Rosol scorched the earth from Their apex in a cloudless sky, releasing a blinding, boiling rage that settled like a thick blanket. Each labored breath brought hot, arid air clawing down Midan’s throat.
The clay beneath his feet was as fragmented as fallen pottery, loosely puzzled together before stretching into a flat horizon around him. Each step was heavier than the last. Midan glanced upward only to swoon and sway at the sight of a boundless sky, unconstrained by stone ceilings or valleys. It was entirely unnatural, dizzying. Midan flicked his squinted gaze back downwards before he stumbled again.
With a quick tug at the exposed line of woven string at his neck, a clear-cut timing crystal fell from his shirt. Midan closed his eyes, focusing. The ethereal light of Moment filled the crystal’s form with exactness and formed the shape’s replica in his mind's eye. The fifty-mark crystal burst alight in his mind, each space filled with Moment. He had been out here for over five days now.
When had he last drank from his empty leather flask? His lips mirrored the earth beneath him, both shattered and aching for wetness. How much longer would he endure?
The horizon taunted him, dancing, warping, and unbroken. No mountain peaked above the outstretched line, only more space. When would he arrive in Netsu? With time marked only by thudding footfalls and the rhythmic beating of his heart, it felt like he never would.
Unlike all the previous tests, this pilgrimage wasn’t supposed to be a competition. The Guide explained, “To compare is to seed division. Only One can thrive.”
But, then again, “There are those who lead and those who follow. Know your place, and perform it with excellence. Head and body are of One, but serve the whole differently.”
Midan was a head, not a foot or a finger. He was the youngest to master Realization in the Lussil’s history. Skilled at the syne, he managed the Third split three cycles ago, although it hadn’t been entirely stable. Still, only a few others had ever managed the Third, let alone one of the Unnamed.
He couldn’t fail his teachers, his mother, and all those who believed in him. There had to be something they had done that he hadn’t, a secret to their success.
So, what happened?
That thought nagged at Midan more than a tongue that was a dead, dried-up weight resting uselessly in his mouth. He had paced himself perfectly while taking the lead at the head of the procession. Still, his flask completely emptied around thirty marks. That’s when it started.
The strongest of the Unnamed quickly outstripped Midan’s slowed step. He continued to falter, and the middle of the pack overtook him by forty. Earlier that day, most of the weaker youths outpaced him, their forms stretching ahead to fall from sight some marks ago.
That had left him alone at the back of the procession, along with the tailing proctor and one other initiate—he wouldn’t be surprised if they eventually passed him, too.
The only thing that made sense was that this was a joke. A sick blasted joke, the Guide forgive his vulgarity. Either that, or they had eaten their fruit. The idea startled him.
Could everyone have given up and accepted failure? It was unimaginable, although it would explain everything. It would mean thousands of unpaired youths, a disastrous event.
The Sanuwey would not design an impossible test, would they? No, that didn’t make sense. Then again, nothing seemed to, not anymore. The only thing that made sense was nothing made sense.
He laughed at the absurdity of it all, or, better yet, he tried to. But what came out was a dry, hoarse, rasping sound that clawed and scratched from his throat. It gagged him into a fit of hacking coughs.
Water-wasting fool.
A sudden and painful cramp had him stumbling. Weakness in the form of ripe, whole blip fruits jostled within a cloth sack at his waist as he caught himself. Their temptation had grown from smoldering embers into a tempest to match Rosol’s own. Weakness was strong.
Maybe, only a taste?
Vivid, reflexive imaginings bloomed to life. Tartness followed by sweetness, rounded out by a ghostly tinge of bitterness. And the juice. That juice would be breathtaking. It would salve his bone-dry throat and mouth with delicious moisture. Best of all, he’d finally have Moment again.
I’ll scrape off a bit of skin—something deniable. After all, it could have rubbed off on its own, right?
Reaching behind and into the pouch, he felt one of the fat fruits laden within. Tracing a finger across the surface, he felt prominently ridged flesh that was soft and giving—it was ripe. His fingers folded around that blip as he surveyed behind him.
The tailing proctor’s blue robe was just a spec on the horizon, nothing to be concerned about. At the same time, the last remaining white-robed initiate was a bit closer but probably not close enough for fine detail. It would be their word against his. Nobody would ever know. He could do it.
Midan released the fruit like it burned before yanking his hand out of the bag. Grinding his teeth, he pressed forward.
Weakness is strong, but true strength knows no equal.
The Guide's words comforted him as he mouthed them. Only by faith could he become a Talo. To come this far only to give up at the end?
Midan set his resolve in stone: He would dry out into a husk of skin, sinew, and wind-rattled bones rather than let weakness win. That would be his fate if he didn’t reach Netsu. He would die with strength and honor. The idea wasn’t so terrifying—no more expectations or worries, nothing but nothing.
A flat, white, circular plane broke into the horizon. It wasn’t the lone mountain peak of Netsu, but it was a sort of salvation. That lone zalbia tree climbed higher as he walked, and his steps quickened as he excitedly pushed towards the blessed shade he knew it offered. His faith had brought forth a just reward.
About a quarter mark later, Midan was close enough to see the edge of a shadow. The zalbia’s high-set planar canopy of tightly interlocking branches created a modest oasis of flourishing life within its shade.
The first step into it brought instant coolness to his skin as the shade enveloped him. The ground, untouched by judgment, had soft, supple soil teeming with life. Startled groups of opaque seed bugs scattered as he waded through the thickets of light green wriggling grasses that gently stretched out to tickle his legs as he passed, searching for moisture with their tiny tendrils.
Sorry, little ones. I’m all dried up.
Midan slumped back against the white-barked trunk as he reached the center of the shade, sliding down to sit. Today was the last day of the pilgrimage. He wouldn’t survive another rest beneath Rosol without water or Moment. He would have to be on his way soon, of course—abandon the shade for the sun. The thought was a dreadful one.
That concern was suddenly secondary as the ground started sinking.
Panicked, Midan started flailing against the soft earth that slowly enveloped his legs and arms. He screamed, but nobody helped. And so, he sunk deeper and deeper until the light snuffed out.
Surprisingly, he felt he could breathe. It was pleasant, like floating in a void. He felt the world move there, rushing along in a blur before spitting him out at some rocky foothills.
To his surprise, there was Netsu. The craggy peaks stretched as high as he remembered from the first time his mother had taken him long ago.
Lus favored him; how else could he explain it? It all had been a test he had passed. Was it so surprising that Lus had chosen him for something greater?
“—you alright?” a distant voice reverberated through the air.
Ignoring it, Midan ran faster than ever. He ran so fast that he lifted off the ground into flight to soar into the sky. He shot higher than the mountain before his body stopped still in the air. All of Rosol’s lands stretched before him, though there wasn’t much to see so far into the Outlands.
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He willed his form to fall, not concerned about the height—Calaria no longer bound him. The winds were surprisingly calm as the ground rushed forward, and Midan cut a horizontal trajectory just before he smashed into the earth. He soared, faster still, shooting through Netsu’s large stone entrance, blasting through beaded doorways into cavern chambers. Midan laughed as everyone he passed gawked at his ascendancy, each feeling quite stupid for doubting him.
“Hey! Are you seriously dead?”
Midan startled awake. His eyelids were sluggish and slow, opening as if anchored shut with stones. The world was a blurry mess as he tried blinking back to reality.
“What?” Midan asked sleepily.
A blurry figure hovered over him, wearing white robes like his own. A bright red band of color covered their eyes, and something about it itched in his mind. Midan rubbed his eyes and groaned.
“Not dead,” the voice said, a woman’s voice. “That’s a relief.”
The woman slumped beside Midan, using the trunk as support—the trunk! He realized he was still sitting in the zalbia shade grove. It had all been a dream, then? Midan felt both embarrassed and depressed at the realization.
“This the part where you pass me? You certainly waited long enough.”
The girl's laugh tinkled out as if his words were a joke before he felt a comforting hand rest on his shoulder.
“You’d do much better if you ate one. I don’t know if you know, but you still have all six.”
Midan screwed his face up into a scowl. He rubbed his eyes again and blinked away the blurriness. Her words made sense, each word following the other logically. Yet, they shouldn’t have because what she had said was so absurd he slapped himself.
“Oo!” the girl reacted, leaning away from him. “What was that for?”
“Sorry. I thought I might still be sleeping,” Midan said, staring blankly at a blade of grass wrapped around his ankle while he slept. “Say that again?”
As Midan turned towards the other initiate, his mouth fell slack. He caught the girl biting into her blip, even slurping up the clear juices that tried to run off the side. She looked his way through a bright red cloth tightly wrapped around her eyes.
It clicked—that dark black hair and bright white skin now pinked from the sun despite her robes. She could only be Aelo, the Faulkan girl.
“Eat your own,” Aelo said, scooting away and shielding her blip as if his eyes could devour it.
“You!” Midan pointed at her.
“You!” Aelo pointed back.
Midan snarled. “You’ve given up? Accepted weakness? I guess I’m not surprised, considering.” He spat the words like curses, and Aelo visibly stiffened. Her voice was casual as if she knew what he would say before he said it.
“Go ahead, say what you mean.”
The truth was that Aelo was a troublemaker and always had been. The Lussil had given the ingrate a home, and she pissed on that charity every chance she got. But should he expect better? She may have grown up as a Lussil, but her blood was all Faulkan.
“Never mind,” Midan muttered, his voice tight. “It is not my place. You chose your path; I chose mine.”
Aelo’s responding laugh had no humor before her face hardened into granite.
“Midan ‘would-be’ Talo. Son of Bendi Talo, Lead of Harvest. Son of Lillian Cuaso, a respected captain. What would you know of ‘paths’ when yours was paved with pillows?”
Midan ground his teeth so hard he was sure they’d burst into dust.
“You don’t know anything about me or my life,” he said through his teeth.
“And what do you know about me? Besides what they whisper behind my back?”
Truthfully, this conversation already contained more words than they had ever exchanged before. Midan looked down, relaxing a little. He was too exhausted to argue further.
“The fruit,” he said. “Why are you eating it then, if not to give up?”
“You haven’t figured it out yet?”
He shook his head.
“Didn’t you wonder why they gave us six?” Aelo said, “I’m sure you could manage with one. But the weaker children? They might need four or five. So they added one more on top, to be safe.” She waited for him, but his head was whirling in confusion. “I’m saying you’re supposed to have eaten them.” She said it so matter-of-factly that Midan stumbled.
“You are not!” he finally squeezed out from beneath his stupor. “It is symbolic, one fruit for each of the Sanuwey—not this game you think it is. I’m sorry, but you have sinned gravely.”
Aelo looked down at her fruit and then back up at Midan, her brow furrowed. Finally, she proffered the untouched half of her fruit. She shook it in the air.
“In that case, you can have the rest of this. If you’re right, I have already failed. There’s no sense for both of us to, yes?”
The fruit’s skin was a muted red with intricate ridged lines intertwining geometrically along its surface. Aelo’s previous bite exposed clear flesh plump with water. Midan’s mouth would have watered if he had any to spare.
Aelo perched her eyebrows above her scarf and smiled. A few errant blades bent towards her outstretched hand, sensing the exposed liquid. “Hurry up, or I’ll leave it for the grasses.”
Nobody would know. He would have all his fruits. Midan reached out.
He stopped himself, glaring at the fruit, that damned temptation. Again, weakness tried to worm its way into his heart, to erode his faith.
“You’re wrong; this is wrong,” he said to himself more than anyone. Midan looked up at Aelo, who suddenly looked sorry for him—she pitied him. He felt his face redden. “Everyone is right about you, aren't they? You don’t deserve to be Chosen.”
Her lip quivered as she pulled back and turned away, hiding her face from his. She stood up before crunching into her fruit and chewing slowly, sadly even. He had gone too far.
“I’m sorry, that was—”
Aelo turned and sprayed his face with a mist of chunky spittle.
“Fuck you,” she said simply before pushing up and plowing out of the grove.
The juice streamed down his face, dripping off his chin. The bits that got into his eyes stung, but in the best possible way—some spray even managed to coat his tongue with a blessed wet. He couldn’t hold back.
Frantically, Midan collected chunks and rivers of spat fruit, shoving wet fingers into his mouth and sucking. The flavors exploded into a rainbow of colors while the wetness soothed his dry throat. He was able to snatch a few pieces from the ground, fighting off the aggressive grasses as they swarmed the area for their cut of the feast. He even sucked at his clothes where the juices had soaked.
That bit of fruit settled, and Moment bloomed into life within his chest—a freshly stoked fire. It flamed up and simmered. He let it build from there, moving within him, worming its way into his arms, legs, fingers, and toes, suffusing him wholly.
From there, it was as easy as breathing. Midan willed some of that Moment towards his center, carrying judgment away like a blip in the winds. A sweeping chill washed over him and raised the hair on his arms, and he shivered delightfully. He could make it now.
“I did nothing wrong,” Midan said, getting up and following after Aelo. She was already small on the horizon. “She spit on me. I cleaned myself off, that’s it.”
He made his way out into the light and abandoned the shade, his spirits high. And Rosol couldn’t touch him while Moment flowed inside him.
“What was I supposed to do? Let it go to waste? The Guide warned about such pride, after all.”
Three horizons passed by in bliss. Yet, Netsu still hadn’t arrived. The Moment he was gifted waned, unsteady—a candle, nearly extinguished. He could make it; he had to make it.
Midan had picked up speed after the grove and managed to catch up to Aelo, but she refused to look back at him.
Elation crawled comfortably back to dread and despair as he felt the last of his Moment give way. A vengeful, blinding heat slammed into him, doubling him over, gasping. He felt his throat shriveling as it did, and his pores beaded with precious sweat. He stared down, hands on knees, as his sweat dripped onto the hot clay, boiling away before the next drop could hit.
Midan heard Aelo stop ahead of him. The dark-sighted bitch was probably enjoying this.
A fruit rolled into his frame, resting as it bounced off a foot to rest directly between his legs.
“That’s my last one. Eat it, don’t eat it, I don’t care. But if you die, that’s your choice.”
Her receding footsteps quickly became soundless in the vastness of space.
Tears might have fallen had he any to spare. An easy out—she should be Released for that. For the last time, he considered it. Whether he did or didn’t, nobody would ever know. But Midan would know. He wouldn’t be able to look his mother in the eyes.
There was nothing left to do. Resolved, head down, eyes shut, Midan walked—each step a journey, each breath a struggle.
Weakness, he stepped right.
Is strong, he stepped left.
But true strength … knows … no equal.
Experience stretched into the infinite. Self became but a remnant, all identity, memories, ideas, or hopes too exhausting to evoke.
With downcast eyes focusing on each following step, he moved forward: right, left, right, and then left. Or was it left, then right? What came before the other? Which had he started with? Was there ever a start?
His downcast head smashed into something hard and immovable. The impact, reminiscent of a solid punch, had him tasting iron. Holding pressure on his bleeding forehead, he looked up to find a large boulder in an outcropping. Sidestepping it found him the mountain of Netsu, grown to dominate the sky. Midan craned to take in the full view, confused. How long had he walked?
His vision darkened at the edges, closing in like moments before sleep. Everything was like looking through a thick cloth, revealing only vague shapes and values. Midan swayed, body feeling as light as a seed and heavy as stone. Details around him were unclear. But he was close, wasn’t he? The surrounding boulders were a sure sign he was.
Lifting his legs had become a struggle, with cramps nearly every lugging step. Awkwardly, unable to walk, Midan slid forward in a shuffle. That worked well until his left leg crushed into itself as he shifted his weight, buckling him limply back to earth.
He tried to roll onto his back, but his strength was as empty as his flask. Midan considered those fruits at his back for the last time. It seemed a harsh fate to fail while so close. And so, he didn’t. He closed his eyes, accepting the journey for what it was, and embraced its end. Weakness had not beaten him. That had to be enough.
As consciousness fluttered, a woman’s voice carried vaguely to his ears—as insubstantial as a dream. He was floating again, suspended in the open air. Untethered from the heat, the sky, and reality, he smiled. Midan—no, Midan Talo—closed his eyes for one final rest.