddly calm. He should have been clawing at his throat in fear, screaming and thrashing against the floor as the pain of rotting before dying settled in.
But all that felt… distant. Hazy almost – as if covered in a layer of smoke. Kurian could barely remember the details of the death he had just experienced, and the boy didn’t know if it was this sudden mind fog or the pain that had ignored the details of his suffering.
Still, he was somewhere else now. A… bedroom of sorts, though to Imp’s that was more of a suggestion than a proper room. The bed, a wooden structure topped with a straw mattress, had all the comfort of one way more expensive than it really was – which Kurian knew meant a Skill was used during its making.
The pillows were oddities – cloth sacks filled with bird feathers, maybe an Ember Sparrow or a Carmesin Albatroz due to their coloration – but not necessarily rare ones on the east of the village, far from the Ozzos Field and their barren land, just uncommon enough to be distinctive.
The body moved, and Kurian understood he wasn’t in control again. Was this… was this another memory? The Imp boy knew enough to suspect the oddly named Skill he had received, but this sudden change of atmosphere felt incongruent.
Since the Skill came from his [Broken Survivor] Class, it made sense he’d revisit the place the others had died – as those were the memories of the tragedy that branded Kurian’s soul. So where was he –
Movements from the body took him away from his thoughts. The Imp he was parasitizing slowly half raised himself and yawned, popping his jaw. Removing the covers, Kurian saw dark pink skin and a body taller than he was used to.
An adult from the village. A man. But which one? The Imp turned his head to the right and watched another breath slowly on the bed. A female form, still sleeping, was laid by his side.
The Imp leaned forward and gave her a quick sniff on the neck – a gesture of intimacy for those with tusks too long to properly kiss. Kurian’s cheeks were aflame watching it all, and no matter how hard he tried to close his eyes, he could still see everything.
The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.
Perhaps, the only thing that turned this situation into somewhat useful was a small detail revealed when the Imp pushed the covers. A small pendant, made of black wood, rested on the woman’s neck. It was shaped like a flower, not the white ones that now plagued the Fear-Full Woods, but another species.
This one only grew when spring came. Those short months when the small area beyond Kiringar’s wooden walls and the beginning of the Woods turned colorful with different flowers. Though it had grown less and less vivid these past few years.
From purples to dark green, or flaming orange and blood red – they’d hide the scarlet grass underneath a multitude of differently-shaped petals. The one on her neck, for example, was one Kurian knew – not by name, as he… wasn’t the most attentive to this study topic, despite his father’s complaints, but the shape was distinguishable enough.
If it were real, the fifteen petals that surrounded the stem would be navy blue with stripes of sky-gray that decorated them like lightning bolts. The flower would even emit a certain smell – a deep citric one – strong enough to turn it into a useful and coveted perfume ingredient to the [Artisans] in the Gray House.
The pendant, however, was merely dark gray – made from the abundant trees around Kiringar that were the basis of most houses of the village. And the craftsmanship was… lacking.
Kurian had apprenticed under a master of his craft, making it easy for him to realize that the rough edges, the lack of sanding, and even the small cracks on the wood were marks of an amateur. Especially when Skills would turn these small mistakes null most of the time.
But those details were his way of not facing what he had already discovered. The necklace was something he had never seen before, probably worn under the woman’s tunic, but her face? That was recognizable – Kiringar was way too small for someone not to know who else lived in the village.
Rikala was a known [Embroiderer], weaving thread and color into the otherwise bland tunics they wore. Not the best one in the village, but she had been accumulating levels quickly enough to receive some notice from the Gray House– not from his father, their crafts were too different, but Aunt Linkri said she could very well earn an apprenticeship under her if Rikala continued growing like that.
So that left only one question. Who was in a relationship with the [Embroiderer]? Not a casual one, but enough of an involvement that she would give her necklace as a reminder.
If Kurian just figured that out… then what?
He’d still be stuck here. The realization felt scorching hot. After all, did it even matter if he learned whose memories Kurian was inside of?
The melancholy came through the fog and settled, slowly – dripping like molasses inside his heart as Kurian chose to watch in silence. To let himself wait for this dream to end.
***
The day began with a quick meal. Boiled ikriats and sprinkled rock salt, with a side of that black rice they sometimes grew. To smooth the process of such a thick and hard-to-swallow meal was a cup of water, made of wood and filled with the liquid taken from one of the wells in the village.
It was simple. It was cheap. And it was filling. The whole process took less than half an hour as he used what seemed like a spell to get the water boiling and dump the bulbous purple vegetables inside it.
He had even left an already plated meal for Rikala to eat when she wakes up, though that would take a while considering the soft snoring coming from the bed.
The man left the house with his head held high, welcoming the day as he got tools from a crude shed nearby. More importantly, Kurian noticed how oddly sized they were – small enough to fit in the hands of a child as if made to tend the most fragile of plants.
That… and the fact they were made of metal – which to those born and raised in such an isolated village as Kiringar, even with its relative proximity to Canbonia, was something that could only be seen and acquired through traveling merchants.
Such an odd detail. One more to the growing list, yes, but Kurian couldn’t help but stare at the tools the body held in his hands – as if they could tell him something.
They felt distinctive. Rare, even. And suitable for a Class he could almost remember. A sibling to the more commonly-seen [Farmer]
The body’s head rose, taking his eyes off the tools now firmly set in a belt around his tunic as he began to slowly walk towards one of the main streets. Meanwhile, Kurian distracted himself by trying to remember the name of the Class he felt certain belonged to the man.
Not [Apothecary] – that was Merino, and although he did deal with plants, the man was far from being a green thumb himself. Not [Farmer], clearly, or the body would have taken larger tools instead of… a spade and some large scissors?
As the body continued on its walk, sometimes looking left and right to inspect the conditions of some of the public ikriat farms, Kurian grew more and more frustrated. It felt like a test day of his father’s lessons, when he would struggle to remember certain ingredients and Skills and Classes names, often receiving that small and encouraging smile from his dad.
The memory of it was a lightning bolt to his soul, making him grimace as the memory simply refused to leave despite his silent pleas. Was this just another facet of his Skill? Or, maybe, just the heaviness of older grief brought forth?
Kurian knew the answer. His Skill, although perhaps his father would fit into the description, was not the culprit of this. The sudden surges of incapacitating memories, when the boy would feel himself far back in time when performing the most menial of tasks – triggered by the familiarity of them.
That’s what hurt the most. Those memories that truly made him into a sobbing mess, were not the special ones – such as his first visit to Canbonia or the time his father took him to one of the waterfalls further north.
No, it was the common ones that stung the most, those daily moments he would never get back. Such as waking up to an already prepared breakfast, or receiving his kind smiles even when Kurian did something wrong. That was how many would describe Nifestu, prodigious [Wandmaker] of Kiringar – humble and kind.
In the community, his father was known for resolving arguments even between the prideful Artisans of the Grey House, sometimes going further and assisting some of the Elders from the Council in the more political aspects of Kiringar. Nisfestu’s training far from the village gave him new perspectives people always appreciated listening to, especially when it came from such a smooth talker like him.
Oh, what a difference his absence made. If only Kurian had noticed it sooner. If only others had dismissed the palpitations and tremors as something more than a simple crisis.
But it was too late… they had lost him. He had lost him.
A [Wandmaker]. A Father. A tender soul that deserved better than slowly succumbing to the sensation of his lungs burning inside his chest, turning his breath into smog.
…A [Gardener]. The word came suddenly, unlocked in that snap of clarity only memories had. That was the name of the Class he had been searching for, though now it felt bleak to think about that.
Kurian sighed inside the [Gardener]’s mind and continued his vigil, silently focusing on the sight and movements of the body. Better he suffers from the memories of someone that he didn’t know then his own recordings.
***
“Firkrion!”
The call took Kurian away from his half-dazed state, suddenly fully focusing on the surroundings of the body. No, not the body – someone had called him with a name Kurian recognized.
Firkrion, the [Gardener], turned his head towards the one calling him with a smile already blossoming on his face. From his left, flying through one of the windows and softly landing on the street, came a Magrik that Kurian had never known.
The younger Imp sported the mischievous grin of teenagehood, his posture straight as he greeted the [Gardener]. Firkrion took to the hug with gusto, embracing the younger man and patting him twice on the back.
“You’ve returned already? How was the hunt?”
Magrik laughed, a fluctuating sound of someone that had not yet deepened his voice completely.
“We got back last night. And it was amazing! You had to see it, Fifi, the [Lead Scout] shot an arrow that pierced straight through the Misty Arachne’s skull – just shwoo! and it fell dead, dead. We took the brood out after that and I even got a new Skill for it! Wanna see?”
The teenager almost shook with excitement, eyes shining brightly as he looked at Firkrion. The [Gardener] giggled and prompted the boy to continue with a double, humorous hiss.
Magrik’s smile grew, and puffing up his chest, he called for his Skill.
“[Flight of The Sylphie]!”
The wind picked up around them, eliciting a groan from a passing Imp that had to block his eyes from the raising dust. Firkrion gave them an apologetic look before focusing on Magrik and his newfound powers.
The [Ranger] flexed his wings and Firkrion could see the blurry edge of a second pair enveloping the thin and dark membranes, growing until they were triple their size. The wings of air opened and performed a powerful motion, taking Magrik’s feet off the ground for a moment.
With a wink, the younger Imp jumped and his wings propelled him far into the sky – rising as high as one of the houses around them and, more impressively, keeping him in the air.
Even Firkrion had to admit that it was impressive. Everybody knew that Imp’s could fly with their small appendages – though it took much of their bodies and gliding was the most common use for their wings, while their claws were perfect for climbing the trees to set themselves in position – so every Skill that enabled one to perform such actions would be considered valuable by their community.
The [Gardener] smiled, happy that his friend would have an easier time than most in both applying and overcoming the Ranger Exam. Not one to get the Class, for that was easier and required only the Voice’s acknowledgment, but to join the ranks of the hunters and fighters of Kiringar.
Magrik landed in a small cloud of dust, dismissing the Skill and grinning with all the pride in the world. The smile did fade a little as he noticed Firkrion’s coughing bout and moved to pat him on the back, but it was far from gone.
After the [Gardener]’s lungs settled and he spat a glob of mud from his mouth, Magrik moved to face him with sparks in his eyes.
“So? How’s it? Nice, right? Pinik was suuuper envious of it. He only got a [Sharp Armament] Skill, which is nice, but far from awesome.”
“It’s definitely something – did Elder Cariken say something about it?”
“Yep. He said I could do really well in the Trials…”
The [Ranger]’s words faded a little, and he scratched his neck in what seemed like… embarrassment? Firkrion tilted his head at the motion, but waited in silence for him to speak.
“I kinda expected him to give me the position, you know? Like he did for Pops – but I don’t think it’s as impressive as his Skills were at the time.”
Shaking his head, the [Gardener] patted him on the shoulder and smiled. Sometimes, with their friendship, it becomes difficult to remember that Magrik was half a decade younger than him – and that youth came with all the insecurities Firkrion had already gone through.
Well, most of them.
“Hey, don’t say that. What you have is amazing! And you’re only – what? Level 15? Plus, I’m certain Elder Cariken has taken notice of your effort – and your Skills. I mean, no one your age has hunted as much as you already did! And even few can say they’ve killed a Nightmare Spawn!”
Blushing in embarrassment, Magrik lowered his eyes and mumbled.
“Yeah… you’re right, Fifi. I just – expected more, I guess.”
The Imp bit his lower lip and closed his eyes for a second, but soon opened them again. Firkrion watched the inner turmoil of Magrik vanish from the [Ranger]’s face and sighed – but did not stop his friend from speaking next.
“But tell me, where are you going? To the garden?”
“Ah, yes. We got a new batch of Lindria’s Tears’ seeds and they’ve begun to germinate already – I’m just going to check on them and maybe use some Spells, nothing much. There’s also the whole food shortage thing to see as well, but nothing to worry about.”
“Hmm… mind if I tag along, then? I’m out of duty today and – well, I kinda don’t want to help mom with dinner.”
The [Gardener] scoffed and took a step forward, closing the distance between the two before putting his arm around Magrik’s shoulder.
“No problem! But you have to tell me everything about the hunt – Misty Arachne is… fear of spiders, right?”
Eyes sparkling once more, the [Ranger] took to explain the difference in the monster’s Nightmare, it not being so primordial as the one Firkrion talked about – but Kurian dozed off the explanation. He dozed off everything in fact.
Because he was tired. Oh, so tired of regretting the things he did and those he didn’t.
The [Broken Survivor]’s eyes were glassy as he watched Firkrion’s day go by. He… he didn’t even know Magrik wanted to be a Ranger. He didn’t know his neighbor’s strength in pursuing a path only the strongest of their kind walked.
And he had been Level 25. An almost prodigy.
Kurian tried to think, but now far from the battlefield, his tortured soul felt spent. This was a new battle, one that the poor boy didn’t even know he was fighting.
He should have paid attention. He should have known that Magrik had his own concerns, his own dreams, his own strengths, and weaknesses. And somehow, the fact Kurian didn’t made him feel lesser.
Because it wouldn’t change a thing. He would be the only one to remember the bravery of Magrik as he did not falter in the face of certain death, he was the only one that would witness Firkrion’s care towards Rikala.
Kurian was the only one that would remember those details. Those interactions that only the Scarlet Sun witnessed alongside him, because all the ones in these visions were dead.
What a burden for a young soul. Heavy and pulsing, a Voice-inflicted punishment that Kurian tried hard to stand – but he felt himself giving in already.
Silently, almost ashamed, Kurian wished the dream had stopped when Firkrion died alongside his friend. At least he wouldn’t have to carry the burden of remembering the lost so intimately – for now their names were etched in his soul like a tattoo, and Kurian felt himself both too weak and unwilling to excise it from his spirit.
Let him be the one to carry such knowledge. Let him suffer even more in his grief, for he was the only one left alive and – for all intents and purposes – the boy knew he didn’t matter enough to deserve such an honor.
It should have been Magrik that survived – a brave fighter with power and vigor. Or someone tender like Firkrion, who would care for those that stayed and know how to soothe them out of their grief with simple empathy. Or any of the dozens of others that died.
Just not him. Not him.
A tear escaped his grip, rolling down from his blind eye and leaving the dark trail as a testimony of its passage. Exhaustion settled in as Kurian decided to stop this, to ignore the day and the sounds and the sights, to distance himself as much as he could from the life of someone that was no longer here.
Kurian wanted his father to hold him and tell him it would be all right. But he was gone. All of them were gone.
And silently, whimpering like a wounded dog, Kurian questioned the world if even he remained.