The Reaper Realm: Threads of Compassion

by K. A. Lentz

  Nodding his acknowledgment, the aged sprite said good-bye once more. As he climbed aboard for the journey to come, Miach was treated to a startling discovery. Despite the fact that he had a frail, watery being straddling his back like a jockey, the swordsman remained completely dry beneath his jerkin. He had expected the sensation of cold, soggy leather plastered against his skin, but instead the spring-sprite felt akin to a warm, dry human.

  Looking over his shoulder, Miach’s gaze lingered a moment on Thistle before he set off for Lake Etnase. The journey took the pair a little over an hour and was weathered with little fuss. When they arrived however, the storm-slave caused such a stir he was forced out of the village by a mob of agitated lake-sprites. Elder tried to calm his people, yet they refused to listen and so Miach left without a good-bye. Cresting the valley’s eastern ridge, he spared one last glance at the village and Elder hurriedly speaking to an engaged audience. The brief moment of acceptance he had received vanished as fast as it had appeared; painfully reminding him of the monster most people saw. He turned away and ran full speed back to Elder’s village. As he walked up to the guards nervously smiling at his return, the swordsman demanded in a low growl, “Wake her, it is time to go.”

  The taller of the two sentinels replied with a casual smile, “Why not let her rest till sunrise? She’s sleeping very soundly, I don’t think…”

  Miach wasn’t in the mood to be questioned. Lowering his voice to a deadly whisper he threatened, “I care not what you think, it is time to go. I ask that you wake her now or I’ll enter your village and do so myself. Understood?”

  Both sprites stepped aside as the shorter sentinel spat, “Fine, wake her and be on your way… slave.”

  Miach glared into the guard’s defiant eyes as he passed by, yet when he approached Thistle’s sleeping form he was caught off-guard by a serene expression blanketing her delicate features. He could feel a wave of calm flowing over his soul as he stood beside her, forcing the hurt and anger to ebb from his heart. Taking care not to wake her, Miach bent down and gently scooped her into his arms. With a tender touch the hardened swordsman loving secured her head into the crook of his neck, and then turned to bid the gawking guards farewell. Gone in seconds, the two sentinels stood awkwardly smiling to no one before turning to discuss their historic evening.

  Miach ran at a subdued pace until Thistle roused in his arms a couple hours after dawn. Slowing to a stop, he gently set her down on a flat rock warming in the morning sun. Thistle rubbed her eyes as she looked around, confused by the change in scenery. Last night she had fallen asleep beside a steaming hot-spring tucked into a craggy valley, yet this morning she woke to a sea of grass rolling high around her as if ocean swells. Turning her gaze to Miach she started to ask where they were, but he promptly cut in with an explanation, “We had to leave the village. The longer we stay the greater chance anyone on our trail has to catch us. I didn’t want to bring the sprites to any harm. We’ll pause here for your morning routine.”

  Despite the fact that his statement was true, Miach felt lowly just the same. Truth be told… he felt alone and unwanted, something he wasn’t inclined to share at the moment. Elder’s kind attentions—and Thistle’s complete acceptance—only made the loneliness bore deeper into his soul. Eventually he would have to take her to his master, and then their friendship would be at an end… leaving him more alone than ever before. He flumped down with a thud.

  Thistle turned and peered around the boulder to the forlorn swordsman sitting at its base. Slumped against the rock, staring at the billowing clouds above, Miach’s silence was deafening. Quietly slipping from the stone she moved to stand in front of him. Sticking out a booted toe, she tapped it against his rooted foot. No reaction. Knowing it was futile to try reaching his deep-seeded pain, Thistle sat down beside him and asked through a yawn, “So where are we off to today boss? The last stop was the most fascinating thing I think I’ve ever seen in my entire life. They really are a neat people… umm water-sprites. Did you know they have to live by water? I suppose it would make a certain amount of sense—being water-sprites—but still it’s interesting to know. They’re born from it and when the end of their life is near, they return back to the water they came from. The whole village sprung from that hot spring… right there. The eldest and his wife are going to return together soon, with great ceremony and feasting in their honor. It’s sad… yet so beautiful I think.”

  Miach looked at Thistle with hints of a bittersweet smile tugging the corners of his mouth. During their time together he had come to enjoy her curious chatter. She mused about anything and asked questions about everything. Having spent many years enduring little to no conversation, he occasionally felt as though she was making up for past grievances in record time. Her persistent chatter never bothered him; that is, until he was faced with the certainty of losing it. Staring at her now, while she pondered the nature of a watery humanoid, he couldn’t help but smile as her face leapt from one fascinated expression to the next. Her beautiful spirit infecting his sorrow with joy, Miach allowed the light she gave to illuminate his darkness. Laughing as he stood and held out a hand, Miach confessed, “I’m not really sure where to go next, I’ve never needed to stall this long. And as you can see I’m unwelcome nearly everywhere I go.”

  Taking the offered hand, Thistle smiled and asked, “You said nearly? So what are these options that fall into the tolerant category?”

  “Ha-ha, you’re persistent aren’t you?” Miach stood quiet for a minute pondering and then replied, “I know of a… fairly neutral little town we could maybe take shelter in… for a short while, but tarry too long and we’ll definitely attract attention. One must also note these people are neutral enough to attempt selling off our location—if given the chance—so I would not call it entirely safe. I don’t really feel…”

  It was in this moment Pyhe decided to make his usual, unannounced appearance. With a low bow he said to Thistle, “Greetings fair lady, of big Amy I bring news.” Addressing Miach a scant second later, Pyhe beamed, “Tall-One! Set course to tread, go soon, go today.”

  Accustomed to the little gnome appearing when least expected, Miach knelt down beside him and asked, “What’s got you all worked up Sir? I see you’re in a real state of excitement. Maybe you could help us as well?”

  “Oh yes help, help, help! Oh the help I give, shall you love! This I know. Down to things we must. To the elves of Japake, there will be seen!” Pyhe paused a second to look into Miach’s eyes before continuing, “Strengthen your spirit Tall-One; time to face what gives chase.” The little man turned to Thistle again and said, “There to see big Amy, bring her, or my other fancies…”

  Miach, stunned by Pyhe’s advice to go to the elves, interrupted the gnome’s next direction, “I cannot go there… you know this. I’ll kill their enclave, and then… I’ll have more to avoid than ever before. They’ll likely try to stop me on this quest and I’ll be unable to control my actions if that’s their course. I cannot go there. I’ll not add their deaths to my burdens. No.”

  Pyhe solemnly advanced the single step between him and Miach. Taking hold of a giant hand, the sincere gnome soberly relayed his intent, “You must. I’ll have talks; they know truth. One who waits will know all to tell; must go post haste. You find my words true and my presence known. Go now; clear bog must before full rising moon. With speed I go.”

  Miach quickly reacted, “Pyhe, no, not the bog, we must be able to go around it. An extra week to go over the mountains, or the forest to the south; I’d brave the shadow-elf forest over…”

  The little gnome stopped Miach mid-thought, “No can’t, oh can’t. Danger is the shadow-elf wood, parties’ hunt for twin. Time cannot be spent, must go now through bog! Mountains too much, paths and crags stir with dwarf. Rest by night, fast of feet in day. Go now! We must!”

  Foregoing any social custom usually observed before departing, Pyhe said not a word and simply dove into the mound of dirt from whence he came; his
stunned audience left staring at the burrow in awkward silence. Still crouched beside the settling dirt pile, Miach looked up at Thistle and said, “Japake… through the bog? Long ago I gave my trust to that little, rodent-looking enlightened one, yet… I’m leery of the place he’s sending us. He asks with such honesty, how can I say no? He has never led me astray in the past.”

  Flumping down next to him, Thistle tried to council Miach with a neutral tone, “It seems to me the choice before you is clear; Pyhe is telling you to go there. If, for some reason, he finds we can’t go… I’m sure he’ll return to tell us. I think we should head-off to this elvish town, it’s a delay either way.” Thistle tilted her head to one side and asked with a comically hopeful expression, “Should we go to the elves?”

  “You just want to visit them,” Miach parried with a laugh.

  Feigning a look of innocence, Thistle replied, “Me, want to go visit the elves? Nooo… I never gave it a thought!” Wearing a dazzling smile she added, “I bet they have bathrooms and better bathing facilities than the sprites.”

  Another chuckle rumbled from deep within Miach’s throat as he said, “Okay, we’ll head off in that direction; should take us about two weeks to get there… possibly four. We’re going to have to make haste and run with all urgency. The first leg of our journey hazards a rather unpleasant reaper trap.”

  Prefaced with a clap and a giggle she squealed her excitement, “Yay! Well then, we had best get going!” Replaying his words in her head, Thistle’s mind quickly sobered as it processed the word trap. Changing directions she asked, “Wait, what do you mean trap?”

  Miach explained, “A large, carnivorous plant that feeds off anything it can lure in, save the minions and followers of reapers. There have been lots of tales surrounding the plant’s existence, however, I know not which are to be believed. Hopefully, we’ll be lucky enough to escape clarification as to which rumors are valid.”

  Obvious concern crinkling her brow, Thistle worried, “Can you beat it, or escape it? I mean you must be able to, but… can you?” A confident grin crossed the warrior’s lips as he scooped her up without a word and began their long journey toward Japake. The morning’s scenery of lush fields gave way to dense forests before the sun bedded down at dusk in favor of a fat crescent moon brightly shinning overhead. The moment they stopped for the night Miach tucked his charge into her traditional, woody hiding spot and zoomed off for camp supplies.

  These days Thistle sat upon her perch entertained by a notebook and pen, scratching away at its pages by the soft glow of a befriended wisp. Months ago she had pleaded boredom while waiting alone for his usual return. Trying to decide on something to pass the time, she assailed him with a barrage of questions until voicing her desire for a journal and pen. Declaring it the best of her ideas, she defended aloud the benefits of expressing herself and the satisfaction of documenting all the wondrous things she saw. Miach made no promises, or even a remark indicating he would try, but the next night—as he set off for camp supplies—the warrior swerved toward the nearest town. Waiting overly long for his return, Thistle became painfully worried while sitting alone in the crushing darkness of a moonless forest. Nearing desperate panic, she loosed an audible sigh of relief as the tardy warrior finally announced his return.

  Without a word regarding his lengthy absence, Miach infuriatingly started a fire before plucking her from the tree. Standing beside the blaze, he held out a bag visibly laden with sharp and blocky contents. Thistle’s face lit into a smile as she took the offered gift. Eagerly plunging her hand into the sack, she rummaged around every object deciphering each one. To her delight she found a pair of journals, one curious feather-pen requiring no inkwell, and an assortment of thick, loose paper. So relieved by his appearance, and dazzled by the kind gift, Thistle failed to ponder on the origin of her new stationary and simply hugged the apprehensive warrior for his troubles. It wasn’t until later—in the middle of dinner—that she learned he had stolen the lot from a nearby school.

  It was plainly obvious that whoever had previously owned the journals hadn’t possessed them for long. Aside from a hastily scribbled paragraph at the start of one, both books had remained empty. Written in poor handwriting, Thistle fumbled through the words as she read aloud:

  “The war of the gate was fought fifteen thousand years ago against the reapers by allied races. Led by Moshe and the elves, many realms fought side by side to rid the earth of its life-draining menace. Each race endeavored for three thousand years to seal the unnatural gate off from earth’s eight portals residing within their realms. When the day finally dawned to seal the gate, light-elves sent a key through to their kin hoping one day the reapers would be defeated and all races could return home.”

  Immediately Thistle asked about the war and what happened afterward. Miach, mentally preparing for her questions as she read aloud, spent the evening telling every tale he knew on the subject. Inspired by his wondrous stories, the swordsman’s eager charge endeavored to fill each book with thoughts and facts of the world around her; everyday presented with a fresh environment. It wasn’t long before Miach felt courageous enough to add entries of his own. At night he would sit beside a sleeping Thistle and record the many things he had previously encountered over the last eight-hundred years.

  Occupied by her latest entry on spring-sprites, Thistle hardly noticed when Miach came leisurely strolling into camp. Pausing for a thought she looked down to welcome him back, but her mind was forced to double-take what she saw. Normally laden with a horde of goods larger than any human could possibly carry, she was amazed to see a comparatively small stock of supplies tucked under each arm. Putting her journal into a worn leather satchel, Thistle couldn’t help but comment on this strange turn of events, “Oh my, not the normal truck load of supplies tonight. Are you feeling okay or shockingly… not hungry?”

  Miach flashed her an odd look before answering, “These few logs will easily burn through the night. I’m not eating this evening; the forest here is sparse on game these days and I’ve no need of food at the moment.” Assisting his charge down from the tree, he asked, “What is a… truck?”

  Normally accustomed to his complete understanding of nearly all she said, Thistle easily forgot there wasn’t a word equivalent to everything in this world. She paused in the construction of their campfire and pondered the answer for a moment. Not really sure how to explain she fumbled through words, hoping a well-combined string would lend clarity, “Oh, umm… hmm… well, a truck is kind of—in a way—like a horse… but can never disobey. Well I suppose one could argue they do disobey, but really they don’t. Do you know what a machine is?”

  Annoyance settled around Miach’s mouth as he hastily lit their campfire and sighed, “Yes, I know what a machine is. The reapers keep a few around for their enjoyment. My master owns what she calls, a jukebox and howitzer.”

  An expression of mild surprise crossed Thistle’s face before expectation took over, “Well isn’t that just an interesting combination, though I can see the latter fitting her twisted personality. What does the jukebox play?”

  Full exasperation dominating his features he spat, “It repeats over and over again the same two words; I am. It doesn’t sound like music to me, yet she claims it is.”

  “Jukeboxes do indeed play music in my time but whole songs, not just two words… unless they’re broken. Oh and, you can pick which you want to play… if you give it the proper coinage.”

  Miach furrowed his brow and said, “Hmm… this one does none of that, it just repeats over and over, every day, all day. I tried to smash it a couple hundred years ago… however she put it back together, and then tortured me by playing it louder. I hope someday she tires of it, or… I’m free.”

  Both fell silent upon his last words. Each knew the price of his freedom… death. Miach had longed for it much of the time before Thistle’s arrival into his life. During the initial months of his enslavement the storm-slave had tested his bounds of mortality, mak
ing attempt after attempt to find any way to end his life. After a final, failed suicide, he understood the exactness of his reality and began seeing the world around him with open eyes. Other slaves enjoyed the heinous deeds ordered by their masters, chosen specially for their cruelty and bloodlust, but Miach was different. Each life he ended haunted his compassionate soul, adding to a vast collection of grief and guilt, yet every collateral life he saved in the process became a boon to his strength and kindhearted nature.

  Thistle watched as shadows of Miach’s past crossed over the plains of his face like a raging thunderstorm. Driven by a familiar need emanating deep within her soul, Thistle worked quickly to stem the river of pain flowing freely from his tortured heart. She had found in the past that it didn’t always work, nevertheless something in her had to try. Feeling lucky tonight she said with hope, “Maybe there will be some merriment going on in Japake. Maybe they will ask you to return and visit, perhaps even creating a safe place for you to hide.”

  Miach scowled, yet Thistle caught sight of fresh hurt hiding behind his eyes. Through a controlled tone he curtly stated, “No one ever asks my kind to return; they frantically try to send me away. I’m not going to look forward to something that just isn’t possible.”

  Stubbornly pressing on she retorted, “You never know, things might be different. Pyhe can be very persuasive and he seems confident.”

  “That he can, but I doubt his ability to calm their fears entirely.” Miach added in a mumble, “I will be amazed if they don’t attack us on sight.”

  Thistle quickly countered his argument again, “Pyhe would warn us if that’s the case, I’d bet on it!” Changing course she inquired, “So… who is this person that gives chase and you must face?”