Rokkoh and the Smith, Chapter 3

The flurries fly around in a heavier downfall, but Winter’s bite remains the same. I set eastward, eyes combing through the darkness between the pines. As I trek, there are only the trees, the snow, and the increasing wind. The Smith’s devilish grin creeps into the forefront of my thoughts, and through the windowpane of this search it seems intentional. The monster, a fallacy. My mission, a wild goose chase. My friends, defenseless. I need to get back to them, I tell myself. They need me more than the Smith does. I don’t need a sword of my own, especially not one from a lying bastard who fools children into leaving him alone.

The wind chills my back instead of my face, but I cannot move. Curious eyes creep. A flash of glimmering gold, two small circles of the dazzling hue, peek out from behind a tree. They blink slowly twice before moving south, its gaze never breaking. I cannot see its frame in the night, only the golden eyes. I follow, my own curiosity taking over.

Tri-toed tracks lead the way through the thickening snow. Each is enormous, bigger than my head. The trees thin out, giving way to a white plain lit by the bright crescent moon. Ahead, the giant footprints stop at the mouth of a cave carved into the side of a hill. The wind picks up, blowing snow into my face as I step closer to the cave entrance. The golden orbs watch from just inside, hiding amongst the shadows with patience and expectancy. The glimmer fades as I come near, receding into the depth of the cave until the gold is gone. Standing in the mouth, my eyes adjust to the cool black. A hulking figure kneels several yards away, its back to me. Long fur, tawny and thick, covers the body. It hovers over something, and through the dark I can hear faint, sweet noises.

The iron sword grows hungry in my hand. Strike, it begs as I inch closer and closer to the hairy beast. My footfalls are far from silent; each one echoes throughout the space. Yet the creature does not move to defend itself. Perhaps, I wonder, if the thing is deaf and simply does not know I am there. But it had watched me from amongst the woods, led me to its home as if it wanted me to follow. Why?

Nothing but a couple feet of air separates us now. The blade could easily cut that distance and sink into the large prey. The fur could drip rubies. I could claim my prize and go back to the Tower victorious and proud. It would be more difficult, though, to hide my contraband than I imagine it is for Dagan.

It turns in its spot, pivoting at the hip and reaching out a long furry arm. Its four fingers, charcoal yet eerily human, take gentle hold of my wrist. It doesn’t even seem to notice the blade held in that hand. Eyes like precious coins look up to me, a glint of glee shining in the gold. Surrounding each eye is a circle of deep black flesh. A flat obsidian nose, much like a dog’s, pokes out of the fur. Its mouth hides underneath. It encourages me with a soft pull to come closer. Nestled in a bed made of straw and leaves, suckling on the juices of winterberries, is a baby. Its fur is longer, thicker, and as white as the snow outside. Its little fingers hide under the fur, but its little feet with three toes are of the same hue as the larger one’s fingers. Its eyes open and close between pulls of juice, revealing dazzling silver. It hums and coos as it feasts.

“Is this your baby?” I asked, hushed and in awe.

“Ohnesh,” it replies, slow but proud.

The creature takes my other hand in that same gentle way, lowering it until my fingertips lay upon the baby’s fur. Soft, thick, warm. The baby squeaks in delight as I rub its head. Although its eyes close, I can sense the smile hidden underneath its wintry fur. When I move my hand away, the little thing goes back to the winterberries that sit in a small mound next to it.

The larger one, presumably the mother, releases me from her delicate grasp. She rises to her feet, long lanky legs helping her tower over me. She stands at least ten feet tall, my head at her belly. She looks down to me with those blissful golden eyes, and a hand reaches out to stroke my head. Such a sweet, pure, and loving gesture. Oddly comforting, as well. It makes me feel like a child, though not in the way the Smith had done. Instead of shame, mockery, or humiliation, there’s safety and care. My mother made me feel that way. There are few memories left of her, and even fewer things I remember about her, but I’ll never forget the love she gave.

The sword grows heavy with guilt and disdain. It no longer begs or whispers in my ear. It cries, regretting the task it had promised. Yet I keep my hold on it. After all, it still needs to be returned to the Armory at the Tower of Lost Children. There would be more lashings for leaving it behind as opposed to bringing it back, I imagine.

The giant hand leaves my head, but the smiling eyes remain.

“Thank you,” I tell her. “I have to get back now.”

“Be safe,” her voice comes, still slow. Despite the enormity of her size, the lightness in her voice is clearer now. A being of peace, devoid of malice, only relying on her massive frame to ward off predators. I see it. She is no mindless beast, scrounging around for scraps or violence. She only wishes to provide for and protect her youngling. Who am I to kill her?

Continue to Chapter Four

Rokkoh and the Smith, Chapter 2

Deep into the wood comes a clanging. Metal slams hard into metal, a sharp cry in the night. The sound guides me through the trees until an orange glow flickers amongst the darkness. Scents of burning steel and calming lavender waft through the air as I draw near. A forge comes into view, alive and eager. Standing before the anvil, shaping red-hot steel with every strike, looms a figure of immense strength. Shirtless and muscular, the Smith works. Even in just the light of the forge, his pale green skin is clear. He wears his long black hair in a high ponytail, the sides of his head shaved and showing off the points of his ear. A thick arm rises in the air, hammer clutched tight in a huge fist, and crashes down on the steel again.

“If you have come to interrupt my work, get on with it,” a coarse and sonorous voice comes between swings. “I am very busy.”

“N-no, I don’t mean to interrupt,” I respond, puny in comparison. “I am simply here to admire, and…” I trail off.

“And add to my workload,” the orc finishes for me. “As if I don’t have a long enough list as it is.” 

My heart sinks. To be fair, what did I expect in the first place? To be greeted with open arms and enthusiasm? To be praised for finding him? To be gifted a blade as soon as I set foot on his land? Encouragement to wake my friends so they too could claim their prize? Something akin to magic? What a damn fool.

“Oh,” the word escapes me in a breath. “I’m sorry. I can just leave. I didn’t mean to disturb you, sir.”

Stepping back, I make my way for the trail back to the others. A sigh, a loud gust of breath, escapes the Smith. He sets down his tools and turns. His broad chest shows off the scars in the firelight. His wide mouth can barely contain the two teeth like tusks on his lower jaw, the right’s point broken. His cheeks, jawline, and chin are covered in a thick obsidian stubble. His scarlet eyes peer down a large hooked nose and find me, a tired relent taking me in. 

“Wait,” he groans. “You’ve made it this far. I can at least listen to your request.”

A grin spreads on my face, that spark of excited hope igniting as it had back at the tower. The warmth of the forge washes over me as I draw near. Beads of sweat form on my brow, and for a moment I consider removing my coat. Part of me decides it needs to stay on, show the legendary orc how strong I am to withstand the intense heat. The other part of me criticizes the thought, pointing out how silly it sounds. I agree with the notion that it would be best to take the damn thing off, yet it remains. 

“That your weapon?” he asks, pointing to the sword.

“No,” I answer, glancing at the basic iron blade. “It belongs to my friend. Kind of. Technically, he stole it.”

“I don’t often work with thieves,” he states. There is something lacing his gruff, a touch of serious yet a pinch of jest. “I take it he only took the one for himself?”

“Whoever is on watch gets to use it, just in case,” I tell him.

“And here you are, dutifully protecting the sleepers.” More of that humor comes out, the corners of his mouth rising to form a devious smirk. “Know how to use that thing?”

“I’ve had some lessons,” I admit.

“Enough to know what kind of blade suits you best?” he asks. My hesitation is enough to answer his question. “They even let you use real swords in your lessons?”

“Only the advanced classes allow that,” I tell him.  

“And you’re not in the advanced classes yet, are ya boy?”

That hope, that light, that eager and yearning optimism fades with every inquiry. Each one chips away at the excitement, its own determination focused on bringing me down. The Smith, with his reasonable curious jabs, shrinks me until I am a child. Small and illogical, I’m biting off more than I can chew. Unprepared, untrained, undeserving. 

My eyes set on the damp, dead grass. The snow melts as soon as it touches ground here. If it weren’t for the season, the sickly yellow would be lush green. I can only imagine the heat of working the forge at summertime. The trees, though, are close enough to provide a nice shadowy canopy. Perhaps the Smith likes it better in the warmer months. The Baroness, in her lessons regarding the diverse peoples, always mentioned how orcs liked the heat of their homeland deserts. Maybe the heat from his forge reminds him of home.

Heavy footsteps approach, and soon a rough pale green hand takes hold of my face. Index finger on one cheek and thumb on the other, he lifts my downcast chin. My bones feel so fragile in his grasp. Those crimson eyes narrow on me, studying something. He nods once after a long while, finding what he was searching for and releasing me. Taking a step back, his hands rest on his hips.

“Last boy who saw me was from the Tower of Lost Children,” he says, the lightheartedness in his tone gone. “Reckon by the looks of ya, you’re from there too, huh?”

“Yeah,” I nod. After living at the Tower for so long, the shame of being an orphan had all but vanished. Yet his red eyes, ever watchful and curious, shine a spotlight on that old familiar sting. No longer a child, I become a toddler in his looming shadow.

 “Any idea how many others that boy told about where to find me?” His arms cross over his chest, the muscles tightening in his irritation.

“No, sir,” I shake my head. “He showed a few people, but my friend is the only I know of who was told of how he got the dagger.”

Distant thunder roars inside his throat. His eyes close for a moment as he groans. His posture slacks for a second, his head falling. Fingers that previously held my face pinch the bridge of his nose. He exudes a heavy sign, releasing the tension in his body and letting his arms fall to his sides. He straightens up and lets a dark chuckle rise to the sky.

“Marcorkeit, be with me,” he mutters. His eyes find me again. “So, boy, what kind of blade do you desire?”

“Oh, um…” I hesitate, sheepish eyes going to the ground again.

“A regular sword would do you nicely,” he suggests. “Maybe a longsword, since you’re tall for a human.”

“I wouldn’t mind a longsword,” I tell him. “I’m getting pretty good with that and the greatsword we use in lessons. They’re wooden, though, if that makes a difference.”

“Ah, a greatsword,” he muses, eyes going wide and an excited grin widening on his face. “Might have to grow into it a little bit, bulk up some, but yes a greatsword would look wonderful in your hands. Did you have a particular material in mind? Any characteristics to make it unique? Perhaps an engraving of some sort?”

My brows reach for my hairline, two dark brown length of trees stretching to be closer to the curly forest. The pristine oceans in my eyes give away my overwhelmed confusion. The Smith goes quiet for a second, my indecisive awkwardness drowning out his bassy eagerness. He offers another little laugh, a long arm landing a heavy palm on my shoulder. Though I’m sure he means to only shake me a little, my whole body rattles in his not-so-gentleness. 

“We’ll worry about that later,” he says to soothe my mild panic. “First, there is the matter of payment. I take it you don’t have much coin.”

“Not yet,” comes the timid confession. “We don’t get much of an allowance.”

“No worries, boy,” the Smith smiles. “I have an errand you can do for me instead.”

“What do you need?” I ask.

“East of here is a cave,” he explains. “Its inhabitant has been trespassing on my land lately and stealing from my food stock. Show me how strong you are and take care of it for me. Sound easy enough?”

“I think I can handle it,” I nod once. My grip on the sword’s hilt tightens in a show of self-confidence. “What should I expect to find in that cave?”

“Onesh,” he says, simple yet dark. He waits, watching me with anticipation. But the word is gibberish to me. He catches the confusion on my face. A slight disappointment sparkles dull amongst the scarlet hues, and the corners of his toothy and tusky grin deflate a little. 

“You’ve never heard of Onesh?” I shake my head, to which he sighs once more. “They mustn’t teach you kids all that well.

“Onesh is a great and mighty beast. Centuries old, it’s as big as a bear, stronger than a gorilla, and as cunning as a fox. But at night, it falls into a deep sleep. If you can sneak up on it, you might be able to get the job done. If not, the Tower of Lost Children has one less mouth to feed.”

The playful yet sinister grin that shines on his face breeds a fear in me. Stealth has not often been a strong suit of mine; it had almost always been my fault when Kym and I would get caught sneaking a snack or two from the pantry. My desire for a blade of my own, though, is stronger than that cold feeling in my gut. Standing upright, heels clicking together like the guards do in the city, I don a face of bravery.

“It will be done, sir,” I say, doing my best to tune my teenage voice down an octave. Along with sneakiness, vocal talent falls short on my list of skills.

Continue to Chapter Three

Rokkoh and the Smith, Chapter 1

Our breath makes little puffs of steam in the cold winter air, but at least we have the campfire to keep us warm. The moon hangs high in the frigid sky, giving us a little more illumination. The forest sleeps around us, only the nocturnal beasts playing in the dark. We huddle close to the fire, wrapped in thick mammoth-fur coats underneath blankets. We left the Tower of Lost Children the previous day. It was far simpler than any of us expected: we walked out the front door and headed northwest. Though it goes unsaid, we all wonder if the Baroness has sent out a search party yet. So far, we haven’t heard or seen anyone following us. Besides, it isn’t like we’re running away from the place. Kym, Max, and I still have two years before they’ll let us go. Augustin has one. We’ll go back to the Tower once the adults find us, or we find what we’re looking for. 

Kym scoots closer to me, shoulder to shoulder now. Her warmth emanates from under her coat and blanket. I can feel Max’s and Augustin’s attention, side-eyes staring us down. Let them stare. The two of us are warmer now. They would be smart to buddy up too. 

“We should sleep in shifts again,” Max suggests with a yawn. No one argues; it had worked well for us last night. 

“I’ll watch first,” I offer.

“Sounds good to me,” Augustin says. He gets up from his spot, uproots the sword planted at his side, and brings it over to me. It’s a simple weapon, sharp and made of iron. We have not yet come across a need for it, just as Max had vehemently expressed before we left. I take it nonetheless, resting it in my lap.

Augustin goes back to his spot, laying down close to the flames. Seventeen, strong, and short, he has always been a kind yet fierce friend. He had already been at the Tower of Lost Children when I arrived. He beat up a kid once who made fun of me for having a teddy bear. I was six at the time, a perfectly fine age to still carry around such a toy. Augustin kicked the kid in the balls and punched his face until Cy the guard separated them. He got some lashes for the fight, which I later learned was just the way things were at the Tower. Do something bad, especially something violent, and it was the whip. 

Max follows suit. His lanky form stretches out on the ground, his head resting near Augustin’s. His blanket barely covers his long and slim figure. His dark skin hides under the layers; he and his twin sister Kym are among the few at the Tower of Lost Children with such a complexion. Most, present company included, see no problem with this difference. After all, we’re all orphans. Yet there will always be a bad apple or two. Our little quartet has been caught up in more scraps than I can remember. Naturally, that meant lashings. Proudly earned ones, they are. I’d do it again in a heartbeat. 

Two sets of snores come soon enough. Kym remains by my side. I really shouldn’t be surprised. Out of the three of them, she’s my closest friend. She and her brother arrived at the Tower after I did, back when we were eight. She stuck to Max’s side as often as she could, and he would hang out with Augustin and me all the time. He just picked us one day shortly after arriving. So, Kym came too. There were occasions where Augustin and Max would break away and go do things on their own, leaving Kym and me to entertain ourselves. A lot of those times consisted of us raiding the pantry, throwing rocks into the pond, and stealing things when we got older. We were inseparable. Still are. But as the years have passed, there’s something else there now. Something I can’t quite explain. It’s less of a want to always have her around, but more of a haunting need. In the morning, I can’t wait to see her in the mess hall. During instruction periods that we do not share, I slog through the lesson in anticipation of our next adventure. I don’t know why I feel this way. I don’t feel anything like it for Augustin or Max, or anyone at the Tower.

“Aren’t you going to sleep?” I ask to fill the air with something other than the other boys’ sleeping sounds.

“Not tired yet,” she shrugs. She wraps her blanket tight around her. Without our blankets our skin would touch. The thought tickles my stomach, quickens my heartbeat.

“Oh, okay,” I say, unsure what else to offer.

“Do you think we’ll find him?” the question comes, soft and hopeful. Her eyes go somewhere beyond the trees around us. I try to follow them but find only the night. 

“Where else would Dagan have gotten that fancy dagger?” I ask in return. 

Dagan had been a boy older than us all, freshly eighteen. Before he was sent off into the world a few weeks prior, rumor had it he slipped away for a few days and returned with a glimmering dagger, its sheath encrusted with dazzling jewels. For weeks, kids hounded him for answers on where he got it, if they could see it. Only a select few were blessed with a private viewing of the dagger, each of them sworn to secrecy. Augustin, to our troupe’s delight, broke his promise. According to him, Dagon had ventured out and found the Smith of Valier Forest. A legend, the Smith had been known to gift a weapon to whoever wandered upon his forge. Though Dagan had been vague, he said that one needed to pay a price for such graciousness. Augustin came to the rest of us shortly after with the idea to find the Smith.

The clouds shed, sprinkling light snow upon Valier Forest. The flames dance and cast their light upon the trunks around us. The smoke soars, aiming to greet its skyward cousin. We fall silent again, watching the firewood glow and crackle in the makeshift pit. A breeze brushes our blankets here and there, but otherwise lets us be. 

“Could’ve gotten it at the market,” she suggests. “Found a fancy vendor with fake shit.”

“I thought about that,” I admit with a slight shrug. “But Augustin is certain it was real. He’s no fool.”

“Doesn’t mean he can’t be wrong,” she says. 

“Hm,” I sound. The crackling fire overtakes the silence that settles between us. It is not an uncomfortable or awkward thing; it never has been between us. It feels like home, or what I imagine home feels like. Cozy, relaxing, shared with someone special. Maybe one day, once my days at the Tower of Lost Children are through, I will find such a home with someone like Kym. Or, perhaps, with Kym herself.

“What will you ask for?” her curiosity returns. 

“Not sure,” I answer. “Hadn’t really thought about it.”

“You better think of something quick,” she giggles, warming me in a way the fire could not. “We’ll likely find him tomorrow. I doubt he’ll wait around for you to make up your mind.”

“Alright then,” I laugh with her, a soft sound to not disturb the boys. “What are you going to request?”

“A dagger,” she says, quick and ready.

“You’re copying Dagan?” I joke. “How original!”

“No, you ass,” she elbows me through our coats and blankets. “Nothing quite as extravagant. But still something unique. Maybe a black blade, with a cool hilt.”

“Might wanna figure it out. I doubt he’ll wait around for you to make up your mind,” I elbow her back with a grin. We laugh together for a moment, her hand venturing outside the safety of her blanket and smacking me in the chest. It rests on her knee for a few seconds. Part of me screams to take it, to hold her hand for some reason. She pulls it back before I gather up the courage.

“I think I’ll go to bed,” she says after a moment. “I’ll take the next watch since neither of them were kind enough to volunteer.” 

“Thanks,” the word comes with a twinge of sour disappointment. I catch the sting in her eyes though she tries to hide it. It shines, even in the flame-lit dark, as she sets to the earth. A cold, sharp thing settles in my gut. Guilt, shame, regret. I should have taken her hand.

The world goes quiet as my friends rest. The critters are silent here, spectating from their perches at the strangers. Perhaps the snoring that fills the air sounds like a predator’s call to them, scaring them away. Doesn’t bother me, just means I won’t need to use the sword. I’ll pass it off to Kym in a few hours and then sleep until morning. 

Yet, through the quiet, something watches. Something bigger than the creatures of the forest. Something intelligent, curious. I feel its eyes on me, but I cannot tell from which direction they gaze. Then, beyond my sleeping friends and deep into the wood, a shadow moves. It hesitates behind a tree, aware of my eyes on it, then moves north. Curiosity gets the better of me. Sword in hand, I pursue the figure. I’m certain the others will be fine if I step away for a minute. None of them awaken or even stir as I leave the circle.

Continue to Chapter Two

The Act: A Short Story

Hey there readers! So sometimes in the editing process you have to trim the fat. And sometimes, there’s a whole lot of fat. The story I’m sharing this week was a lot longer in its first draft. It ties in with another project I had been working on, so the other (roughly) two-thirds of it were set in places and involved characters from this other piece. But looking back this story, I have found that all of that was unnecessary. This story, as I am posting it below, stands on its own. That being said, if you would like to read the extended version of “The Act” you can do so by clicking here.

I don’t know these people. I’ve seen them before, in a store with Dad maybe, but I don’t know them. I don’t recognize the chubby dad, the pretty mom, or the little daughter. They have pieces of me, though. The dad’s eyes are mine, blue like the ocean. The mom and daughter both have my blonde hair that stops just past the shoulders. The little girl has my nose. She and the man have my mouth.

I don’t know these people. Maybe I did at one point, but not anymore. The memory is just beyond my grasp. It teases me. They tease me. I don’t like being teased. I wanna cry, or scream, or do anything. I don’t wanna let them tease me with their familiarity.

I don’t want their food. I don’t want the grilled cheese sandwich on my plate or the tomato soup in the bowl next to it. It looks good with its perfect golden crispiness and gooey cheddar. It’s even cut into triangles. But I don’t want it. It smells like a wet and dead raccoon hidden under the porch after a summer rainstorm.

Would they hate me for asking for something else? I can’t touch this. It’s not what I need, what I crave. They wouldn’t understand. I should just keep my mouth shut and go hungry. Or I should stomach it like a good girl. Maybe they’ll let me go back to Dad if I eat their food. If I’m a good girl.

“Not hungry, honey?” the mom asks. My eyes are stuck on my food. I can’t look at her. I can’t disappoint her.

“No, it looks good,” I tell her, my quivering hands reaching for the sandwich.

“It’s okay, Sissy,” the girl says, sweet. “You don’t gotta eat it.”

But I do. It’s this or…

“We know it’s not what you want,” the dad says. My hands stop, my fingertips caressing the edge. My eyes, filling with tears, rise to meet him.

His throat is gone, the flesh ripped open and gushing down his front. His face, though, is calm. The others are no different. I can feel their blood on my face, dripping from my chin down onto the pure porcelain plate. My red hands stain the tablecloth as I push myself away from the table. They smirk. I weep.

“Time to wake up, sweetheart,” he says.

I do.

Dad’s head pokes through the doorway, his pleasant smile easing the nightmare still playing in my mind. The wrinkles, light as they are, show in his smile. My face gives something away, and his smile is replaced by worry.

“Did you have the bad dream again?” he asks. I nod. He sighs and comes into my room, sitting on the edge of the pink blankets. “I’m sorry. It’ll go away in time, I promise.” He offers his smile again.

“Thanks, Dad,” I breathe. “Sooner rather than later, right?”

“The less you think about it, the sooner it’ll go away,” he says with a forehead kiss. “Focus on other things. Like our morning routine,” he suggests, getting up and making his way to the door. “Be ready in a few, okay?”

I nod again and he’s gone.

Routine. I can do this.

Brush hair. Pick out clothes. Check phone. Answer texts, especially Henry’s. Tell him I’ll get on the computer after my shower. Shower. Brush hair again. Put my hair in a high pony. Put on a pink tee and jeans. Head down the hall to the computer room. Tell Dad. Sign into chat. Click on the Henry’s name as it flashes on the screen. Begin.

Henry and I go through the standard excitement to see each other online again. Within a minute, a face appears on my screen. Bags under the eyes, cheeks with light stubble, a chipped front tooth in his smile. His hair, like always, falls down the sides of his face. The low light makes his hair look darker than it is in the photos he’s sent me. His torso is exposed, as usual, showing off his average body.

My own face pops up in the bottom right corner of the screen. The room isn’t too well-lit either, but I’m visible enough. Henry never complains about it. I’m used to the compliments he gives, calling me cute and whatnot. He expresses his desire to meet up, as he has done so many times before. I repeat it back.

Henry stands up. I force a smile, bite my lip. He angles himself so I can get a full view, then sits back down. He asks if I like his little present. I fight back bile as I say I do. He presses me to meet. I agree. He gives me the address for a hotel and we sign off. My smiles and faux excitement evaporate in the instant I slump back against the chair. Dad peeks into the room, a serious look in his eyes.

We’re in the car a few minutes later. My eyes can’t focus on anything outside the window.

“Does it have to be this way every time?” My voice fizzles. I almost don’t want to ask. But if it can change, it must.

“No.” It’s grave, certain. 

The corners of my mouth curl into a weak smirk. A warmth breathes through me for a moment, but all is cold once more in the same second.

“But it’s the most effective way.”

I shouldn’t have asked.

My stomach groans. That regular pain, often subtle, flares. I wince and hug my middle.

“Soon, sweetheart,” Dad coos, reaching over to stroke my head. The sound changes him when it comes again, melts his ice. “Just gotta get through the first part, okay? Can you hold on until then? You’re so strong.”

I take a deep breath and nod. The sting in me fades, but remains in the background. He wants me to say something, to acknowledge his optimism. He wants me to tell him how I’m his good, strong girl and I believe in the Act. He wants me to say anything so he knows I’m alright.

“Okay.” It’s so soft I wonder if it was even aloud.

He strokes my cheek. Tears blur my vision. Tissues are in my hand as soon as the sharp inhale breaches the silence between us. I wipe away the wetness as best as I can.

I hate the red.

The hotel, or motel as the sign out front says, is in a seedy part of town. A couple lampposts in the parking lot have burned out. A nearby building is boarded up. I hold myself together by sheer force of will and head to number six. The lights inside are on, and the curtain shifts. The door pops open a moment later. Henry waves me in.

The room doesn’t look dirty. Then again, they never do. But I know it is. I saw a video on it once. A guy took a blacklight to the bedding, the floor, everything. There were so many stains. I almost threw up when I watched it. I wish I could vomit now. Maybe that would ruin things. Maybe Henry wouldn’t want me. Maybe Dad would finally stop making me do this.

But I can’t. I have to make Dad proud. I have to be good. I have to be with Henry, if at least for a little while.

My stomach growls again once the door clicks shut. Henry slides the lock on. No interruptions. No escaping. No turning back.

“You didn’t eat when you got home?” he asks from behind me. I can feel him taking in all of me. I can feel him wanting me.

“N-no,” I mumble. “Wanted to talk to you.” I fake a smile as he comes into view. He smells like some kind of wild animal. Dirty fur.

“We’ll get some grub in a bit,” he suggests with a genuine grin. “If ya want.”

He’s not as tall as I thought. His hair looks clean and wet. He probably just took a shower. It would explain the bare chest and feet. The thought of his bare feet on the indescribable invisible mess brings a dry bile to my mouth. It’s almost rusty, metallic.

I can’t look at him. He bends down and tries to meet my eyes, but I find the carpet instead of his gaze.

“What’s wrong, Jess?” He can’t hide the smirk in his tone, the humor that tickles him. “You seemed so excited earlier.”

“I am.” I hate forcing this god-awful smile for him, but I plaster it on. “Just kinda shy, ya know? Nervous.”

His hand finds my shoulder. The animal scent gets stronger at his touch. I want to rip his damn arm off.

“It’s okay. You’ve never done this before. It’s kinda nerve-wracking. But you’re so strong, so beautiful…

“You smell like moonlight,” he whispers.

Henry’s mouth finds my neck. His fingers find the button on my jeans. The bed sheets find my bare skin. My lips find something sweet. My eyes find Henry next to me. His find the ceiling and judgment.

Dad doesn’t take long getting to the room once I call. He marvels at how clean it was, how good I did. He allows me to shower while he takes care of the body.

My stomach doesn’t hurt anymore.

Flash Fiction 001 – Shore

Hello again, readers! Sorry for not posting last week; I had been feeling ill most of the week and didn’t have the energy to post. But here we are again with something new for you! Sometimes a story takes hundreds of pages to be told. Sometimes, all you need is a paragraph or two. The latter is called flash fiction, and it can be to see what one can accomplish with such brevity. This piece, “Shore”, was written as a prompt and based on the photo above. I’ve always liked this little story, and I hope you enjoy it too!

She looks so beautiful playing in the water along the shore. Her giggle, beautiful and melodious as ever, bounces off the rocks and sings into the eternity. She runs from the tide as it swells and rushes forth, taking solitude on a lone elevated stone. She chases the water on its way back out to the sea, repeating the game over and over again. She wears her hair down, the salt of the sea catching in her brunette locks. I’m so used to seeing it pulled back in a ponytail that I nearly didn’t recognize her at first. 

I’ve always said that the next time would be the last. Just one more, and then I’m done forever. Watching her now, I almost believe it. I want to, I really do, and maybe it’ll be true for at least a little while. But deep down I know she won’t be the last. My heart aches with the thought. This compulsion, this sin in me assures me that there will be more. One, two, ten… it doesn’t matter how many. 

How sweet, how innocent, how happy she looks. 

My footsteps catch her off guard. Fear fills her eyes and steals her breath. 

Poetry 001 – Untitled

Hey there! I’m still taking some time off from fiction this week to give you all a little break from Rokkoh content. (But if you are clamoring for more Rokkoh stories, just let me know! I might have something up my sleeve…) This week, I wanted to share something a little outside my comfort zone: poetry. I’ve never thought myself a poet, preferring the style of prose instead. I haven’t ventured down this avenue much, only the obligatory school assignments and occasional experimental periods. But I have this piece I wrote awhile ago; I had planned on expanding it more, but I’ve come to love it how it is. Maybe you will too. It doesn’t have a title, because sometimes I struggle with those kinds of decisions. So enjoy!

Indulge. Indulge. Indulge again

Who cares? Nobody’s listening

Gotta have a good time

Clear the mind

No, I’m okay it’s all good I’m fine

I’m lying

Whatever.

Bedtime. 

No bed of mine to find

Say goodbye, see ya in the sunshine

The door’s too loud as it closes behind

The world’s gone quiet

I don’t mind it

The roar of the engine fills the void

Need aspirin.

She used to sit there

Long car rides for the hell of it

We used to kiss here

Bring home a pizza and the car would smell if it

Her perfume is still in the air and I can’t tell if it’s

My mind going from the drink or despair

But the woman I loved used to sit right there

Now she doesn’t.

Blurry trees. Just the moon and my headlights.

Fuck tonight. Fuck every night.

Fuck the damages as long as I’m the only one in bandages

Shift gears, stomp the petal and scream

Shut my eyes so tight so I can’t see

Your bitter loathsome disgust for me

Do you fancy a miracle?

No broken bones, just bruises and lacerations

I don’t wanna die, just wanna get close

004 Don’t Break the Chain

Hey there, readers! I’m taking a break from fiction this week to talk about something that has helped me this year with my writing. (Don’t worry. If you prefer the prose, it will be back next week.) For several years, I would go weeks or sometimes even months without writing anything. I either lacked motivation, energy, or time. Within the past few years, though, I’ve been doing my best to get back into the habit in hopes to better build this skill set and get my stories out into the world. Ideas have come and sat in document files, pages typed and plots thickened, only to then go untouched. Virtual dust collects on them as they wait to be opened once more. Little children watching the front door, waiting for Dad to come home with his cigarettes.

Back in 2015, the YouTube channel Game Grumps were in the middle of a playthrough of Pokemon Fire Red. In an episode with the classiest title in the world (episode 94, “Gassy Toddlers” in case you were curious), they discuss their artistic passions/histories and how they stay on top of motivation and creativity. To keep their skills/talents fresh, they employ a method known as Don’t Break the Chain. The idea comes from Jerry Seinfeld, who ventured to write new material on a daily basis. For every day he did this, he would mark a big X on a calendar. The more X’s he had, the more he liked the exercise. Thus, a goal blossomed: do not break the chain of X’s on the calendar. 

Since January, I have been making a pointed effort to do something involving writing every day. Whether it was a chunk of story or one of these blog posts, I would make sure I wrote something. On days when the words simply just wouldn’t come, I would work on some lore or art for something I was currently writing. For instance, I have made some cover art for two Rokkoh stories. (Obligatory link to “Rokkoh and the Princess” inserted here.) So far, I haven’t missed a day, though I will admit on some days I put in a minimal effort. But, overall, this exercise has made me feel more comfortable with my writing, more confident. Hence this website.

If there was one thing I would recommend to everyone, it would be Don’t Break the Chain. Find something you have been wanting to do or get back into that you could do every day. Get a calendar. Do the thing, and try not to break the chain. If you miss a day, no biggie, just pick it back up tomorrow. It doesn’t even have to be something creative, it can be whatever you want. So give it a try. I believe in you!

Rokkoh and the Princess, Chapter 14 FINALE

The night passes in a haze of expensive booze and cheap women. Torvald disappears with a dark-skinned beauty at some point; I do not see him again until the next morning. We gather some provisions, mostly food for the trip back, and head back east. We travel until the light fades, the setting sun disappearing on the horizon behind us. We make a few stops along the way to eat, but otherwise keep moving. The trip is quiet, a welcome change. Outside Red Bear, I keep an eye out for Elloriana’s Cure, the dwarf’s little shop. It either hides in the darkness, or she has moved on. I hope for the former, but expect the latter. Perhaps I’ll find her again; I need that blue dragon steak again before I die.

“Should we stop for the night?” Torvald asks as we enter Red Bear.

“No,” I answer through the wood. “Oakwing isn’t far.”

We pass through the town, cross over the bridge, and continue onward. Without any interruptions, we pass through the gates of the walled city not even an hour later. We stop where we began: outside the Sheriff’s Tower. Crawling out of the carriage, I gaze up at its beauty. Sad I will be leaving it behind. But then again, I’m no stranger to new beginnings. 

“Sir Rokkoh?” Torvald calls my name, quiet and shaky. His face is white, frozen in a wide-eyed shock. His eyes are locked on something behind me, his index finger rising to point out the mystery. Turning on my heel, I follow his gaze. A pair of feet lay in the doorway to the Tower, leather boots.

“Stay there,” I order the boy, heading to the Tower. His silence proves his obedience.

A body clad in leather armor and a green cape waits there, motionless. The sword remains sheathed at his side. Kneeling beside the guardsman, the puncture in his chest reveals a wound. His young face stares into the void with dead eyes. Poor kid must have been caught by surprise. A quick kill, a quiet kill. Hopefully he did not suffer long. Gentle fingertips close his eyes.

“Pist dibu pavaden pandien Locort Ziotum,” the prayer flows over him like a gentle stream, cleansing him whole for his next journey.

Echoes drift down the staircase, faint and teasing. Back to my feet, I follow the sound. Every level I advance, the more the noise grows. Voices grunting, crying, pleading. Metal clashing. I pause on the third floor, my eyes hovering on the sign that reads “Paladin Ward” on the door. Can they hear it? Do they know? Are any of them awake, or even home? Despite the distance between us all, they are all still my kin. We might worship different Novhina, but we are all Paladins. Brethren until death. My hand hesitates on the door knob. I should get them, wake them if I must, gather reinforcements for the scuffle above. Yet, I back away. Something in me, call it paranoia or whatever else suits, warns me against entering the ward. Returning to the stairs, I ascend.

Light escapes through the open doors of the Court of Crowns. The voices have quieted, the action stopped. I get to the landing, careful of my footfalls to not give away my presence. 

“Ah, Rokkoh,” a male voice comes from within. “How nice of you to join us.”

I have never been much of a stealthy man.

The emerald and crimson rug is disheveled, bunching up in various places and kicked around. The pews rest near the walls, toppled over and broken. Where they once sat is a ring of guards, a dozen swords drawn. Strewn about the Court are fallen guardsmen, blood staining the polished stone floor. Beyond them, sitting upon the throne in the center of the line, is a man dressed in an exquisite and intricately designed vest, dark plain clothes underneath. His handsome face, crowned and bearded in a fine black, displays his amusement at the show before him. Diamonds dazzle in the light, set into a golden circlet around his head. Green eyes flit to me as I enter the Court of Crowns.

On King Domhnall’s right sits the fiery-headed Captain Hunt. He, however, wears pain on his face. He holds his side, a splash of red on his shiny gilded steel armor. 

“Good evening, your Highness,” I say to my King. 

I try to see past the guards, but they block my view. I step closer, peeking over shoulders, and find a figure cloaked in dark leather. A black cloak covers them, the hood up, their back to me. Their arms hold something in front of them. My heart sinks, but I have to be sure. I circle around the ring, slow steps revealing gloves that disappear into the cuffs of the coat. A mask hides the face, but brown skin shows around the eyes. One hand holds an obsidian dagger to the victim’s throat, a crimson groove in the center of the blade. The other hand grips tight to a handful of hazel hair. Tears make a mess on tan skin.

“What’s going on?” My question is soft, hushed, when Kym’s dark eyes find me. “Mattie is our friend.”

“She put a price on a child’s head,” Kym growls. “Fucking evil scum.”

“It wasn’t me!” Queen Mathilde cries with a fresh stream of tears. “I would never!”

The dagger digs into the royal flesh just enough to draw a little bit of blood. 

“It’s true,” the King admits, cool and casual. “Simply business. I figured you would have understood, assassin.”

“If anything,” I say to Kym, “you should be going for his throat, not hers. She was the one who made sure Evalina was in good hands. Let her go.”

“She had a hand in it,” she argues. “She’s just as responsible, just as corrupt! The worst monsters have the most convincing disguises.”

“To be fair,” Captain Hunt chimes in, the pain audible in his gruff voice, “the assassin fucked the whole thing up. She was supposed to kill you all.”

My eyes shoot to my injured superior, narrow and full of daggers. In return, he offers a smug smirk and a shrug. If he weren’t already in the process of bleeding to death, Lavender would relieve him of his sanguine fluids. I quell that desire, for now, and turn back to my friends in the circle. The guardsmen do not yield as I try to enter; a stiff hand has to pull one of them back so I can get in. He falls back into line as soon as I stand before the two women.

“Kym,” I plead, “let Mattie go. Please.”

Her vitriol, wild and bloodthirsty, engulfs me. Her eyes beg me to allow her to do this. Tears shine in her eyes, and I can’t tell if only anger fuels them. There seems to be sorrow, mourning, in them too. Though she is dead set on spilling Queen Mathilde’s blood, part of her silently urges me to stop her. I know it’s there, I can see it flicker in and out. 

The world around us fades away, and only we remain. My hand, as gentle as a lover’s kiss, takes hers and eases it away from the Queen’s throat. It hangs at her side as the other releases its grip. The Queen squirms off, disappearing past the guards. My free hand goes to her mask, holding her face for a moment. Her dams overflow, and I hold her close as she sobs onto my steel breastplate. She’s so warm as she comes into my arms. We fit together so effortlessly, body and soul.

“Kill them,” King Domhnall’s order echoes.

Footsteps approach from all around, enclosing on us. Her sadness flips back to the rage, and I mirror it. We turn, back-to-back as the guards approach. Her blade rises, and Lavender comes out to play. Words I do not understand come from her lips, her free hand held high and issuing a current of air above us. Her fingers form a fist as she pulls her hand down to her chest. The air explodes, knocking the dozen guards to the polished stone. 

“Bengnic min lamga, mussat seut pleindam indeci Baltevmt,” I chant as they get to their feet. 

A warmth courses through me, invigorating and divine. The golden aura returns to my steel lady as she comes down on the neck of the first guard to stand in front of me. She finds a chest next, digging deep before ripping herself back out. She keeps three iron swords from clashing upon my steel armor, and for that I thank her. She dispels the trio, a swift and sturdy foot sending one gliding across the floor. The other two watch, hesitate, let their guard down. Lavender swings down at the first one’s face, and then up toward the groin of the second. 

Behind me, fire flows from Kym’s gloved fingers. Three catch flame in seconds, their screams filling the Court. A guard comes to her from the side, his blade high and ready to cut her down. She leans in toward him, dagger extended. It pierces the leather armor at his stomach, twisting there and letting loose a fierce stream of blood. Another comes from the other side, but his battlecry, while commendable, gives away his position. She casts another pocket of forceful air, sending him flying toward the ceiling. He lands on a pile of broken pews moments later with a crunch. I’m not sure if the sound was from the pews or his bones, and I do not want to know.

Nine guardsmen lay dead or dying. The remaining five look to each other, wondering who amongst them would approach first. No brave souls come forth. In their hesitation, I take Kym’s magic hand in mine. Her eyes flash confusion, then understanding. The guards don’t block our path as we run for the gigantic oak doors. Down the stone steps and out the mouth of the Sheriff’s Tower, we flee. Kym whistles a high tone. A pale horse appears, followed by one of similar color and build as Torvald’s. For a moment, I wonder if it is the same, but it matters not. Kym mounts the pale one, and I the chestnut.

We ride west to Walteria, to Princess Evalina.

Continue to “Rokkoh and the Smith”

Continue to “Rokkoh and the Old Woman”

Continue to “Rokkoh and the Final Year”

Rokkoh and the Princess, Chapter 13

The room is elevated by a few steps. A desk sits straight ahead, a simple bed to the right, a door to the right, and a large window next to it. Two beings wait by the window, their backs to the room as they look out upon the city. The tall things, with a bit of width to them, wear the hoods up on their black cloaks. Vicar Senthia goes to them, whispering something between their heads. The one on the left, closest to us, turns quick. The sudden move lowers her hood, revealing long blonde hair. The silver crown holds rubies along the ring, as well as in the center of the tri-leafed flowers atop.

Her eyes behind spectacles are filled with a worry I could never understand. Wide, desperate, on the verge of letting loose the storm. Yet a hope that is as eternal as her love for her daughter, as everlasting as the sky itself. They lock onto the girl in my arms, and that hope becomes real. Though the tears come, they are accompanied by a sweet smile full of love and relief. 

“Mama!” the child cries upon seeing her. She squirms in my arms, and I set her down. Her tiny feet sprint to the woman, Borso’s paw held tight in her hand. 

“Hi, baby!” she calls back, scooping up her little girl and pulling her into a perfect, warm embrace. They look so similar: blonde hair, though the child still has a long way to go to be half as long; blue-green-grey eyes filled with an unbreakable rapturous happiness; round, rosy cheeks. 

The other turns then. He stands only a couple inches taller than her, but wears that same look behind his spectacled blue eyes. Wetness already runs from his eyes to his gingery brown beard. His crown, sitting atop his brunet head, is nearly identical, save for the swords in place of the flowers. His rubies form pommels for the tiny blades. He steps closer to his family, that wondrous elation overcoming him.

Princess Evalina, Queen Mae, and King Freidrich. The royal family of Walteria, reunited. 

A tear of my own wells up in my eye. While this moment is rightfully one of euphoria for them, a jealousy grows in me. I’m glad they are all back together, that my mission was a success, but I want her for my own family. She is the one who brings us all together. Otherwise, Torvald and I are just servants of Oakwing and our childless regal rulers. Kym and I are just old flames that occasionally come together for a brief yet hot night. Kym and Torvald are just an assailant and her almost victim. Evalina makes us whole, normal. We need her.

Kill them all. Unless they have magic faster than Lavender, Birgir and Vicar Senthia would be easy to take out. Birgir is close enough as it is, and it would only take a step or two to get the shrouded one. King Friedrich, though well trained with a blade, would be too caught by surprise to unsheath and strike. Queen Mae would be the only challenge. She would need to be persuaded to give the girl to Torvald, who is too intimidated by my very being to disobey. Once that would be done, the two of them would leave the way we came and I would finish off the woman. It would be quick, easy. 

Quick. Easy. Wrong. 

Who am I to think such things? What right do I have to separate them all again, this time permanently? Regicide aside, they have all been through too much. Though she does not show it, Evalina’s abduction must have been traumatizing. I can’t imagine how the King and Queen felt when they awoke the next morning to find a ransom note in an empty crib. Devastated is too small, too insignificant of a word. Who am I to cut this reunion short? Besides, until I met the princess, I’d had very little interest in children. Odds are I wouldn’t be much of a good parent in the first place. I would have to ride on the coattails of Kym’s natural maternal instincts to get through the most basic problems. Even Lavender begs me to stay my hand.

The thought of the slaughter makes me sick with shame. I need not intrude on their moment. With a faint smirk, I head for the door.

“Sir?” comes her sweet voice. It stops me in my tracks. “You were her escort, correct?”

“Really shouldn’t use that word in this context, but yes,” I tell Queen Mae, turning back around. “I brought her home to you.”

“Killed seven of our men,” King Friedrich complains in a quiet but deep voice out of the corner of his mouth. “Good men. Our half-giant, for fuck’s sake!”

“Language!” she scolds him in the same whispered tone. “We’ll find another half-giant.

“What is your name, Sir?” she asks me.

“Rokkoh, Your Highness,” I reply. 

“Well, Sir Rokkoh, you have done my family a deed we may never be able to truly repay,” she says, resting the princess on her hip. “However, we do offer our lasting gratitude and a hefty monetary reward.”

Vicar Senthia moves to her desk, opening a drawer and revealing a fat sack of coin. She walks it over to me. Cold fingers caress (either by accidental or on purpose) my own when she rests the bag in my hand. Its bottom fills my palm. Her head tilts to the right slightly, and I sense a smile shines through the cloth before she retreats to her desk.

“This is gracious,” I thank her, weighing the bag in my hand. Hefty is right. There must be at least a few hundred pieces inside, presumably gold. “May I say goodbye to her?”

“Of course,” she gleams. 

I step over to the three of them, aware of the King’s careful eyes on me. Standing before the little girl, a pain stings my heart. This will likely be the last time I see her cute little smile, hear her giggle. The idea of murder is gone, banished until I pray to Skrolba for forgiveness. But that desire to protect her remains. Perhaps that’s just in my nature.

“Well, honey,” I say to her with a breath meant to keep me strong, “it’s time for us to say bye-bye.”

“Why?” she asks, distracted by Borso.

“Because you’re home with your mommy and daddy,” I explain. “Isn’t that nice?”

“Can you come too?”

My heart melts and breaks at the same time. I look to Queen Mae, unsure what to say. She does not offer any suggestions.

“That’s complicated,” I tell her. “I don’t live in Walteria like you do.”

“Den move.” 

“You make it sound so simple,” I chuckle.

“It is,” she says, plain and matter-of-fact. Her eyes smile at me then. Any and all intentions of explaining the improbability disappear. My eyes go back to the beautiful Queen Mae. A little smile plays on her perfect lips.

“So I hear you are in need of some good men.” I give her a crooked, yet charming smirk. “Any room for a paladin?”

“Are you kidding?” King Friedrich offers a stifled laugh. 

“You said it yourself, Freddy,” Queen Mae says to him. “He killed seven of our men. Good men. 

“And your half-giant,” I tease.

“Wouldn’t you rather have him fighting under our banner than burning it down?”

“You’re right,” he says after a short silence, shining a warm smile to her.

“I always am,” she rolls her eyes with that small smile. “You should know that by now.

“Wrap up business on your end,” she turns back to me. “Return to the Temple when you can. Vicar Senthia will help you from there.”

“Should only be a few days at most,” I nod to her, looking to Evalina once more. “You, my dear, are a master negotiator.”

“Tank too!” she beams at me.

“Can I come too?” Torvald interjects, excitement burning in his eyes.

Queen Mae and King Freidrich look to me, curious. With a subtle shake of my head, they understand.

“Thank you, young squire,” King Freidrich says to him with a polite smirk. “Are you in training to become a guardsman, or a knight?”

“Yes, sir!” the boy smiles wide.

“It might be best to complete that training before you lend your sword arm, son,” the King lets him down easy. “The best fighters are those who know how to handle their weapons. I doubt they let Sir Rokkoh here enlist on a whim!”

The King, Queen, and I share in a little laugh. Not at the boy’s expense, of course. More to lighten the mood. He joins in a moment later, half-hearted and deflated.

“I guess I’ll be seeing you again soon, little one,” I say to the girl. “You be good, okay?”

“Otay!” she smiles. 

“And remember what that nice lady said about Borso?”

“Needy bear! Cuddles and ‘ventures!”

“Good,” I smile big. 

“You are welcome to stay in town for the night,” Queen Mae informs me. “You’ll always be welcome in Walteria.”

“Thank you, Your Majesty. Any recommendations?”

“If you choose to rest in Lower Yellowberry,” she thinks, “you’ll be best off at the Baroque. Finest lodgings and dining down here. If you fancy a trip up the mountain, then you’ll want the Aureate.”

“We look forward to your arrival, Sir Rokkoh,” King Freidrich says, offering me his hand. I accept it, giving it a good firm shake. 

The three of them pass through the door next to the window, Princess Evalina waving a goodbye. I return the gesture, a heavy sigh leaving me as the door closes. A lone rebel cracks through my strong mask, and I can’t help but let it fall.

“Come, Torvald,” I call to him, missing the little angelic princess already, “let’s find the Baroque.”

Continue to Chapter Fourteen (finale)

Rokkoh and the Princess, Chapter 12

The horse still pulls us along the road when my eyes open to the darkness of the carriage. Sore muscles protest movement, but I sit up regardless. Blurriness sharpens to reveal that I am alone. The princess is gone again, not even Borso remaining this time. The white blanket, though, greets me. That urgency, that fear, that anger races in my heart once more. She has been taken, yet we still move. Hijacked. God damn bandits. But, then, why was I not removed and discarded into the roadside brush? Why did they leave me? Was it out of spite for what I had done to their kidnapping comrades? Maybe I was the target this time, captured and meant to be taken to their base for punishment. Despite the concerns, it would be a good fight.

Opening the door, trees blur as we speed down the road. The sun sinks in the sky, letting the stars have time to show off their beauty. A few shine in the waning light. I turn in the doorway and pull myself onto the roof of the carriage. The smallest bumps in the road threaten to buck me off, but a wide stance steadies my footing. I inch forward, ready to draw out Lavender if at all necessary. Approaching the front, I gaze down upon the hijacker. Only a dash of disappointment mixes with my relief upon seeing Torvald’s yellow dome. Evalina, bouncing Borso in her lap, sits beside him with rapturous laughter.

“Faster!” she commands.

“If we go any faster, Mr. Horsey will get too tired and won’t be able to run anymore,” he reasons with her, a smile in his voice. 

“Go! Go! Go!” she screams with glee.

Seeing them like this, not a care in the world, free, having fun… the thought of running away returns. Only this time Torvald would come live with us. Though a naive fool at times, the boy has a good heart and the will to learn. We could find a bit of land somewhere back home and build ourselves a home. Or we could head to another country entirely, one with whom none of us have ties. It would be peaceful, easy. Kym could be there too, having put down her dagger for good this time. What a life that would be. Farming our own crops, taking care of our own animals, calling no man king and no woman queen. How perfect.

Getting on my belly on top of the carriage roof, I let my head poke out above the two of them. My feet dangle over the edge at the other end. 

“Faster, Torvald!” My order makes them both jump. 

The princess shrieks, clutching onto Borso with all her might. The boy’s frightened screech rivals hers in pitch and surprise. The reins, tight in his hand, rise to his chin. The horse gives a startled sound of its own as its head is pulled back for a moment, and its pace slows in a quick few seconds. I hold on tight to the little ledge under me, doing my best to not slide off. Their scared faces look up to me once we have stopped. I flash them the biggest, most genuine I am capable of making. For a moment, it terrifies Torvald further. But the little one’s bright and infectious laughter kicks up again. I join in with a low chuckle, and even the boy offers a light-hearted smile.

“Is Torvald keeping you company?” I ask the princess. With enthusiasm, she nods her little bow.

“She seemed to wake up not long after we left,” the boy explains. “I was just driving the horse and I heard someone knocking on the wall behind me. So I stopped, and checked on you two. You were out like a deadman, and the little lass needed to go potty again. So I thought I’d let her sit with me so you could get some sleep. You seemed to really need it.”

A thousand ways for any piece of the story to have gone wrong flood my thinking (another ambush, her getting lost as she relieved herself, a stealthy archer with impressive accuracy, any number of wild things in search of the next meal, her simply falling off, et cetera), but I build a dam. Everything seemed to turn out fine. Perhaps the last of our pursuants provide scavengers a meal back in that clearing. 

“About how far are we from Lower Yellowberry?” my attention goes to the boy. 

“Not too far,” he says, the horse trotting once more. “Just around the bend up ahead.”

My eyes go to the road before us. The dirt curves south, trees thinning on either side. Further to the south, beyond the trees, lies the Great Pond of Yellowberry. And to the north rests the burgeoning ridges of the Walteria Mountains. Up above, several candles light Upper Yellowberry, a place of prosperity and privilege. Nestled at the foot of the mountain, its own lights twinkling in the growing dark, is Lower Yellowberry. Both a port and a mine, the town is a friendly place of humility. I’ve spent a few nights in both Upper and Lower Yellowberry, as well as a few nights that have faded from my memory. 

“Let me know when we arrive,” I tell the boy. “And keep a sharp eye out for anything suspicious. I’ve had enough action today.”

“Yes, Sir,” he nods. 

“And you, little one,” I say to the princess. She looks up at me, a curious look on her rosy cheeks. “You and Borso keep an eye on him. Don’t let him get into any trouble.”

“Otay!” she squeaks, beaming her toothy grin.

Sliding back toward the door, I reach down and open it. I ease myself over the edge, my feet finding the doorway. A bump in the road nearly loosens my grip and sends me rolling in the dirt, but I slip into the carriage just in time, closing the door behind me. I stretch out, my heels resting on the opposite seat once more.

We slow to a stop not long after. A voice, its words lost in the distance between themselves and the carriage. 

“Good evening,” Torvald replies, polite and confident. The change in tone from what I’m used to is surprising, to say the least. A tiny seed of pride plants itself in me. “I’m looking for a friend. Do you know where I can find Vicar Senthia?”

There is a long quiet then. I cannot hear the stranger’s voice if they speak. Torvald says nothing for a minute, finally offering a word of thanks. We move again, and through the wood I can feel curious, leering eyes on me. The feeling disappears after a moment, the carriage turning left and right a handful of times. When we stop again, I step out and round on the boy.

“Is everything alright?” I ask. Neither he nor the princess seem to be harmed or scared. Could be a spell of calming to lure us into a trap. The friends could be following, ready to strike. I take a quick glance down the road, but find only townsfolk going about their business. 

“Of course,” Torvald responds, a humored grin cracking across his face as he dismounts. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

“You were talking to someone,” I say.

“Oh yeah, that was Harold,” he tells me. “Good man. See him all the time when I come down this way.”

“You two went quiet for a bit.” Evalina holds out her arms to me, and I pick her up without breaking my eyes from the boy.

“Directions,” he shrugs the thought off. His smile spreads more as he points behind me. “Look.”

Turning, I find the cathedral. Though massive and towering, it exudes an atmosphere of peace. Its stained glass windows show depictions of many of the gods. The woman with long, flowing yellow hair and a featureless face draws my eye. The doors, sitting atop a stone staircase as wide as the building itself, are open and welcoming to all those who wish to come. Tonight, that includes us. 

“Harold said that she’s usually here, so it’s a safe bet we’ll find her inside,” Torvald explains. He gives the horse a few pats before joining the two of us on the stairs.

The ceiling rises high, balls of light dancing slow amongst the rafters. Where they cannot reach, a cluster of candles offers its brilliance. Doors line the walls, each with a different symbol carved and painted on it. The image on my medallion appears on one such door. Figures in robes of brown and grey wander the great hall, conversing in a variety of tongues with each other or to their way to the back, filing through a doorway there. And others lounge in the very center of the area, exchanging ideas and philosophies with those around them. 

The Glorious Temple of the Novhina, they call it. Known throughout the lands for housing shrines to more deities than any other place, the monks and priests here allow the worship of all but the darker gods. Ever since taking up the sword in the All-Mother’s name, my fellow Order members have told me to visit this sacred place. None of my jobs until now had brought me this way. I can understand the appeal. Perhaps I’ll stick around for a little bit once the transaction is complete.

An older gentleman, as old as time itself, approaches as we look around. A ring of silver hair covers the sides and back of his head, but the top is smooth and bare. His beard of the same hue seems to have been grown over the entirety of his long life, the end reaching his hips. He wears a brown robe, tied by a well-used thin rope at the waist, as well as a happy grin. Despite his age, he stands straight and has no need for a cane. 

“Hello, friends,” he says once he is close. “I haven’t seen you here before. My name is Birgir. Do you need any help?”

“Yes, thank you,” I say to the old man. He does not notice, or he does not care, the state of my armor. “We were told we could find Vicar Senthia here.”

The name sparks recognition in him. The smile under the silver whiskers grows. 

“Ah, indeed, she is here,” he beams. “If you would follow me, I would be happy to take you to her.”

Birgir turns, setting off for the doorway at the back of the lounging area. We do not hesitate to fall in line. Through the simple wooden frame, we enter a room less grandiose, more humble. The ceiling is not nearly so high, the room not quite as brightly lit, the robed denizens not as talkative. More doors line the wall to our left, symbols I’ve never seen marking each one. We turn left at the end of the hall, pass through an empty yet warm kitchen, and stop at a door. Birgir raises a wrinkled hand, placing his palm on the wood. Something clicks and the door opens; it shuts itself once we enter the new hallway. Small balls of light, much like the ones in the common area of the Temple, illuminate the narrow space. At the end of the hall sits another door. It bears no special mark, no door knob, not even a peephole. We stop, several feet away from it.

“Diaet recisin siverata zurpava,” Birgir says, hands held in the air, palms aimed at the door. I do not know the spell, or if it even is one. It could be an unknown tongue to me. If it is a spell, it is not one in my small repertoire. 

Out from the wooden thing steps a figure draped in golden cloth. It flows down from head to toe, the face concealed. A rope of red is tied loose at the waist, and a headband of the same crimson holds the cloth in place there. Their frame is thin, a mystery under the cloth. They hold their hands underneath the loose and large sleeves. The head moves, looking from Birgir to each of us.

“Welcome, friends,” her voice comes, soft as a breeze yet slow and chilling to the bone. Vicar Senthia bows lightly, and we return the motion. “We have been expecting you. We were not sure when you would arrive. Please, enter my chambers.”

She turns back to the door, stepping through as if it was not there. I look to Birgir, his ever-present smile washing away my hesitance a little. He gives me a nod and motions to the door, sensing my doubt. Despite my hesitance, I enter.

Continue to Chapter Thirteen