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Chapter 33 - Departure, SC
🕑 Added 2024-05-04 10:54:14 +0000 UTCSunday eventually gave up. Part of the writings were downright jibberish, and even words he couldn’t understand were thrown in there. Perhaps some old dialect Jishu was fond of using or a language pack Sunday wasn’t given.
It was all about circulating the ‘breath’, which gathered the essence of the world and made it his. Put that way it was simple, but so far all he had managed was to do what he had been doing all this time and take in essence into his already full soul space.
He was supposed to also redirect parts of the breath to pass through the body and the soul in a certain way, following unseen paths. They would act as a sieve as the essence transformed into something suitable for him to use, and they would nourish his soul space from the outside, strengthening it in synchrony with the essence that was already inside.
It was difficult. He felt like he needed to separate his mind into at least three to four separate parts to do it all at the bare minimum. Becoming a rank one had been a trifling matter in comparison.
Feeling frustrated and tired, Sunday stood up and put away all of his belongings. He took his bag with him. Trusting the villagers hadn’t passed through his mind, and while he was currently the unknown savior, things could go south quickly. They were still an unpredictable factor, much like his own talents.
If there was one thing Sunday knew how to recognize it was desperate crowds. Arten could deal with that. He was a mage after all, even if he chose strange spells. A drier and a light? What was he thinking? Was he not capable of using something else? There was no lack of odd spells in the swamp.
Sunday slid the shaky wooden door open.
The villagers all turned as one, and the conversations that had been going on died down as he stepped into the light. Steam was rising from a large cauldron in the middle of the village. Whatever was bubbling inside of it had them all ensnared. All except the few undead, who stood to the side grumpily discussing something.
The sight made Sunday reminisce of the days of hunger when he and his fellow orphans would have to dumpster dive or pray for a scrap of food. They would gather around the pieces of stale bread and stare with the same light in their eyes while separating them. They had been small then, slower than most adults, too stupid to steal properly. Whatever they managed to find or were given, was often taken away by those older than them. Oh, the beatings, the hunger. Old Rud would disappear for days on end, and they would have to make do.
At least death had taken that problem away.
“Where is he?” Sunday asked loudly.
A brave young human pointed at a nearby hut. Sunday marched there with as much stoicism as he could.
He opened the door and nodded to Pearl who was putting on her best mean face as she stared the guilty villagers down. Then, without looking at Arten or any of the other prisoners huddled in the corner, Sunday beelined toward the bound chief. Hark was sat on a chair now, and only his hands and legs remained bound.
Arten stood up and tried to stop him, “What are—”
Sunday stepped around. His left leg went forward and his right one spun on the ball of his foot. Then came the hips and the twist. The power passed through his back muscles, shoulder, and elbow, and ended evenly spread on his palm. It once again found the chief’s cheek, but this time it was different. Sunday grinned madly and let a laugh escape his lips as the undead’s head snapped to the side and his body followed it to the floor along with the chair he was bound to.
Pearl burst into laughter and slapped her knees at the sight. The bound villagers watched wide-eyed, but their mouths were secured and there was little they could do. The only one missing was the little boy.
“Why would you do that?! Don’t you want him to speak?!” Arten yelled. He hurried to help the chief but stopped himself in time. Sunday wondered if the man had sensed the danger, or simply seen the results of the moth-charged slap.
“W-What is this?!” Hark cried out.
“I healed you. Now speak. My slaps give but they can take away too.”
“Y-You’re a monster…” Hark said between rasps. His face was looking better than ever, despite the panic. There was no sign of his missing eye, but Sunday guessed that it had been too long. If the moth could simply regrow it would go past magical healing.
“Yes, and you don’t want to know what else this monster can do. Talk.” Sunday turned toward Arten, who was trying to keep his composure. “Help me lift him,” he said. I’ve been acting quite unhinged lately. I hope they don’t turn on me, or I might have to do bad things.
The two easily lifted the undead.
“You’re dealing with a demon…” Hark said to Arten.
“Better than dealing with the Divine… We trusted you to lead us.”
Hark looked down and Sunday saw him grit his teeth. “We have no future in this place. Sooner or later someone too dangerous will find out about Pearl. We need to change!”
Sunday nodded internally. Somebody already did. Thinking of Jishu once again made Sunday feel an awkward sense of foreboding. He barely suppressed the urge to look around, to check the tree line for any yellow eyes peeking at them from the shadows. He’s gotten under my skin.
“And you decided to contact a Divine? Don’t you know better, old man?! Were you not the one who united us, who made the plans and helped us escape? What’s happened to you? Were you always this pathetic?” Arten’s voice shook. He was probably trying to control himself because of Pearl, who sat in the corner watching everything with childish curiosity.
For just a moment Sunday thought that she should leave. That she shouldn’t hear those things. Then he cringed at his foolishness. It was about her, and her life. The sooner she realized the dangers of her situation the better it was. Often keeping a child away from the world that could harm it was a disservice. She needed to be prepared, and at least Arten knew as much.
Sunday couldn’t take on that responsibility.
“He’s afraid,” Sunday noted. It was apparent to him.
“Of course, I am! Do you know how terrifying death is? Do you know how cold the embrace of darkness is? I’m undead, but I was living once, and every day I still think and feel and roam this world is stolen! When death comes again, I’ll have no more time. And for what? I have yet to truly live…”
It isn’t as bad as you make it sound old man. And I bet your death was better than mine.
Arten looked on the verge of blowing up. “And so… you and Vela did what you did.”
“Even a Divine wouldn’t ignore such a special child. Such a special gift. Those of us who offered it would’ve been changed. We would’ve been granted strength and youth…” Hark answered dryly as if mocking himself, then looked around, “Is she dead?”
“Face melted and brain stabbed. Did it myself,” Sunday said.
“Does death hurt?” Pearl suddenly asked. She was kicking her feet on the edge of the chair.
“It only hurts those who remain, little Pearl,” Sunday responded.
There were a few moments of tense silence.
“That doesn’t make sense,” the girl eventually said.
Sunday smiled, “Well, what do I know? I fell from the sky.”
That made her giggle. “Yes, because I summoned you… me and Tiru.”
Is that the little boy’s name? Where’s he?
“The boy is safe. The divines have a harder time corrupting children.” Arten answered as if reading Sunday’s mind, “What do you want to do with the rest?”
Trying to avoid responsibility again, aren't we?
“Execute them!” Sunday exclaimed, and before Arten could reply drew his sword. “Let’s do it right now. In front of everyone!”
A stunned silence descended in the small room, and even little Pearl didn’t seem as unbothered anymore. There was no fear. The only time she had shown any worry was when she had asked for her uncle to be saved.
Arten seemed hesitant, “It’s what is usually done with worshippers of any kind… But it might be unwise to do so. The others are already barely holding it in. Tensions are high. We need to deal with the food situation and to kill our own will…” his words trailed off.
Sunday sheathed Jishu’s sword with disappointment. It took him a few tries to find the scabbard, which ruined the moment. “Then what do I care? Man, up and take charge. You sure were mouthy before, and now you’re still acting like a wuss.”
“What’s a wuss demon uncle?”
“I’m not a demon. And ask your uncle, he seems to be an expert.”
“Uncle Arten, what’s a wuss?”
Arten stared at Sunday with a frown before slumping, “I don’t know.”
“It’s someone weak in the knees,” Sunday said.
That seemed to only confuse Pearl further as she stared at Arten’s knees, making the man step in place awkwardly.
“Take me with you, I’ll show you the way out,” Hark suddenly said. His one eye was staring at Sunday as if his life depended on it. Possibly, because it did.
Another one to babysit and be wary of. Eh, what could go wrong? “Sure thing. Pack a bag, we’re leaving.”
“Can I come?” Pearl excitedly asked.
“No!” Arten replied in a panic.
“No.” I can’t take you, girl, sorry.
“Aw.”
The crowd was still outside, taking turns pouring themselves bowls of the watery stew bubbling inside the cauldron. The toad lady was there too, eating alone on one end. She excitedly stood up when she saw Arten exit followed by Sunday and the still-bound Hark. The end of his rope was in Sunday’s hand and he quickly tied it to his waist.
Arten croaked something back, without much feeling.
“Do you need to address them? Vote it out?” Sunday asked.
“What for? Whatever you say goes, seeing how afraid everyone is of you.”
“You’re many, I’m but one,” Sunday said before stopping himself. I should’ve let you kill each other some more. Maybe Pearl would be safer then.
“It’s not as simple. You’re a mage many times more gifted than me. Using the spells that brought us here did some damage to my foundation, and I’ll never progress further. Pearl’s presence might help me in the future, but that might also be a pipe dream.”
It seems that this swamp attracts a certain type. Everyone’s hurting, everyone’s got secrets… Everyone’s seeking something important. Am I making a mistake by not making use of Pearl? Is it why my fucked-up talent brought me here? It simply doesn’t feel right. She’ll have a better chance with Arten. I don’t know what I’m doing, for fuck’s sake, and I have to do it fast. Before another hound comes. Before whatever forces put me here come knocking.
“There’s also the fact that you healed them. You might have strange ways, but healers are very respected and feared, especially those with talents…”
Is that right? Sunday let the unspoken question hang between them.
“A healer…” Hark muttered behind.
“What of it?”
“You truly have strange ways,” the undead said, leaving it at that. He seemed mostly alright, even though he was leaving his life in the hands of Sunday. He pointed them in the direction he wanted to take – the complete opposite of where Sunday had headed the first time. The undead former chief had very few possessions he valued – only a simple diary, a bag of clothes, and a necklace of walnut shells. And of course, his flat netted hat.
The chief remained tied, although Sunday doubted if that had any use. Hark was weaker than he had been the first time they had met. Whatever Vela had done had drained strength out of everyone.
Sunday silently hoped that this was it. He was impatient to leave the mud and moisture behind.
Pearl ran up and stood in his way.
“Are you truly leaving?”
“Yes. I hate it here.”
“Me too!” she exclaimed, then hesitated. “But I know it's dangerous for me out there. Uncle Arten will take care of me, so don’t worry.”
Sunday looked around. Arten was talking with some of the villagers, probably explaining what was happening to the interested crowd. No one had dared to come and question Sunday himself, although some had given him smiles.
He knelt to get level with Pearl, “You trust him?” he asked.
She nodded with a serious expression. It was cute when she tried to act adult, and a bit sad that she was so good at it.
“He let Tiru go for me. I’ll watch him and make sure he’s not evil,” she said. Then stepped even closer and looked around. Her voice was barely a whisper and Sunday strained to hear. He heard Hark come closer but a glare was enough to make the rope taut again.
“I know I’m special, and I know uncle wants to use that. I’m not stupid!” No, you aren’t little Pearl. “As long as I grow older, I’ll be strong enough to protect myself and everyone else. My dreams told me so.” Dreams, huh? Mine tried to eat me.
“I see. Well, keep listening to those dreams and don’t tell anyone else about them, alright? Maybe one day we’ll meet again and compare notes.”
She looked confused. “What notes?”
“It means we’ll talk about the places we’ve seen and the things we’ve done. Would you like that?”
“Yes!” she nodded with a smile, then pulled something out of her tunic. “Here.”
Sunday took it and almost gasped. It was a small glass vial. One of Vela’s. An amber liquid was sloshing inside. Blood!?
Pearl didn’t give him a chance to say anything as she threw herself on his neck. Sunday froze, surprised by the show of affection. “Thank you for saving Uncle Arten and me, Uncle Demon!”
Sunday swallowed. “I’m not a demon,” he said weakly. “And my name is Sunday.”
“I know,” she smiled one last time then ran off. Sunday watched her go to the mean-faced old lady and grab onto her hand. The vial disappeared in a pouch on his side in a swift movement.
“You ready?” Arten asked from the side.
“Yeah…” Sunday stood up and after a moment of contemplation looked at Arten. “Take care of little Pearl, or I’ll come back.”
“I will. And thank you.”
“Fuck off.”
Minutes later Sunday stepped through the nets of the village with the bound Hark in toll. The villagers were watching his back and a few waved goodbyes. Most were probably glad he was going. The toad lady was croaking loudly and tried to get his attention, but he paid her no mind.
Under the gazes of the crowd, Sunday stepped into the swamp for hopefully the last time for a while. He was excited if a bit confused by the strange feelings that had appeared inside of him.
His mind once again decided to play a trick on him, and he found himself scanning the tree line for pairs of yellow eyes.
He found none.
