Arden stood in the middle of the cobbled road. Heavy tears of the clouds fell to the ground, showering his skin with cold kisses, caressing his cheeks with frozen palms. The rain gave a melancholic hue to the unfamiliar trees, the carriage that was rushing away from him, the rusty gates that laid before him.
The rain calmed some, but not him. Each drop was another thought in his pounding head, another worry, another memory that strived to hurt him. But he was numb now. That was why he had found the courage to come to the cemetery.
His boots fell to the ground with wet thumps. Every step felt heavier than before, as if his common sense was holding them back from leading him somewhere he would regret. Yet he pushed his limbs forward, and the soil squeaked and protested. He had to go there. At least once, and then never again. It was a burden that had been haunting him since his teens. A burden that had to be relieved, or he would collapse under the weight of his guilt.
It hadn't been difficult to get there. The carriage didn't take much from him; perhaps because he seemed so dull. Six silver pieces and a threatening tap on his pocket was enough to get him to the outskirts of Karahi, miles away from Pupara. The weapons would have to wait. Now was the only moment when nobody would question his absence.
The lake was hardly visible even from the mountain. Silence stuffed Arden's ears, a constant ring that drilled into his mind. His footsteps sounded like climactic drums of war as he marched over to the fence and pushed it open. With a deep sigh, he walked inside.
A thick layer of mist obscured Arden's vision, shielding the graves from the mournful glances of the guests. Yet the only visitors that roamed the cemetery as the boy let his feet tread across the muddy soil were grieving shadows, phantoms. Gnarled trees dripping cool droplets hunched over most of the expanse, soaking the rest in darkness. The place echoed with painful sorrow and the emptiness of heartfelt loss.
Arden let his hood drop to his shoulders. The drizzle washed over his skin, his hair, drenching his clothes in rejuvenating chillness. It attempted to take away the dark feeling weighing his heart down, the slight quiver of his hands as he examined each name carved on the tombstones. Some were bizarre and long; Halal di Madar, one read. Some others were single names. The days upon days of contemplation and guilt had benumbed him. He was not in pain anymore.
But even if you plunge a knife in a numb man's chest, he will still feel it dip into his flesh. He will still endure the horror of watching his body slowly expire, with no pain to distract him.
His heart had picked up from the moment he stepped his boot on the muck of the graveyard, but it nearly exploded when familiar names started appearing on the stones. Shoele, Dahil, Sedem. All names he once spoke. All people he once knew. The countless hours of training and talking and laughing were burnt into his memory, pulsing with heat and nostalgia as he moved along the ground his former classmates were buried under.
His galloping pulse suddenly halted as his eyes fell on another gravestone, somehow murkier than the rest.
Miran Taikus.
Arden thought he was incapable of feeling pain anymore. Yet a wave of cold sweat rushed over his body, dropping him into a frozen void of darkness. At first he felt nothing. Then, a sliver of pain was born. It grew and grew until it bloomed into agony, sorrow, guilt. His hand dashed to his chest, clutching the fabric of his drenched shirt between tight fingers. The pain had no mercy. Vines of anguish slithered around his heart, depriving it of the warmth he had fought for all those years.
Then the pain reached his head. His eyes blurred and his vision faltered, a feeling of dizziness he couldn't shake off. The memories played in his head again and again like a broken record, each repetition another needle in his skin, another skipped beat of his heart. His mind made sure not to leave anything out; the day he saw her, the day he kissed her. The day erased her from his life.
It was because you were weak, a voice taunted in his brain. But self deprecation didn't repel the image of dancing flames before his eyes, the smell of burnt flesh and scorched wood. Those scenes had faded over the years, but now they were alive, pulsing with color, vivid as a painting.
He turned away from the inscription and slipped a crimson cylinder out of its box. That night had left its mark on him, too, and not only mentally. The doctor had claimed that inhaling the smoke of kesuma would help the pain after he hit his back. It had, at first. Now it was only a slight escape from the worsening stinging.
His eyes clicked shut as he searched for comfort in his mind, trying to distract himself from racing thoughts that grilled him for a reaction. Yet all that came to mind was Nora. Her smile, her attitude, her realism. His heart softened for a moment. Then he shook his head vigorously, taking long strides away from the graves, away from the pain. I won't let it happen again. Not after everything. Not after what I did last time.
He snapped his lighter open and kindled the roll.
༺──────────────༻
The sun didn't hesitate to fade after the rain ceased. It slowly slipped down the azure sky, leaving traces of gold behind, bathing the city in warm hues. Petrichor filled Arden's nostrils as he roamed around the short buildings of Pupara, examining the soggy soil through thin sockets.
The cemetery was far behind him, but the emotions that overwhelmed him in it had left an open wound, one that would likely never close.
As he lifted his glance, a sign stood out from the rest. It had no elaborate design on it, nor hints of copper to impress. One phrase was carved on the soaked wood; Phom me Peluru. Guns and ammunition. With a heavy exhale, the boy dragged his feet towards the narrow shop.
The door closed with the ring of a small bell above Arden's head. The weapon shop didn't seem much different from the ones in the Gutter; rusty guns were hanging from the walls along with other knives and axes with broken hilts and chipped blades. The place smelled of boiled herbs and old gunpowder, and the embers escaping from the lit fireplace carried the aromas to every corner of the room.Anaged man was slumped against a powder keg, snoring away tunes of the sailors and unspoken thoughts.
Arden cleared his throat. "Excuse me," he called in Mushan.
The man bounced awake, throwing a startled look at the door. Once he caught sight of the boy, his eyes narrowed to amber slits. "Hello..?" he muttered slowly, as if the presence of a costumer puzzled him.
"I'd like to see the weapons you offer." Arden glared at the wall next to him. "Ones that are intact, preferably."
The man lazily slid off the keg, beckoning for Arden to follow him to a wooden counter. Multiple weapons lay on the surface, some sharper than the rest. The firearms caught his attention first. A few were simple and practical, but most had intricate swirls carved on them, golden details painted on the smooth grips and even sayings engraved on the steel. The boy tried to resist the temptation to hurl all his silver coins at the man and snatch one of them. Instead, he pointed at a group of plain ones almost unwillingly and one of the wooden boxes of ammunition on the floor.
The man picked the box up, still peering at Arden curiously. After a few moments of silence he sighed, dropping the container on the counter. "Can I ask you something?"
Arden furrowed his eyebrows, but nodded. What can someone from Pupara wonder about me?
The old man pulled a carefully folded piece of paper from his pocket. After he uncrumbled it, he laid it on the counter. "Is that you?"
Arden stopped dead in his tracks. He could feel warm beads on nervous sweat form behind his ears, under his collar. Quickly, he snatched the sheet and brought it to his eyes, trying to decrypt the rushed pencil strokes. It was no use, though. The dark hair combed to the side, the square jaw, even the scar under his lip; it was him. He was looking at himself.
Under the sketch, a few words were written in Seyali.Wanted. Dead or Alive. Reward; fifty golden pieces.
The boy contained a cringe. The reward for his life compared to the one for Ailyn's was miniscule, like an ant before a tower. Yet he could name a thousand different people that would kill a man for fifty of the yellow coins. A decade's earnings for the lucky. Years worth of meals for the poor. A reward anyone would take.
Even though the similarity was almost comical, Arden shook his head almost too quickly. He included a nervous laugh as he handed back the wrinkled poster. "Why would I casually roam the streets if I was a wanted criminal?"
"There are more of these," the shopkeeper added, examining the guns Arden had selected. "A girl and a boy. They have seen them around Karahi. Some even say they have seen the Princess of Light!" He chortled, slapping his knee in amusement. "Can you believe it?"
Arden tried to return the laugh, but his throat had turned dry. They have posters for all of us. Gods, we are official wanted. Not only in Seyal, but also Musha. Probably in Frya, too. The boy imagined the face of his aunt when she yanked the poster with his mug from a wall. Knowing her, she would most likely be proud of the criminal her brother had spawned. "Why are they wanted?" he inquired, trying to keep his expression as neutral as possible.
The man leaned forward, giving him a cryptic smile. "They say they have stolen royal artifact. Seyal is chasing them around the continent. You should probably change that haircut, or they'll chase you too." He shook his head, cleaning the barrel of one of the guns. "Where are you from? Your accent didn't escape me."
At first he hesitated. What if he makes a connection? What if he's a spy? At last he sighed, clearing his head of the panic. The paranoia was starting to get to him. "Frya. For the festival," he added hastily, trying to avoid the inevitable questioning.
The old man gave Arden a knowing twitch of his eyebrows and set the gun down. "You don't have to lie to me, boy. I know about the raids."
"Raids?" he faltered, his voice quavering unintentionally as he stared curiously at the vendor. "What kind of raids?"
"The house raids. Where have you been, fellow? Bandits aren't the only ones that are looking for the Kingfisher." The man shrugged, but it was clear in his inquisitive glance that he was seeking a reaction from Arden. "The Seyali, they go to homes and question the owners. If they find anything incriminating, they sent the chaps for more grilling. Then to the Fryan Fields."
Arden tried to contain his curiosity, but it flooded his senses, leaking out in streams of questions. "When did this happen? Why would they do that?"
"Don't fret over it. It's no use for your folks. Hardly anybody goes in or out of the country. I heard the borders are impossible to get through."
The boy drove his quivering hand over his hair, glaring at the floor through wide eyes. Bryn. Salo's mother. Our homes. All jeopardized because of us. "There has to be a way," he sputtered. "The king must be able to do something about it!"
"The king allowed the raids, boy. What makes you think he'll stop it now?"
"Maybe..." Arden exhaled, pinching the bridge of his nose. He thought back to his country; what was the monarch's weakness? Something he couldn't contain or refuse? "An uprising?" he offered, and as soon as the proposal left his mouth his silver irises lit up like glinting metal. "Yes, a riot! The king must be forced to listen to his people then." With some twisted joy he imagined waves of rebelling locals flooding the streets, screaming chants and absolutely horrifying the king and his council.
The shopkeeper chuckled, peering at the boy with amusement. "I don't know what you need these for, lad," he said and pointed at the firearms, "but whatever it is, remember who sold them to you. I want credit when Frya's king falls."
A thousand ideas were already popping in his mind. Could I sent Bryn a letter? Or would it not pass through? He knew he was being distracted from his goal; find the Kingfisher, take the money, leave Frya for good. But the excitement of his idea dulled his sense of logic. He wanted to make an impact. That could be his chance.
"Let the kingdom crumble," he said, and a smile tugged the corners of his lips. "And let us rule over the ashes."
***
Okay, okay, small chapter, long rant.
My guys... How?! I know it's been a week and anyone who is reading it has probably noticed, but I have won a Watty award for Fantasy! This means sooo much to me! I'm absolutely ecstatic this story was recognized, I've been working really hard on it and I must admit, I'm quite proud too! Thank you to everyone who has supported this ♥
I'll start slowly editing this and there will be a few changes;
+ Poppy will be replaced with kesuma, as I want to build my world further.
+ I will work on making Kage a better character.
+ I will try to enhance readability.
And much more!
Again, thank you. So much.