THE GYPSUM REVIEW
VOLUME 1 • ISSUE NO. 2
CONT ENTS PAGE 3 LETTERS TO AHALYA Kanchan Naik
PAGE 4 WED(LOCK) Kanchan Naik
PAGE 5 GOD IS LIKE DANCING Anoushka Prashanth
PAGE 13 FLY TO YOUR DESTINATION Prajanya Kannan
PAGE 15 PROTECTOR Michael Bazarov
PAGE 32 AUGENBLICK Julia Vu
LETTERS TO AHALYA Even in name negated. Even in name repeated. Ahalya. A thin scar trickles from hairline to nostril and blooms like a lotus along the curve of your mouth. You hum because words breach the wound. Ahalya. You count the widening lines of deformity as years the ringed eyes as flowers limping under canopy shade. Because time is decay -a black staircase coiled into your body like a fetus. You count the steps when skin loses waistline but your silhouette forgets motherhood’s familiar tug. The sculptor who made you carved your stomach first. Because fertility lives mute legless armless paralyzed into infinity. Ahalya. Locked woman, but captured by the eye of an empty keyhole. You the woman. You the keyhole. Ahalya -Because the name was always an afterthought.
WED(LOCK) Perhaps the woman has drowned herself Suffocated by dish soap, choked by prying fingers and bitten nails.
Or perhaps the wife has perished, pounced upon, collapsed from exhaustion, poisoned by snake-bite. What a tragedy, they each say, but secretly they sigh of relief. I am only alive because of the murders I have not lived yet, my skin pierced but not yet torn, my throat waterclogged but still gasping for air. And when my marriage hisses in my ear, coiling and uncoiling from frozen flesh, the woman prays to goddesses for courage and the wife to gods for companionship. All the creatures of Heavens’ kingdom Stare into the sink through the water spout Frowning, wondering whom to help first. The woman or the wife.
LIKE SISYPHUS, I WILL ROLL MY DEATH ALONG THE PRECIPICE OF MY FINGER, ONLY TO WATCH AS IT HURTLES INTO THE METAL DEPTHS OF THE SINK.
I am only alive to die again, each day, stuck in the lockjaw of my marriage but never swallowed.
god is like dancing It is 5 A.M. in the morning, and an angel sits at Sheela’s kitchen table. She should be petrified, she knows. Instead, Sheela lets herself focus on her hands, which paint soapy patterns on the pathram lying in the sink. The pot is still crusted with rings of dried milk and tea grounds from yesterday’s afternoon chai. She had made the tea later than she normally does, so that she could blame the caffeine for keeping her awake. Then she had driven to the outskirts of her little Louisiana town to watch the sugarcane stalks shiver in the dusky evening light, staying long after they grew still and purpleblue under the stars. Sheela took the long way home, past the church billboard that proclaimed HELL IS REAL in faded unironic letters, through downtown roads where teenagers in stuttering pick-up trucks chased down the summer-cracked asphalt. There was only one stoplight that Sheela had to pass to get home, but its eye stayed stubbornly red and so she waited. The glass of her car window was still warm from the summer heat. She leaned against it, looking out at the quiet dark storefronts. Across the street, a bar’s glass front window glowed with the ruins of a miracle. Sheela sat up. There was no bartender behind the counter, only green and blue whiskey bottles that winked in the light of the neon signs that decorated the pub walls. In the center of the barroom, a woman burned out the eyes of four grown men. A voice in Sheela’s head whispered that she had just witnessed something holy, or perhaps unholy––a voice that morphed into her mother’s, singing that old prayer about angels watching them through the night. Sheela scrubs the pathram harder. The screams of the blinded men had been audible even through the paned glass. The pockmarked soap suds on her hands are like the yawning holes in their skulls where eyes should have been. She thinks of the cold blue gaze of the angel, darkened by the crimson glow of the bar signs, and cannot decide whether the creature that sits in her kitchen is holy or unholy. The part of Sheela that would balk at the idea of angels even existing remains silent. She prides herself on being, above all else, a woman grounded in white stacks of index cards, cups of flour leveled off with the flat edge of a butter knife, and meticulously kept daily planners. But for the first time, Sheela feels that butter-knife part of herself slip away, and she listens only to the long-buried animal in her skull that roars fight-flee-eat-sleep-move-blink-breathe in rapid succession. Even now, she moves around the small kitchen on autopilot, pouring milk into the clean pathram and scouring the wooden cabinets for honey. She had made the decision to drag the angel out of the wrecked bar in much the same way she had done everything these last few days––like it was less a choice than an instinct, like breathing. An unmistakable gravity, pulling her towards something important. The question she can’t seem to answer is if this something is terrible or wondrous.
god is like dancing, continued. IShe finds the honey in the wrong cabinet. Pari must’ve put it there like she always did when she was distracted. The not-woman at her table does not move. Sheela cannot tell if she is sleeping or praying; she does not know if angels are capable of either. There is no sound except for the bubbling of milk on the stove, and the magnolia trees outside whispering creaky love songs to the peeling wooden slats of the house. She spoons turmeric, cardamom, and ginger into the pot. It strikes Sheela that she hasn’t made golden milk for a long time, not since Pari was four and refused to sleep in her own room. Sheela would wake to her standing expectantly in the blue doorway of her bedroom, a thumb in her mouth, white pajamas rumpled like a moth’s wings. “I can’t sleep,” Pari would say, though Sheela would know that her daughter would nod off in her chair before she could finish her golden milk. Still, she would make it for her. Sheela sets the two mugs on the table, breaking Azrael’s reverie. The angel doesn’t want to examine whatever instinct of hers let this human drag her to this quiet sorrowful house. She can feel a headache wash over her. If Azrael was human, she would say to this woman by a way of small talk, I feel a hangover coming on, and laugh easily. But angels didn’t get headaches or hangovers––at least, they weren’t supposed to. She has the sudden, horrible thought that all this play-acting as human was making her into one. Azrael takes a long look at the woman across from her. Her brown face is dim in the watery kitchen light. She’s used to doing this, Azrael realizes. Moving around the kitchen in the dark. Azrael wonders who else she’s used to cooking for so late at night. The angel wraps her hands cautiously around the mug. The liquid inside is a delicate yellow-orange, and steam rises off of its surface in twisting silver tendrils. The trees outside make strange shadows on the window pane above the sink. Their movement feels unnatural, like a human trying to walk with broken legs. Everything about this planet is grotesque and dismal, the angel thinks. Even the things the humans praise as beautiful, like the magnolia trees, strike Azrael as bizarre and obscene. She wonders what her Mother would’ve thought of this. Azrael runs her fingers around the warm sides of the cup, turning away from the windows. She closes her eyes, shutting out the sickening colors and shadows of this alien rock. The darkness is familiar to her. In the dark, she can almost feel comfortable in this mortal skin. Like finally getting used to a pair of false teeth. She could almost forget that she is meant to wear stars and supernovas and planets, not a human heartbeat. She could forget that her Mother is dead. Sheela steals a glance at her odd houseguest. She belongs in a Renaissance painting, Sheela decides—eyes closed, long fingers wrapped around the chipped mug. Hollows under her pale cheekbones. Brown hair shaved peculiarly close to her skull, like a warrior’s.
god is like dancing, continued. But there are other things about her too, things that no human could put on a canvas. Monstrous things. Wings, too many to count, rustle in the red shadows of the room. The blue eyes embedded in her hands weep gloppy tears onto Sheela’s poppy-printed tablecloth; iridescent light threads through her skin like veins. Soft, sucking tentacles slide wetly on the wooden floor; blunt, clacking mouths line her white neck. Sheela looks away, buries her head in her cup. If she stares at its ceramic rim long enough, she could pretend that the creature across from her is Pari, rousing her for golden milk. That a strange thing does not sit in her kitchen. That her daughter is not freshdead in the ground. But she does not. Azrael sips from the mug. It tastes like fireplaces, like lifting the tips of your fingers into a shaft of sunlight filtering into a dark room. She decides she likes it. Her reflection in the cup is white and distorted, like she’d been punched in the face. A punch in the face would be easier than this, Azrael thinks. The angel had hurtled to earth three days ago, with the terrible knowledge that her Mother was dead. She had little memory of her Mother––just something that felt like Her smile, and the feeling of being held in Her arms. The realization had hit Azrael all at once, knocking her clean out of the sky: her Mother had been dead for a long time, perhaps almost as long as Azrael had been alive. She did not know how She died, or exactly when, only that She was dead. Azrael realized that she had known it all along, in some deep, drowned part of herself that now rose from the waters of her age-old consciousness like a bloated corpse. She stumbled across the dark earth for sixtyeight hours, until she found herself in a dingy bar in Eurydice, Louisiana, with a drink that made her head spin, surrounded by five men who smiled at her with a profane kind of hunger between their teeth. She could not remember how she got there, or who these men were, and she wondered briefly at how much grief resembled intoxication. Then she burned the men’s eyes out. Perhaps it was petty of her, but she didn’t care. This is where the human woman had found her, standing numbly amidst the horror of men touching their faces and not finding eyes. It’s strange, Azrael realizes, that she has memories of her Mother to mourn at all––that in the midst of the chaos of creating the universe, God still found time to hold Her daughter. Azrael does not tell Sheela all this. Instead, she says: “My Mother is dead.”
god is like dancing, continued. IIt is the first time she has spoken it aloud, and as she says it, she feels herself breaking, collapsing in on herself like a dead star. An impossible laugh bubbles in Sheela’s throat. It is a bitter, startling sound, one she did not know she was capable of. The last time Sheela had prayed to God was three years ago: the morning of Pari’s diagnosis. They were in Goa to visit Sheela’s mother. She hasn’t gone back since that trip, she realizes. She doesn’t think she could ever go back––after all, her mother was two years buried in Eurydice, and that city would forever be the city of death to her, after Pari’s collapse. Together, Sheela and her mother had taken Pari to the beach to celebrate her seventh birthday. Pari loved the sea. When she was not more than three or four, she would watch it the way she watched the tigers at the zoo––with both a wondrous fear and an unconditional tenderness. Once, on one of these beach days, Sheela caught Pari crying and asked her why. She looked at Sheela with her lucid girlchild eyes. Because it is so beautiful, she had said. Because it is so beautiful. She had collapsed just a few feet from the tide. Sheela stayed with her in the hospital all night. In the morning, at her mother’s insistence, she left to get some rest. But instead, Sheela wandered the streets of the city that was once her home, now an unfamiliar labyrinth in which people and things moved past her without order or love or recognition. Somehow, Sheela found herself in the chapel her mother would take her to as a small child. There was no one inside, and it looked like there hadn’t been for a while. The white paint that covered the walls had sloughed off in large shreds like snakeskin, and the cracked pews were covered in dust. Light coming in through the sun-bleached stained glass, which was broken in some places, illuminated the Virgin Mary at the front of the chapel in dappled reds and blues. Her hands extended outward, holding the body of her lifeless child. Her face was crumpled with grief. Sheela knelt in front of the figure, among the dust and weeds, and thought desperately to herself: God, I love her so much. I love her so much I could die. She saw her own tears seep into the statue’s stone feet, and felt a flicker of hope. Maybe her message had been received somewhere, by some divine order. Maybe Pari was just fine. But then she returned to the hospital and they said it’s worse than they could’ve imagined, and Pari would be lucky to live to ten. And so Sheela went back to the chapel the next morning with a hammer from her dead father’s tool closet and smashed the statue’s face in.
god is like dancing, continued. There were good days, of course, days that they could both almost forget that Pari was dying. These days, they could drive down to the ocean, or visit Sheela’s mother, who had moved to Eurydice soon after their trip to Goa to help with Pari. They could set up a picnic in the cornfield, and watch the stars come out, or sit on the porch after a summer storm and read snippets of Jane Austen to each other. The day Pari died was one of her good days. Sheela had woken up early and made breakfast. Then they had put on a record, and had slow-danced in the living room with their socks on––Pari’s feet on Sheela’s, Sheela hugging her close to keep her upright. It was after their second song that Pari went rigid in her arms. She was dead before they reached the hospital. Sheela’s laughter dries up, and she turns away from the angel. “Do you expect me to mourn for Her?” she snarls under her breath, staring steadfastly at poppies on the tablecloth. “For God?” She says the words quietly to herself, but some part of her wants the angel to hear them, to react. She wants the angel to punch her, or smite her like she did those men at the bar, so that she can yell and scream and punch back. But then Azrael’s eyes flash as she pushes herself off the chair indignantly, every muscle in her jaw brimming with tension, and the satisfaction drains out of Sheela and she is really, truly petrified, because Pari had pushed herself off that chair in the same exact way so many times that there were scratches on the floor beneath the legs of the chair. This not-woman belongs in her kitchen after all––another ghost to haunt her. Her anger returns. “I buried my daughter three days ago,” Sheela chokes out. She looks the angel squarely in the eye. “Don’t you fucking talk to me about mothers.” Sheela cannot say anymore. She cannot say that she hasn’t slept because she can feel Pari’s phantom fingers in her hair at night, braiding intricate knots and loops that she had never had bothered to learn herself. She cannot say that she unplugged the corded telephone, because she could not stand another acquaintance murmuring through the receiver, if there’s anything I can do, anything at all––, and she cannot say that she simultaneously hates that the phone doesn’t ring at all, because when Pari was alive her friends would call her all the damn time, and Pari, dammit, she would say, won’t you get off the phone for two seconds!
god is like dancing, continued. She cannot say that she tidies Pari’s room every day––remakes the bed, dusts the bookshelves, folds and unfolds her cold clean clothes, in case one day, she decides to claw her way out of that godforsaken wooden box in the ground and come back home, come back to her. The fire goes out of Azrael’s eyes, and she sinks back down into her chair. They are silent again, listening to each other’s breathing, pressing their lips to their cups of golden milk. A cat yowls mournfully outside. The wind has stopped, and even the magnolias have fallen asleep. Sheela glances out the kitchen window, once again unable to look this creature that is not her daughter in the eye. Regret runs through her, hot and thick. You petty, petty woman, Sheela thinks shamefully to herself. Now the most divine creature in the universe is as broken as you are. The apology is halfway out of Sheela’s mouth when Azrael murmurs, head in her hands, “She was your God. But she was also my Mother, and now She is gone.” What did her Mother’s face look like? Azrael doesn’t think she remembers. Only that warm smile, Her hands. It was so long ago. Why was it so long ago? How could she not notice She was gone sooner? She had slipped out of Azrael’s life before she even recognized it. Before she could savor it. When God had cupped Her hands around her, Azrael had never embraced Her back. Never said, Thank you for making me. Thank you for my eyes my hands my skin made from supernovas and planets thank you for my wings thank you thank you thank you. No one will ever love me like that again, Azrael thinks. No one will love me so much that they create me out of themselves. “I’m sorry,” Sheela says, and she means it. She’s not sure if she’s apologizing for her outburst, or for the angel’s loss. Azrael doesn’t say anything, but her eyes go soft again. The angel taps an odd rhythm on the surface of the ceramic cup. “What was she like?” she asks, quietly, as if Pari was in the next room, sleeping, and Azrael was trying not to wake her. “My daughter?” Sheela croaks back. “I...don’t know.” Sheela feels tiredness seep into her bones. She thinks of Pari on that morning, rocking in her arms to some old Sheryl Crow tune about going home to someone. Did the angel put her socked feet on top of God’s when they danced together?
god is like dancing, continued. Sheela’s hands tremble to hold Pari again, her daughter, this impossible person that drew her first breaths against her chest, whose smile was a thousand miracles. That day. The way the sunlight transformed dust in the air to fireflies. They moved together like it was sacred, an ancient ritual carved into their bones, like they could not stop even if they had wanted to. The Holy Spirit, Sheela’s mother had cried inside her heart, She moves through you. The thrum of their veins seemed to tune itself to the mahogany, crackling pluck of the guitar, to the breath of the magnolia trees. Sheela wants to tell Azrael all this, about the mahogany music and Pari and the way it felt to be with her that day. But the words, as they have all night, stick in her throat.
“Pari and I,” she whispers instead. “We used to dance.” Their golden milk grows cold before the angel speaks again. “I’ve––” she hesitates, looking down at the tablecloth. “I’ve never danced before.” Her eyes meet Sheela’s at last. “Will you teach me?” she asks quietly. Something settles over Sheela, pulling her from her numbness. This is what she has been waiting for, she realizes serenely, the thing that was supposed to be terrible or wondrous, holy or unholy. This is the moment. She sees this girl seated in her kitchen, gaunt and a little frightening in the naked light of the gray room, blue eyes filled with an emotion she cannot place. She is so similar to my own girl, Sheela thinks with a pang. She is so much the same that it terrifies me. Sheela thinks of the statue in the chapel, her child’s body in her arms like an offering. Sheela has no space to mourn her, the woman with the smashed-in face. But maybe she can hold Her child. Azrael has just asked Sheela the question she has been waiting for since she first glanced through that dewcovered window at the beginning of this impossible black night. “Will you teach me to dance?" Azrael repeats, quiet as before. Sheela does not hesitate this time.
god is like dancing, continued. "Yes,” she replies. She drains her mug. Puts on a record in the living room. She positions Azrael’s stiff hands on her shoulders. Her hands rest tentatively on the angel’s waist. They sway. A song ends and a new one begins, and Sheela realizes it’s the song Pari died to, with the mahogany, crackling strings. Without warning Azrael moves closer, stacking her feet on Sheela’s. And for a moment, Sheela forgets that Azrael is a being older than time, and the angel forgets that Sheela is so young and broken and small. Come to me now, Sheryl Crow croons. And lay your hands over me Azrael’s head rests on Sheela’s shoulder, Sheela’s arms pulling her close. She will visit Goa again, Sheela decides. A pilgrimage to the city of death that raised her, and her mother before her. To the homeland she has not visited since that day in the chapel. She will stand in the warm, white tide of the ocean and commune with whatever ancient body Pari used to find in the hypnotic waves. She will plug the telephone back in. She will close the door to Pari’s room for a little while. She will braid her own hair, and sleep at last. Even if it’s a lie, say it will be alright So this is how it feels, Azrael thinks. To be held after such a long time. Sheela’s shoulders smell like incense. The magnolias outside have roused themselves. She could look at those trees forever. Tomorrow, she decides, she will sit under them and learn their love songs. And I shall believe They dance, and they keep dancing. They dance until Azrael sees her Mother’s smile in the grey-blue dawn light filtering through the magnolia trees; they dance until Sheela sees Pari standing in the doorway in her white pajamas; they cling to each other and don’t let go––a motherless daughter and a daughterless mother, alone, in the dusty old living room.
FLY TO YOUR DESTINATION The pudgy birdies flew through the blue and gaseous skies of Uranus. Naturally formed domes from iced carbon monoxide and rocky layers guard the planet's circle—no palace or farms on this planet, just caves with many varieties of crystal. After a full orbit around the hot, shining star, a new era is born. To celebrate one rotation, the residents and community council party and create clay figurines resembling the gods. The next morning, the planet was covered with dust and fire. The Uranians rampaged through the unbearable smoke. The community council alarmed the citizens in Uranian, "There are some 12 rockets from Earth, each having 30 intruders on it! What shall we do?" The citizens reply in unison, "Bring them in, so we can ask why they came." The rockets contain humans. What about Mars? Nope, too hot, but Uranus would have a colder climate! At this point, both sides were devastated. Uranians decided to bring humans to their homes and care for them. They poked some amethyst nails near the humans' hearts to shield them from the carbon monoxide. Some humans started cursing and shooting since they did not want other species here. Fortunately, Uranians had extreme resilience, and the gods and community councils tried to keep the peace for 1 more rotation. Humans feel more settled in with the Uranian customs and lifestyles. The community council brought in humans to teach English and other human signs. In the Mashiho Layout near the Amethyst Caves, Narsia, one of the community members, has been housing Freddy from Florida. She has one kid, Reveluv. Her husband has gone out of Uranus to Neptune for an event but never turned back. Uranians and the community have tried to go to Neptune and call him, but he gets married to the Queen of Neptunites, Chailisatea. Also, Freddy's wife passed away in a car accident back in Florida along with his kid, Teumes. Reveluv had been helping her parents a lot and was known as an amazing artisan on this planet! When Narsia met Freddy, everything changed! Freddy was a drug addict back in the U.S. and would have landed in prison if he did not escape to Uranus. His family could have bailed him out anytime since they have lots of money. Teumes was a handsome jock, but not attentive in studies, nor did he have the best impression in school, but he is so popular that everyone gives in to him. Narcissa and Freddy would take walks and teach her English. Teumes and Freddy did not like Reveluv. They started cursing her and made her do chores. The community sent her projects to work on, but none of them were correctly done due to the mistreatment and depression she faced. Her mom continued to kiss and praise Teumes, but did not look even once at her biological daughter. She always longed for her mom's help and love, but Narsia was immersed in her work and the step-kid.
FLY TO YOUR DESTINATION CONTINUED The birdies she had in her garden saw Teumes spitting and doing the "middle-finger" to Reveluv. She was having enough! She signaled the birdies who ended up informing the Goddess of Purity. Reveluv knew these signs since the community members had some humans to help with language and culture barriers. The congratulatory festival for the community members' achievements came by, and the community council's families were invited. Narcissa had to leave early since she had to decorate the cave halls. Meanwhile, Freddy and Teumes smoked around her and told her to clean their rooms. The Goddess of Light came down and asked to chant the prayers, while the Goddess of Purity told her to smile and gave her craving tools plus some jade crystals. The birdies helped fit into a velvet gown. The birdies helped The Goddess of Light transport to the halls and give the projects at the entrance. The community guards took notice and kept it ready on the table. The names were finally being announced. Reveluv flew in joy with birdies, and the God of Water came behind her! Reveluv stood up to them, "How dare you do me dirty! It's karma time." She jumped and splashed some water on Freddy and Teumes. Suddenly, a wave poured more on them. They were punished by the other gods. The members and the citizens were proud of her. She got a permanent seat in the council instead of helping with pottery and art!
PROTECTOR
Lightning hit the ground around Ye-Hratyl as he approached the child. Sharp rocks, etched into the broken landscape around him, pricked his bare feet as he made his way closer. The sky was a desolate dark grey, occasionally lit by lightning. The smell of smoke filled his lungs, and the cries of the dead sounded in his mind. “H – help?” the boy called out, in desperation and anguish. Although he was still quite a distance away, the child could probably see Ye-Hratyl’s features quite clearly: sunken-in eyes, a crooked nose, and long gray hair, like that of an old man. a scar near his lip extending to the left side of his chin. Beside the child’s holed boots lay a corpse – a shadow to Ye-Hratyl’s eyes. That was how the dead always appeared to him - simply shadows. Thunder growled in impatience, as if it wanted Ye-Hratyl to hurry along, to reach the human in time. But he did not change pace. It was several minutes before he finally stood in front of the weeping boy, now fallen on his knees. The lightning suddenly stopped, like a roused creature which had finally been put back to sleep. The child raised his head in surprise and fear and terror, little tears still trickling down his cheeks. “Wha-” Ye-Hratyl stretched out his hand to the boy. “Come with me.” It was but a whisper in the wind, and yet, it was a whisper that could perceive all. “Who-who are you?” the boy asked, breathing quickly. “A friend.” A quick pause, then Ye-Hratyl said, “I must take you home, where it is safe.” The boy frowned, then looked up at the sky worriedly. “Do not worry yourself with that,” Ye-Hratyl continued. “It cannot follow where we are going.” Without saying more, Ye-Hratyl turned back in the direction he had come. “Follow, now. Where it is safe.” .
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What’s your name?” the boy asked meekly, as the pass made a sharp turn and they were forced to go deeper into the mountains.
PROTECTOR,
cont.
L“Hratyl,” he said with some reluctance. “Yours?” He might as well start some conversation, pointless though it was. The wind blew in his face, glorious. One of the few things that still gave him comfort after the Ten Massacres. “Mahib.” The youth spoke softly, quietly. It must have been a couple hours now since they’d left that corpse. Now, the boy had no one, and was alone. Oh how he envied him. The grief he was likely feeling, the pain and the blinding numbness that came after the death of a kin-member. It was a beautiful, human thing, to mourn. Ye-Hratyl personally never felt it himself, not for any kin-member, certainly not when thousands of his people had been wiped away like dust. They’d all been murderers, who’d fought in the name of ‘justice.’ Or perhaps, they had fought to protect themselves, from the humans who would come to enslave them like before. Personally, he found that a stupid, oversimplified version of the truth. Yes, it had grains of truth, but the reality was – they’d simply wanted power. And Ye-Hratyl was no different. After all, he had to cling to something. “Your mother,” he said, trying to sound warmer in his voice, more… human. Friendly, so the boy, Mahib, would understand and not be afraid. “Why did she want to leave the New World?” “We… we left the new world…?” The question hung in the air, then was picked up by the chill wind. “You came here by accident, then,” Ye-Hratyl pressed him. You did not mean to veer off the border?” A pause, as the path finally drew away from the looming cliffs. A sharp rock formation could be seen overhead, a sign of home. “My… mother,” the boy cleared his throat. “We’re refugees. My mother was trying to get us to one of those New Cities. The ones installed after the empire fell. One of the other refugees told us this was a shortcut to the eastern pass. Mother thought - because the northern one was so crowded…” The boy blinked again, and seemed to stop where he was walking. Ye-Hratyl turned back, looking at the new well of tears in the boy's eyes, then came over and embraced him. “Most unfortunately, these things happen, and we often veer off the path.”
PROTECTOR,
cont.
Sniffling, some more sobs, and while Ye-Hratyl comforted him he reworked the plan in his head. This boy was human, and flesh-walkers were the most dangerous back home. Not dangerous to his people, not in this case anyway. But one of them could easily leap for a kill. Careful, careful, careful. The boy withdrew suddenly, eyes wide with concern. Perhaps fear? “Who are you, how’d you make the lightning stop? Where are we going?” “I-…” Ye-Hratyl smiled in what he only hoped was a kind way. “I am a… refugee. Except, I am the kind nobody wants. My people – they have gathered in a reside. A place of safety, to which I am taking you. And as for the lightning…” He thought for a moment, then decided on the truth. “We are immune to such things. The plague of the New World does not extend to Outside. Not entirely, at least” At the boy’s puzzled, and still tearful look, Ye-Hratyl nodded encouragingly. “Yes, you and your mother ventured to the Outside. Accident likely, as the borders have not been set up clearly. But it happens nonetheless.” The child seemed to sag, his shoulders fell. He’s lost any hope he had. Perhaps hope that this was a dream? That almost made Ye-Hratyl chuckle, but he restrained himself. “I am taking you to safety,” he repeated. This seemed to be enough for the Mahib, at least for now, and he nodded. As they continued along the path, Ye-Hratyl breathed in the cold air. It was refreshing, the cold, it made you see things clearer. They’d been so used to heat in the Remade World that they had almost forgotten the bliss here… in the Outside. They could have easily hidden, if they feared the extinction of their race. Here, among the mountains and trees, where most humans would not dare venture. But they wanted more. When isn’t it the case that ambition becomes our folly? “How… How are you immune to the lightning? No one can stop it.” “Mhm.” “How then?” Ye-Hratyl observed the jutting rock formation up ahead, its twisted rock patterns already beginning to be seen. Shells, forgotten bones of the living, the creeping hand of decay sweeping over the entire valley.
PROTECTOR,
cont.
And yet, healthy, skinny trees stood tall, their youthful branches extending towards the barren sky. What an incredible contradiction. “I…” he paused. “You have heard of Warping? Dream shaping?” He felt some momentary confusion in the boy, and then his eyebrows un-furrowed and he seemed to understand. “Sorcery, you mean? Are you a… a sorcerer?” “Yes…” Ye-Hratyl grimaced. “I am a… sorcerer. Where I am taking you – there are wizards there – others like me...” “But- but –” “It’ll make sense when we reach home,” Ye-Hratyl cut him off, before more questions could be raised. “I promise, it will.” He forced them onward, somehow, and no more questions were raised, to his luck, until the rocky outcropping was a couple steps away. The trees stopped a short distance away, so Mahib would be able to see a large cave past the structure. Or, what he would interpret as a cave. To Ye-Hratyl and his kind, it was a castle, only one with the towers squeezed tightly together, to make one larger tower. Inside of course, it was much more complicated. There would be murals carved into the rock, along with warnings, and messages. Stories, even. Someone had to tell them, Ye-Hratyl supposed. “Where…” “This is home.” Mahib looked up at Ye-Hratyl, worry and confusion forming again on his young un-creased face. “Wha-” Ye-Hratyl heard footsteps echoing along the cave, and the crunch of boots on gravel-like ground. He turned, and saw two kin-members, one with a red cloak with ripped holes in it, and the other, shirtless. As he’d predicted, as soon as they saw Mahib, they began to hiss. Ye-Hratyl recognized them both, the shirtless one being Ye-Korim, an idiot who, while a stern follower of ancient custom and tradition, could not think for himself. An idiot who followed his brother.
PROTECTOR,
cont.
The other, Ye-Snovár, was often reserved and quiet, yet when he spoke it was with great confidence. Ye-Hratyl’s brother had originally considered him as a threat to kingship, but that had changed. Ye-Snovár had pledged loyalty to him, on the condition that Ye-Snovár would always be allowed to guard their borders. So, another who is bound by custom and tradition. Ye-Hratyl suppressed a smirk, then reminded himself that Ye-Snovár was no fool. He had tried several times probing information from the man, and each time was not successful. And Ye-Snovár knew things. Originally, he had worked as an Inquisitor for the Imperium, something that should have made him hated among their people, due the job’s close affiliation with the humans. But it had all been done to their benefit; Ye-Snovár had been one of the most respected in the human government, and could easily get his way. The fool, and the silent observer. Both were unsatisfied with Ye-Hratyl, and both demanded answers. He had, after all, brought a human child to their home. “Explain yourself Ye-Hratyl!” barked Ye-Korim in their own language. Sharp, tiny knives glinted from inside his mouth, fangs ready to snap. Ye-Snovár’s hard stare seemed to be suggesting the same thing. But Ye-Hratyl detected something else in their stare. Hunger. He looked at Mahib, then back at them, and threw on a smile. “What, him?” Only silence, along with confusion from the child. “I am…” Ye-Hratyl paused, then his smile widened. “I am on an urgent mission for our Redeemer.” What a funny word that was, especially when applied to his brother. “A mission?” asked Ye-Korim without enthusiasm. “For our –” “You lieee” said Ye-Snovár. “Our Redeemer would never allow such a thing.” “Well he did. And if you wish to question him, by all means, go on ahead. But like it or not, this boy is going through the pass. With me. Alive.” They both hissed at that, and Ye-Hratyl felt Mahib backing away. He turned to him. “Do not fear them, they are merely vipers.” He had expected the boy to relax at that, and it took a couple moments before it registered that it would make him even tenser.
PROTECTOR,
cont.
"What are you?” He asked again. “Sorcerer,” Attempted Ye-Hratyl. “I already said.” “Why are you so…” Sometimes, the best thing was honesty. “Animal-like?” he finished for the child. Mahib nodded. Ye-Hratyl bent down one knee, so he was of equal height and facing Mahib. “You will come to learn there are many different types of sorcerers out there. “Warpers. Shapers.” He waited. But there are also… others. People like us,” and he gestured at the two self-important ones at the pass. “We exist, so that…'' He paused. “so that chaos does not overtake this world. The huma – the other nations -- will begin to war with each other soon. I assure you, the new world will not last long.” At this, the child seemed to grow even more confused. Ye-Hratyl nodded. “I am taking you to the only safe place I can think of. A place where war will not reach us. But you have to trust me, Mahib. Please.” The boy did not seem convinced. But then again, he didn’t have much choice. Gently, he gestured for him to follow, and together, they slowly walked into the pass. Ye-Hratyl eyed the two guards wearily. “Go tell my brother I’m coming.” “We don’t serve you,” Ye-Korim said with a snarl. Ye-Hratyl grinned at them, holding the child’s hand tightly as they went into the darkness of the cave. “Hold my hand tightly,” he said to the boy. “I am about to use my… magic, to get us through.” He tried to be calm, soothing even. The boy said nothing, but he could feel him shaking. Good enough, as long as he’s silent. Ye-Hratyl carefully led him along the dark pass, making sure he didn’t trip on any stones. They always said that caves were dangerous – they being the humans – but Ye-Hratyl’s people had found ample cause to disagree. It was the safest place on earth, a cave, because you could shroud yourself in darkness, and no one would find you. No one would even care to look. They passed some of the light-murals, which had been etched into the wall. Most of them were called light murals, because when you used an ember-stone as a light, the murals glowed purple. Pieces of their culture, depicting their slaughter and previous enslavement. How fascinating, and miserable all at once.
PROTECTOR,
cont.
They passed some ‘murals’ like this, even one of the ‘do not approach’ warnings which had been drawn into the cave. It was quite comical Ye-Hratyl and others; they knew humans would not be able to read in the dark, and anyways they would not have been able to venture this far. Not unless they’d been taken on purpose. In truth, they were not walking in a cave, but in a chamber, carved out of the stone, yes, but very much habitable. The one thing that infuriated him though was the lack of light. Their people, since the Ten Massacres, had insisted on darkness, shadow, shadow… It was foolish not to consider the importance of the light. Yes it could unveil them, but it was also their way of seeing into the human world. An important thing, knowing your enemy. Finally, a set of steps signaled their arrival to the Court of Tragedy. At least, that was what Ye-Hratyl called it, they had no name for anything, except for his brother, the Redeemer. “We are here. You will be able to see again.” He felt the boy inhale sharply, and he turned to him. “Do not be afraid, you have nothing to fear.” What poor, dreadful lies. When we enter, I will have to speak with the other – with the other wizards. Some of them are reluctant to… share the space.” He tried to smile again, but it was pointless as the boy couldn’t see him. “I… want you to trust me, Mahib. I want safety for you, you deserve it after what happened to…” Silence. The boy said nothing, he hadn’t in a little while, but he felt his eyes studying him. Tracing his silhouette, considering his options. Even if he thinks to escape, it is pointless. There is nowhere to go. Finally, there was a heavy sigh. “Alright.” Mahib finally said. “But promise that you… mean what you say.” His voice was unsteady, unsure, and YeHratyl had to remind himself that this was a child, not a grown man. There is still hope, then. “I promise,” Ye-Hratyl whispered. “With all my heart.” Lies, because you don’t have one. Maybe when you were young, but you’ve grown cold beyond all reason. They went in, further darkness briefly enveloping them, before light from ember stones up ahead illuminated their surroundings – and the hundreds of kin-members – waiting. The chamber itself was large, at least, by a human’s standards, with more drawings etched into the ceilings. These depicted what was likely a scene from the Ten Massacres, with what appeared to be a human stabbing one of theirs with a spear. What in Gathering’s name…? Humans never killed their kind with spears… It took a few moments for him to realize that it was no human, but one of theirs. So, a message: all for themselves, eh? He liked that, and it made perfect sense.
PROTECTOR,
cont.
The walls had been carved by their people, made to last centuries perhaps – if no humans intervened. The kinmembers sat in lines on the rocky floor, all eyes on him and the boy – as if they had been expecting him. Of course, they had sensed their arrival from a mile likely, but still, it was unheard of to bring a child. A human child. That was what made him chuckle. “My friends, it is so good to be back!” He said in their language. The kin-members did not seem to share his enthusiasm. There were only four groups of them, consisting of the second, fourth, and seventh tribe, as well as the several members from the eighth. All were outraged. Up ahead, the doors – human contraptions – were being guarded by some members of the Second. His brother was likely somewhere beyond, listening. “What is the meaning of this, Ye-Hratyl?” Asked Ye-Khaleem, a large muscular kin-member who had led the charge during the last stand of the Imperium. Well respected, unlike Ye-Hratyl himself. “I am – was – on a mission for the Redeemer.” Scoffs and smirks at that, and Ye-Hratyl felt the boy pulling at his shirt. “What are you saying?” Mahib asked insistently. “We are speaking in… Wizard tongue. About how I found you.” Not entirely the truth, but no one needed the entire truth anyway. Not these days. “If you don’t believe me,” said YeHratyl to the kin-members, ask the Redeemer himself.” It was then that the large doors swung open, and the Guard entered the hall. They wore poor worker’s garb, tied to their flesh with cords. The most dangerous in this entire gathering, Ye-Hratyl knew. Besides him. The Guard made way then, and he passed them, stopping at a small platform made just for him. There was no king, their kind had never had any kings. It was a human thing, to have one be superior above all others. And yet, here he was. Ye-Hratyl’s own brother, Ye-Llovar. A clever, scheming, brilliant figure who had predicted every possibility before acting. Well, almost every possibility. He looked at Mahib, and gritted his teeth. Ye-Llovar’s rise to power had been so swift, so quick, primarily because no one had protested.
PROTECTOR,
cont.
Their kind, as a united people, had been shattered. Their alliance with the Imperium had fallen as soon as they’d lost the war with the rebels. After that, the ten tribes had either been wiped out by the Shapers, or had fled the Remade World entirely, going somewhere to the edges of Adeera. Others had come here. Perhaps the last stronghold their people had, consisting of the remains of some of their tribes – mostly the second, fourth, and seventh, with a small number from the eighth – and all led by Ye-Hratyl’s brother, a member of the second tribe, who had already spoken often about the need to unite once again. He was, in other words, the only choice for leader. And someone had to lead, or their people would have split even further. “In case the people worry, and descend into panic,” the Ye-Llovar said in his rich voice. “I did not ask for this child to be brought here, and my brother was acting under no orders but his own.” Ye-Hratyl’s heart sank as all eyes shifted towards him and Mahib, who hid behind Ye-Hratyl. He had hoped his brother would protect him, then inquire as to why he had done such a thing. As it was, he was on his own, without defence. Probably Ye-Llovar had made the wiser decision, denying any responsibility. It was true, but… Ye-Hratyl forced a grin. He hated this, fighting a hopeless, pointless battle. But, where was the harm? “My good brother,” Ye-Hratyl said, feeling some comfort in the fact that he was about to infuriate every soul in the room. “How could you lie so? You told me to go the day before today. Harrow’s soul, but you gave me specific instructions to bring this very child!” Ye-Llovar’s eyes widened in outrage, and without a moment’s pause, he said “take that child! Take him now, and throw him the Jahha-pit! Keep him on watch, until I learn the meaning of this! If there is none, you have permission either to take him for meat, or to throw him to the serpent-brother.” Immediately the Guard began to walk towards them, and Ye-Hratyl quickly knelt down so he was eye-level with the child. “What’s happening?” the boy asked, frantic. “There has been some sort of misunderstanding,” Ye-Hratyl said quickly. “They think you’re an enemy of theirs.”
PROTECTOR,
cont.
“What? What?” The child began to back away, but Ye-Hratyl put a firm hand on his shoulder. “They are going to throw you into a pit. Not a dangerous one, like a human cell-“ “But I haven’t done anything wrong!” Mahib exclaimed, tears already beginning to fall down his cheek. “I know, I know. I will get you out, I promise, just don’t –“
Before he could finish, something lifted Ye-Hratyl and then… he thought he was thrown off, away somewhere. His vision tunneled, and his head became dizzy. Then everything steadied, except for the screams of the human child from behind. “Please! Please! NO! No-o-o-o! Hratyl! Hratyl, get me out!” Ye-Hratyl felt a shadow fall over him then, a tall imperious one. “NO, NO, No!” The voice cut off as one of the guards put a gag on the child. Unpleasant surely, but not any worse than that. At least now, Ye-Hratyl could be certain Mahib would survive. Ye-Hratyl himself though… “Come,” Ye-Llovar said in a whisper, as the kin-members behind began to shout and scream. “You have a lot of explaining to do.” . . .. . . .. . .. . . .. . . “So…” his brother said, as the doors banged shut behind Ye-Hratyl, “A human child. In our domain?” He sat in his ornate throne, made of the same-ember stone as in the other room. His fingers drummed the arm rests of the chair, not patiently. He often had that effect on Ye-Llovar. As the oldest, he had often been relied on more. People had always cheered Ye-Llovar on, but his weak, silly little brother, oh no. Ye-Hratyl gritted his teeth. His plan was progressing, though whether it would end in his ruin or not, they had yet to find out.
PROTECTOR,
cont.
He stepped forward confidently to face his brother. The Guard had been dismissed, as they always were when YeHratyl held an audience with his brother. Ye-Llovar trusted him, despite their differences, and relied on Ye-Hratyl for a great many things: spying, scouting, and, when needed, killing. They, as family, did not stab each other in the back. “You should be thanking me,” Ye-Hratyl said with a grin. “For what?” “For finding a way to save us all.” Ye-Llovar’s eyes narrowed in puzzlement, and Ye-Hratyl cleared his throat. “From the shapers. The warpers. From everyone.” “How is a human boy going to help?” Said his brother in frustration. Almost like I am, myself, a small child needing to be taught a lesson. “I said, he is our salvation.” “Explain!” said his brother, with anger this time, “why bringing one of our enemies, to the heart of our safety, is our ‘salvation’?” Angry. You are angry with me, and I will need that. Control, security. It was something Ye-Hratyl had always relied on for his own safety. He had always been the quiet one, the observant one. And yet, he had always been treated by the others as a silly, foolish kin-member who shirked his duties. His brother knew better, and did not underestimate his intelligence. Yet they all failed to see one thing about him. Ye-Hratyl cleared his throat, the way an orator would before a large audience. “I shall start then, from the beginning.” .
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“Ever since the Ten Massacres, our people have been divided. Fractured. Even with a leader, our numbers will eventually dwindle.”
PROTECTOR,
cont.
“Thanks to you and the human you brought to our front door.” “No. We’re being hunted, and a child does nothing to change that. Except…” Ye-Hratyl smiled, “It serves a great improvement for us all.” Ye-Llovar, who had been sitting in his chair musing, suddenly sat up, much like a human would, when faced with something strange and unknowable. “What? A human? An improvement?” Ye-Hratyl could not suppress a chuckle. Of all his powers, speaking had been among the greatest. Otherwise, he had nothing. A weak fighter, a knack for mischief, irresponsible… At least here, he held the upper hand. “Why yes, that is what I said,” Ye-Hratyl said. “I believe that this human boy is the key to saving us all. You know of the Kath’raa prophecies, yes?” “The gibberish Ye-Haseen came up with from a decade ago? Yes, what of it?” Ye-Hratyl almost flinched at that. Bold, perhaps overconfident, to proclaim one of their sacred texts to be gibberish, and assume no one was listening. But then, that had always been Ye-Llovar. Bold and daring. Everyone loved him. As much as their kind could love, at least. “Well, I was wandering along our borders when I saw them – Outside – a boy and his dead mother. There was a strike, and I helped him. Do not worry, he does not suspect anything about our abilities.” This was not entirely the truth, but Ye-Hratyl continued. “One of the lines says, ‘A stranger’s flesh made holy shall birth us all anew.’' So I decided to, in a way, fulfill that prophecy. When I found the boy I realized, he might be the key.” Ye-Hratyl stepped closer to the throne, and met Ye-Llovar’s cold, white eyes. “If we raise him as our own –” At this he felt his brother’s wispy brows raise in indignation, but he continued. “If we raise him as our own, teach him our ways, and that of the humans, think of what could come after!” Ye-Llovar shook his head. “You have no idea about how damage you have caused! The humans will be looking for their own, now! And what is this about finding the child Outside? The rebels have already established their borders!
PROTECTOR,
cont.
"Not all of them. Along the north pass, there are still many refugees.” “Yes, but there is a clear path along that pass. There's no reason one would venture away from it, when they were already safe.” Ye-Hratyl clicked, and grimaced. “Yes, that confuses me as well. Apparently a passing merchant told them that they could get a shortcut to one of the New Cities. Apparently it involved leaving the pass, from where the mother likely lost sight of the road.” “Poor woman. But if the borders are not established strong enough then we have an even bigger problem. The more ‘accidents’ that occur like this, the stronger the chance that –'' He cut off, and searched Ye-Hratyl’s smug expression. “What were you doing along our borders? I sent scouts for that, two days ago.” “I know.” “Then where did you go? What were you doing?” Anger. Anger is good. He enjoyed this game. Knowing something his brother did not, playing with little snippets of information. Delightful it was, truly. It then seemed to dawn on his brother, and Ye-Hratyl felt the change in his posture. It was even tenser than before. Alert. “A… a refugee led them to a shortcut, you said?” “Well, the boy told me that. I can only assume – ” “WHAT DID YOU DO? I told you, I told all of you, specifically not to cross the border. It’s too dangerous, you could have lost your life!” “I could have, yes.” “Why then, Ye-Hratyl? What reason could you possibly have had for leading a boy’s mother to her death?”
PROTECTOR,
cont.
"“Think about it. Think long and hard. A child, human, perfectly meldable. You know as well as I do, that in a few years’ time, this ‘New World’ will collapse, and there will be more rebellion. A perfect time for us to re-emerge, wouldn’t you say? A leader, one that looks like them but speaks for us?” “A figurehead.” “A leader of both,” said Ye-Hratyl confidently. Ye-Llovar rose, then began to pace from wall to wall. Again, much like a human. We’ve been in their presence for too long. “You’ve been planning this a long time, haven’t you? Where you would lead them, what you would do. In Gathering’s name, I wouldn’t be surprised if you had even worked out who you were going to take in advance.” Ye-Hratyl did not deny it. It had really been quite simple, for there was only one child traveling in the Pass. And that boy was Mahib. A little disguise, some ripped clothing - which he had thrown over the cliffs the nearest chance he could – and then… he had to wait for the lightning to take its prey. “Of course.” The best part was, his brother realized. He understood now that it had not been so foolish. Ye-Hratyl saw it in Ye-Llovar’s face, as he turned to look at Ye-Hratyl. “I see. Where, may I ask, did you come to think up such a plan?” Ye-Hratyl simply shrugged. “As I said, the gibberish was a factor.” “Hmmm.” Ye-Llovar retreated back to his throne, suddenly seeming tired. “Well. It seems you have proven yourself quite well today. This boy… perhaps there is something in what you suggest. We shall have to see.” Ye-Hratyl laughed. It was, unlike previous times, unrestrained. “Brother, brother. You should know by now, that after having done you such a favor, I would want something in return.” Ye-Llovar’s expression darkened. “Done me a favor? Our people’s fate is at stake, and I will not have you –”
PROTECTOR,
cont.
"Oh, please!” Ye-Hratyl gave him a dismissive, repulsed look. Something he would not have dared to do before. But he supposed that now was as good a time as any. He glared at Ye-Llovar, baring his teeth in contempt. “You think I care for your stupid rules? For your self-importance? I found the boy. I got him to safety. And only I can get him to trust us. You didn’t do him any favors by throwing him into a pit.” Ye-Llovar’s eyes widened in outrage, but Ye-Hratyl only felt a pulsing in his body. He’d never said things like this. It felt good, so very good to do so. There had been a time, once, when he’d been… innocent, harmless. Oh, how long those times had passed. He was done with that harmless, little fly. Done with all of them, the fools. “I can leave this place, and never return! Without me, the child will not survive, and without him, as you know, you’ll be back to where you started. Drowning in your own muck.” Ye-Llovar sneered. “We’d stop you before you’d leave half a mile out.” “Oh you are welcome to try. Throw me to the serpent-brother for all I care. Kill the boy. Let us see how you are faring then.” Ye-Llovar fumed. Perfect. And now… “You haven’t said what it is you want.” “Oh, but I think you know. That throne you sit on belongs to me.” “IMPOSSIBLE!” Ye-Llovar bellowed, standing. “I should have you taken where you stand!” “Then do it!” Ye-Hratyl shook his head, and laughed again. “You forget that while you won over tribes with your charisma, I made sure no others would oppose you. I tricked Ye-Falan, poisoned Ye-Lojé. And the rest…” He waved his hand dismissively. “I did everything you asked. And you, for reasons incomprehensible to me, still believed that I would stay where I was, and do your bidding…” He walked closer, and spoke at a whisper. “You are mistaken, Ye-Llovar. Mistaken…”
PROTECTOR,
cont.
Ye-Llovar bared his teeth, his eyes brutal and violent. White eyes, like all the others, but narrowed in focus and concentration. His hands were ready for the coming fight, to grip and break flesh. Ye-Hratyl had considered that, trying to kill him. But he had never been a warrior, and if it came to fighting, his brother would easily win. No, better to claw him down with words. “This,” said Ye-Hratyl, “is what will occur. You still get the chair, I’ve never cared much for it anyway. In their eyes, you stay king. But in this room, we both know the truth. Behind these doors, I give the orders. When, where, and how. Is that understood?” Ye-Llovar said nothing, only looked at Ye-Hratyl long and hard. His mouth was open, so that Ye-Hratyl could hear his steady breathing. He’d lost it, then. His will to fight was gone, taken by his puny brother. Just as it should be. Licking his lips, and savoring every step, Ye-Hratyl approached him. “Is that understood? It’s a question that requires an answer.” No doubt his brother felt like a child now, talked to in such a way. It was how Ye-Hratyl had felt all his life. A child, forced to obey the master. Subservient, weak. But now that child was gone, and the roles had been reversed. His brother swallowed, and, with much reluctance, whispered, “Yes.” .
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It felt good, being in charge. In half an hour, Ye-Llovar, or more precisely, Ye-Hratyl, had already ordered the release of Mahib. Now, he had but to bathe in his victory, and then consider his next steps. Their people were still weak, and YeHratyl intended for them to relocate out of this wretched rock. They needed to head somewhere farther away from the New World, perhaps to the very edge of Adeera. The humans would search for them, yes. But after finding nothing, eventually, they would forget. Humans forgot easily, after a couple of years, and when faced with their own squabbles. And then, in the midst of all the bubbling chaos, slowly, steadily, like the shadows themselves, Ye-Hratyl’s people would re-insert themselves into human society. Waiting for the right moment. As for his brother, Ye-Hratyl had no doubt he was still angry, and likely was planning some sort of scheme to get back at him. He wouldn’t find anything though. Ye-Hratyl had considered all the possibilities, but nothing resulting in his death would help Ye-Llovar, and he certainly had nothing with which to blackmail Ye-Hratyl. His kind did not fear pain, or torture, and so resorting to such human methods was pointless as well.
PROTECTOR,
cont.
But eventually, after the boy grew of age, there would be problems. Perhaps an accident, and Ye-Hratyl would be no more. The boy would be made to suspect nothing. For the time being though, Ye-Hratyl was safe. He could plan how to deal with them when the time came. For now, he had what he wanted. The upper hand over someone he detested. And that, Ye-Hratyl admitted to himself, felt better than anything else in the world. Pointless, yes, to fight for power like the humans did. But you had to cling to something. The tall doors opened, and Ye-Llovar ushered in the Guard, Mahib at their side. Ye-Hratyl saw that his eyes were bloodshot, likely from crying. Signaling Ye-Llovar and the guard to leave the room, Ye-Hratyl ran to the boy and embraced them strongly. “Are you alright?” he asked, trying to sound worried. “I…” the boy sounded tired, exhausted. “What… What's going to happen to me? Those men said they were… sorry?” YeHratyl faced the boy. “My brother – he leads this kingdom – he was worried you were a spy. I convinced him otherwise, however.” Mahib looked confused, unsure. “One of the New Cities,” he said in a quiet voice. “Can you still take me there?” Ye-Hratyl winced. “They didn’t tell you?” “What?” “The rebellion split a couple days ago. Now the cities are being held by different factions, and I do not think it would be safe for you to go there. Not now, anyway.” Mahib brushed away a tear, then slowly nodded. “Come,” said Ye-Hratyl in a comforting voice. “You’ve faced an extraordinary amount of hardship for one so young. You need rest.” He embraced the boy one more time, stronger, firmer. “It will be alright in the end. I will look after you. Make sure you are always safe. I promise.”
augenblick (n.) lit. “in the blink of an eye”; a ‘decisive moment’ in time that is fleeting, yet momentously eventful and incredibly significant
there’s a high to hating yourself. i had carved my heart on my sleeves and the crimson of my blood engraved my story onto fresh parchment. i poured gasoline on yourself because it was supposed to make me powerful, it was supposed to turn me into a dangerous kind of woman, one that will light in an inferno if someone got too close. the soldiers’ steady march reverberate in whispered counts as i inhale and exhale. one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, exhale, one, two, three; this bathroom is an echo chamber and i could hear an arsonist’s lullaby, like a looming ache for acceptance and a persistent affinity for scorched flesh. my skin has glided over with snow, clammy in pools of milky tears and crystal regret; i could almost feel the will for tomorrow soak out of my body.
the hiding suffocates and taking slow deep all-encompassing breaths burns the back of my throat like nostalgia. existentialism feels heavy tonight and part of me wants to tip over the edge of almost nowhere when i stitched my skin together with needle and dread, the scars never fade and perhaps they will forever adorn my thighs and forearms. sometimes the thread would unwind and loosen at the ends and sometimes i would have to repair the seams, but the holes i’ve pierced into my flesh and inked onto my skin speak my story.
sometimes all that matters is that i’m still trying.
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