by A. E. Shaw
Selina realises her heart is beating so loudly she can actually hear it. She then understands, rather than notices, that Alej is not moving, nor is he coming ‘round. She thumps him, jumpy and desperate as she is. Lucky Selina: it’s strangely effective. He stirs, and groans. She tries to explain to him what’s happened, but he struggles to take it in. All he seems to want to know is what they should do next.
“I don’t know,” she says, again, frustrated with the amount of times she’s had to say this to him. “I’ve never been here either, you know. Or, when I was here, things were so very different. There were towers were coming. So they said. We were just days from homes, or, I thought as much, and there were so many people. I’ve told you what I can. And this is not what I thought I knew. I don’t know what this is, or why it is so, and this was my home, Alej, I don’t know where my home has gone. Or…” and she is going to say or where my family have gone but that seems like something that would mean nothing at all to Alej, and like something that she ought perhaps not to say, for fear of pushing him to overthink, which could result in even more frustrations than his carelessness. “I just want us to be safe,” she settles for, in the end.
We should have stayed up there, she thinks, but doesn’t dare to say. Better to stay up there where there was space and green and water than to be down here with nothing.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
The Night
“You’re strange,” Jere offers, more to himself than to Aiden. He is fumbling with something that clanks and clonks like metal on stone, and then there is steam.
Of course I’m strange, Aiden thinks, of course, but don’t you recognise why? Tell me you know who I am… “What do you know of me?” he asks, again. “Tell me all of the things you know about me.”
He is still standing just outside the tent, but now he’s squinting in, double-checking, pulled by invisible forces both to and not to do something.
Jere pauses what he’s doing and comes back towards him, peering, trying to assess why the boy won’t just come in. He knows this weather is cold, that the winds around this face of the mountain are strong and unforgiving. He can’t understand how someone as strange and apparently unused to the Outside has been out like this any time at all and remained alive, being as loud and thin as he is. “Inside. Come inside. For blanket. For warm.”
“For blankets…” Aiden repeats, confused by the short sentences Jere assumed would make understanding easier. His skin crawls in trepidation, warns him of the unknown, but at last he fights it with abandon and want for a beautiful warm blanket, thinking of those back in the castle, thick and plush silky, cosy for curling by the fire with a book. He throws away the resistance he can’t place, stoops and shuffles his way through the entrance. A part of him hopes this interior will transform into his heart’s desire at his very presence.
This part of him is immediately disappointed. It smells of dead fire, cold wood, wet mud and mouldering furs. He follows Jere’s gestures and settles himself, small as he can, on a heap of harsh-bristled animal skins. They tickle and pince at his skin through the thinness of his silk trousers. Aiden twitches, and clenches his teeth in irritation.
He realises, after running through thoughts of how this living situation must be improved upon if he’s going to spend any time at all in it, that Jere is speaking. Aiden hasn’t been listening. He must listen, when his subjects speak. When his sidekick speaks. A good ruler listens to his subjects. Look, it’s not even a cycle since his lessons were finished, and already he is forgetting his lessons. Must try harder. He’s still not listening, but decides that it is too late to catch up.
“So,” he interrupts, “how long have you lived here? How old are you?” It strikes him that the acquisition of missing information is the most important thing. Aiden has no way of gauging ages. He, Alej and Selina were precisely the same age (this is actually fact, but for Aiden, it is based only on assumption) and the elders were simply…older than them.
Jere rolls his eyes and throws his arms wide, annoyed at the interruption. Aiden is slightly taken aback by the motion, but he lets it pass without comment. Clearly this man has some kind of problem. He can deal with this. Aiden decides he shall listen, and ignore the strange motions Jere makes during normal conversation. When reading, he found the descriptions of people shrugging their shoulders, shaking their heads, rolling their eyes, clearing their throats, crossing and uncrossing their legs: all of this movement sounded most peculiar. Aiden is always as still as he can possibly be.
“Once more,” Jere says, as if he had already answered Aiden’s questions - but Aiden knows he hasn’t because of course if he had, then he would have that knowledge (this is what happens, boy, when you don’t listen) “but you must listen this time, or else leave my little home.”
Aiden makes himself laugh a little, because that must be a joke, of course, to throw him out of anywhere in his own land, imagine. You ought always to laugh at jokes, for that is the polite thing to do; not to leaves you open to punishment. He nods, indicating he’s ready for whatever offering Jere has, hoping to learn something new, or at least to hear a good story.
Before he speaks, Jere hands him something scooped from the steaming pot that sat by the fire. It is thick and dark, and has a scent he does not know. As Jere commences his story, Aiden brings his face so close to the pot that it is too hot, the liquid clips at his skin, and he bats at his face trying to clear the burning away.
Jere’s story is precisely what you’d expect it to be, and, if it isn’t, then it’s probably a tad more interesting than your expectations. Aiden isn’t listening at all as much as he ought to be, and one day, one day so very far away, he’ll remember this moment with this stew and the soundtrack of another human trying to share a part of himself with him, and he’ll wonder, ought I to have known his story? Ought someone to have checked his experiences? Was there vital information there? Aiden will never know whether or not engaging with this man and his past would have altered his future for the better, so it would only be cruel to highlight what he’s missing by sharing it with you.
Finally, half of the metallic, soup-like concoction ingested, Aiden, tiring of Jere’s unfamiliar voice and heavy tones, decides the man’s story must now come to an end. He interrupts once more, attempts again to explain who he is. He feels Jere hasn’t understood. And thinks he must fix this, before it gets worse. There’s an absolute lack of awe, and there seems to have been no preparation at all for his arrival. Worst of all, Jere seems not to know where to take him, nor how to behave appropriately in his new role as manservant. Aiden hopes that, with his honed gift of storytelling, he will convince Jere to get his act together.
But Jere does not take to this as Aiden hopes. No, instead, it worries him. Poor boy, thinks Jere, he thinks he’s special.
He sounds so educated, so clever. But then Aiden begins to mutter, and Jere doesn’t understand any more. He begins to slump, still talking, and Jere decides that this can’t end well.
He’d thought that maybe, just maybe, here was someone interesting, someone who’d be good company. Company, company he might’ve been able to trust…it would’ve been nice.
Aiden, though, is not going to be that. If anything he’s going to be a terrible, hefty weight upon him. What’s he going to do next, anyway? Go down there? If he’s come from up, the only way he can go is down. And what if he mentions the man he met up here? It can never end well. He repeats this to himself, over and over. Look, the boy hasn’t even eaten all of the soup, but surely he was hungry? He didn’t want to come in, even though he was shaking with the cold. He’ll never survive.
Jere comes to a conclusion he’d rather not, for reasons that aren’t even close to enough, if reason there could ever be for what comes next. Jere has had a strange life. He can’t give up yet. In his last act of caring, he wraps the boy in a fur and lets him lie there for a while. Aiden’s lips are still moving, even as his eyes allege he’s sleeping, forming nonsense words with the shallowest
of breaths, and oh, he is dying, Jere is certain, right here in his tent. Poor, strange, delicate thing. He started with such poise and presence, and it took him no time at all to lose himself in the wilderness. He’ll never survive. It isn’t kind to let him try.
There’s only one thing to be done.
As Jere sharpens his knife on a stone, he wonders what Aiden’s dreaming about; he looks so restless and troubled. It’ll be better, he assures himself, and you can’t save everyone. You can’t really save anyone when you live this way. All you can do is take care of yourself. It won’t be the first time he’s had to resort to this.
Jere crouches down, leans around him. Aiden is more awake than he seems, but is utterly confused, searching his mind for any piece of understanding that will make this scenario make sense. He is not ready for the hand he feels at his throat, prising just beneath the diamond collar - off, off my collar! - the hand is sharp, and there is sudden pressure, and Aiden that this is not the way it was supposed to go: he feels a heat run about his neck and the man above him mutters something dark and horrible like an animal and then there is a weight as he’s leant on and Aiden at last realises as cold fact that he’s being attacked. The weight on his chest is crushing and get off get off and there are parts of his insides bending, threatening…he’s not conscious of his next movements but he does have his own knife, remember, brought it from the castle in the madness of the fire, the knife, yes, there it is in the bundle of his belongings beneath him, such a pretty knife, two world orders old, and it fits perfectly in his hand and then he writhes and shifts and stabs out and up and pushes it in hard and freezes.
Then everything floods back into dark, rustling, furious movement, so he twists the hand with the knife clenched tight inside it - it’s difficult and there’s something that stops it at one point but Aiden doesn’t give up and Jere…growls? Gurgles. Aiden panics for a little longer, and there, upwards, thrust and yank and Aiden might be thin and worn and exhausted, he might have wanted to be as asleep as he was just now, but he’s got grip and a viciously strong survival instinct and then Jere is no longer over him but flat on his back, crashing against the side of the tent, howling, thrashing his arms as if to right himself and in the dark neither can see what each has done to the other.
“Please, “ Aiden whispers, not certain what he’s asking for, knowing with a memory formed not by him, but by our species itself, fifty, a hundred generations back, that this needs to end, this has to be quick.
Jere gasps for oxygen, a flapping, clicking sound of horror, utters a string of hideous attempts at words and punches Aiden as hard as he can. It is not as hard as he would have done, had he not been bleeding from abdomen to sternum, but is more than hard enough to shock Aiden, who has never, ever been truly hit before. Jere is too torn to aim properly; takes his own turn to feel stupid, to feel as if he should know better, is bleeding, can taste it in his mouth and can this really be how it’s going to go? Can this strange boy really be about to beat him at a game he’s practised his entire life? He’s sinking, sliding down against the fur and the ground, and he can’t see Aiden at all, even though he can feel the boy is right there, has a knife actually on him.
Aiden feels friction as he breathes, wetness, a chill at his neck, agitated by his collar. He’s grateful for the reminder that that is still there, whatever it may be that’s going to happen to him, they’re still there, and, the conclusion there is that, just as they must last forever, so must he. As he resonates from Jere’s half-strength punch, he feels a warmth that combats this sensation (we’d probably be worried by that, but it reassures him): It’s going to be fine. Yes. Somehow, this is all and only what must happen.
Aiden removes and replaces the knife several times, using all the force he can. Jere makes terrible, terrible sounds, and Aiden’s hand is wet now, and everything hurts inside him all at once, and he feels he might black out, but he doesn’t, no, he’s alright, he is. This is perfect. Has to be. This will leave him in the right places, in a safe place. He’s got a camp. He’s got a fire. He’s got everything he needs. All this is how it has to be. Everything here is for me.
The more he repeats this motion with the knife, the more removed from the moment he becomes. Distance has, Aiden will discover, been a gift to him in many ways, has made him special and separate and different, but it’s also broken a few things within him that ought to have been nurtured and treasured. Things that mean that he doesn’t understand the physicality of what he is doing, that he definitely doesn’t know the consequences. In theory, he believes himself first and foremost to be protecting himself (and he is - vile as this is, Jere would have done the same if only he could have). Second, and, in the time that follows, more importantly to Aiden, he believes he’s doing everything his ancestors did when they were claiming the Empire for their own, shaping the world as great men have always done. Well, whatever the circumstances here, there’ll be consequences, inside and out, but the full weight of those won’t come down hard upon him for some time yet. Not for a long time yet.
What to do now? He must finish this; there is too much noise and mess coming.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The Mystery
Alej and Selina stay put a little longer. Selina keeps putting a hand to Alej’s shoulder and trying to see into his eyes, worried that his unconsciousness has damaged him. “Are you alright? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…”
“I’m fine. It only hurts a little. It isn’t for you to apologise for.” Alej uses his best reassuring voice. They’re working on these voices together, covering up fear of the known or unknown, because they know it’s the only way to move forwards. There isn’t the time or energy to cultivate or give into their fears. To do so won’t make them go away.
“I suppose we keep moving,” Selina says, “if you can. If it hurts, say. I don’t want to get stuck again. I just…I don’t want to stay out here and risk that. There must be something else, must be, if we can just keep going. I wonder if there’s anything like home left. Anything at all.”
Alej doesn’t have anything to say to that. Based on the way she talked about it before, he isn’t certain he wants to see what she called home.
In time the sky begins to turn a dark pink; patches shift and give way to a blue, then flecks of gold find their way around the edges of the hefty clouds that shift back and forth in the strong breeze.
Dust whirls along the road. The sun seems as if it’s about to rise, but the light levels out and the clouds come back in force, coating everything in a layer of grey. The wind picks up, and in no time Selina is shivering.
When it starts to rain, Selina flinches as the first drops come down. It’s so long since she felt rain on her skin.
It wasn’t all that common back then; rain fell for only a handful of days every other season, but everyone welcomed it like it was the greatest of all things. She used to love the rain for no other reason than that if it continued for long enough, it would wash the people, and, consequently, much of the scent away. For a few moments you could hold onto the freshness and comfort of nature in the fall of the rain; it made the dust seem sweeter and the few fronds of plant life that staggered their way about the city would wake and reach for the sky.
Alej is used to rain, felt it plenty of times when tending the plants in the greenhouse. The difference is that that was not real rain, no, it was generated, recycled, formulated and scattered by the instruments. He’s neither particularly fond of, nor fazed by it, thinks only that it might stop the dust from getting into his eyes quite so often, which would be good.
The rain gets heavier, and then he notices this isn’t the clean rain he’s used to. Nor is it rain that mists softly about him, of a pleasant temperature that makes him feel clean and cheerful. This rain is grey, gritty, shows itself pinkish when it catches against the light just so. It tastes odd, too; sour.
Selina doesn’t notice these details. As the rain gets harder, she simply wishes they were somewhere comfortable and warm. It’
s pelting down now, vicious and grim. The sky has reverted to darkness, and everything is as frightening as it was before, in the moments after the noise and the fear. With the clack and splatter of rain on dirt and the rush of water into the naturally-forming gutters, it would be impossible to hear the first rumbles of the noise, Selina thinks, so there’d be even less chance of evading whatever it was.
In the end it’s raining so heavily they can barely see one foot in front of the other. Thunder rolls and lightening forks the sky, crashing forth with such a crack and shatter that it takes Selina by surprise, and she screams, a renting genuine scream from the heart of someone who doesn’t know how much more infinite nothing they can take.
Alej takes her arm and they continue together, into the weather, reduced to only their forward motion.
Selina yanks him mid-stride and he stumbles to her halt. “Did you see that?” she asks, her gaze snapping to the left.
“What?” Alej is walking with his eyes more or less closed against the onslaught of water.
“Over there, I saw, I’m certain I did. A light, for a moment, pointing right at us…”