Chapter 12

Only Son

ARIEI

By the time we return to the headquarters the rain from above has stopped, causing the dust and pebbles strewn across the ground to stick to our clothes in a thick muck. The sun filters back in through the cracks, but the coldness of this life haunts me beyond this superficial beauty. It strikes me as bizarre that no eidelion has dared to wander down from above, though I understand the survival instinct- it’s a long distance to fall.

“Ariei. I’m not sure what you have in mind, but I doubt we can bury that many that quickly. I mean, it’s taken us days to handle the few we have. We haven’t even been able to identify half of ‘em.”

“We’ll do it. The others chose to fight. These people- these civilians- they were women, children, mothers, fathers. They were chosen to make our new land. They had no need to fight. They weren’t ready.”

He sighs and runs his hand over his stubble. Small droplets of water hit the ground as he brushes.

“Okay then. Okay.”

His head tilts down as if asking the ground for answers before delivering his theory.

“What if we burn them instead? It’s a proper funeral, and then we can be off.”

I stop in my tracks.

“Burn them? Gaevan, they deserve to be buried where they stood! Where they lived! Where they had a hom-”

He stops as well, his hands outspread.

“All right then, fine. But what’s your hurry to get to the surface? WE’RE GOING TO DIE, LASS. The first outreach didn’t quite go well, did it? And that was with emberstrand and armed civilians marching with them! We have ourselves, one emberstrand, and a godsdamned eidelion. WE HAVE CHILDREN. Bryatt’s been gathering the weapons and medicine that weren’t taken by the centralians or destroyed, sure, but we still only have ourselves. We won’t last a day. What happens when the Maw hits us? What happens when it affects children? We have no idea what that could do!”

I stop him.

“That’s the thing, Gaevan.”

“What?!”

“The eidelion.”

I search the area. I decide to pull him around the side of the building, well away from the door. He looks surprised. I’m surprised by how light he is. The man’s skin and bones, save for a slight amount of muscle on his arms. He speaks in an angry whisper.

“What the hell are you talking about?”

I get closer to him, lowering my voice.

“I’ll explain, but you’ll have to keep this quiet. I don’t want to worry Aaro, and I'm not familiar with the others. I can’t have them doubting my sanity.”

“Lass, I don’t think they’ll doubt your sanity. You regrew your fucking hand. Anything’s possible.”

Fine. He has a point.

“All right. But you have to believe me.”

He shrugs aggressively.

“I believe I’ve already expressed that I'm listening.”

“All right, all right. When I died, I heard a voice- it sounded like man. It asked me to accept an offer- it would revive both of us fully. It had been wounded as well. I would be offered a gift of some spiritual nature, and the voice would gain new form. It explained that it is a nexumon- some sort of divine form of eidelion- and that I am, apparently, an empath.”

“I need some microgranite to jot down notes.”

“Funny. It said that empaths and nexumon can link in a bond. Since I was dying, I accepted. Now we can speak through our minds.”

He smirks with a sense of sardonic wit.

“All right, lass. I’m going to assume you’re not fucking with me. I trust you. Gods know we haven’t seen anything yet. That huge thing is actually that smart, hmm?”

I nod.

“Yeah. I think so.”

“Explains a lot. It sure as hell knows how to get at the last few scraps of food we can get a hold of.”

I step forward.

“Do you know what this means?”

He smiles.

“We have a big fucking advantage in the field.”

I smirk.

“Not just that. It’s lived long, Gaevan. It’s seen Centralis. It knows their technology, their culture, their operations. It has answers. We can figh-”

“Ariei, Gaevan. Come inside. Bryatt and I are almost finished with dinner..”

We turn awkwardly, nearly simultaneously, to see a tall, slender young woman with short brown hair. It’s shaved at the left side and hangs long on the right. She has sharp features and amber skin that contrasts with the dark grey non-sleeved shirt and black pants she wears. Her arms are covered in scars and burns. Must have worked in the manufactoria.

I try and give a welcoming smile, but I'm still slightly startled. She moved so quietly.

“Are you Emetia? Aaro was talking about you.”

She returns the expression, though it’s stained with a heavy melancholy. I’m constantly forgetting that the others haven’t had a break in the misery. They’ve been living in this grave for days.

“Yes, it’s nice to meet you. You’ve made quite the name for yourself over the past few months, though I haven’t had the chance to introduce myself.”

She opens her mouth to say something more, but she walks back into the building insead. I turn and lock eyes with Gaevan. He nods softly and follows behind as we step over the boundary and walk inside. The furniture has been rearranged, with two tables in the center set alongside each other and the chairs placed around them. A young man has finished placing cutlery on the table, along with mugs full of water, clearly taken from the back storage. He’s muscular, pale, his hair short on the sides with thick blonde curls on top. A tattoo runs around his neck- a solid black ring with double-sided points symmetrically placedaround it. It’s the mark of a Returned- somebody freed from the jails of this very building. Each mark is designed as a permanent reminder. His is the black collar- the symbol of a killer.

“Happy un-death, Ariei. Normally we’ve just been rationing food to whoever’s hungry, whenever, but we decided tonight would be a little celebration.”

I roll my eyes but decide to play along.

“Thank you. Bryatt?”

He picks up one of the forks, rolls it between his fingers, and sets it back down, parallel to the others.

Show off.

“The one and only.”

I nod slowly. I can’t tell if he was freed for the battle or if he’s been out for several years now. He’s young, yes, but perhaps he was arrested even younger. He locks eyes with me. They’re light green. Even with his striking appearance there’s a sadness in those eyes.

“How was it? Being the daughter of a folk hero?”

He sits in a chair, leaning over. I shrug, searching the aged floor before returning my gaze.

“It was… intimidating.”

“Intimidating.”

“Yes. Intimidating. The expectations. The expectations-”

“Despite knowing nothing would change.”

“Right. Throwing my life at a cause that wouldn’t change a thing.”

I’m surprised he’s reading me so well. Or maybe it’s because he’s already thought about the topic hundreds of times. He chuckles sadly.

“Little did we know that that change would find us instead.”

Emetia, who’s returned to the pot, stands up, shoots Bryatt a chilling look, and marches upstairs. He stands up himself, the chair scooting roughly on the ground as if afraid.

“Emetia!”

There’s no response.

“Shit.”

I stand up alongside him.

“What’s wrong?”

He shrugs.

“She’s taking it hard. We’re all taking it hard. It’s just that we’re dealing with this in our own ways- ways that don’t really intermingle.”

I nod.

“Aaro- is she-”

He smirks.

“Aarp’s taking it better than everyone. It’s surprising. When we first hid out here and got to know each other she struck me as soft. Naive.”

“That’s Aaro.”

He nods.

“But she’s taken on a lot. She’s kind of becoming the leader.”

I can’t say I'm surprised. Aaro flits between seeming younger and older than she is. I suppose she’s a bit of both of her parents.

Bryatt turns to the pot.

“It’ll be just a bit longer if you want to go check in on her. Last I saw she was upstairs.”

I start to ascend when I hear whispered voices. It’s Emetia and her. I can’t quite make out if it’s friendly conversation or an argument, but I don’t want to interrupt either way. I can make friends over stale food later. I move further down the row. Young voices can be heard further down the way, but I have something more important. I look for the room where Sekra lies and turn the handle.

He’s lying on the bed, shirtless, his body wrapped in blankets. A small collection of scavenged medicine lines the shelves, turning the room into a makeshift medical wing. Medical tools lie on a pulled-close chair, and a medical journal- either gathered from Sekra’s equipment or collected from the building itself- is open to a page detailing infection treatment. He’s breathing, though he’s still out. The wound has been fitted with fresh bandages, and he’s been cleaned. He looks peaceful.

I sit next to him. I reach out and touch his cheek, making sure that he’s still here- still real.

“I shouldn’t be here.”

The words come freely, unexpectedly. I’m speaking to somebody who isn’t hearing this, doesn’t care. But they spill out all the same.

“I shouldn’t be here. You should be alive. You should have your arm back. I don’t deserve this.”

He remains silent.

“Why didn’t you leave? Why did you stay there? I told you to go.”

I think of my hand. I think of the terrible things my hands have done. I think of what I have done.

Sekra is better than me.

Sekra, who devoted his life to helping others.

Sekra, who, despite the world around him, has always been there to lighten the load of others.

Sekra, who stood there when the others fled.

I start to cry, whether it be through relief at his state or grief of what has been taken from him. I withdraw my touch.

“I’m going to set this right. I’m going to set everything right again.”

After closing the door I turn down the hall. I decide to check for Luciaphon.

I find him curled up in my room, absentmindedly toying with a rock on the floor. It would be humorous were it not for the fact that he could tear my head from my body in a moment’s notice.

“Why the tears, girl? Don’t you know that tears lead to nothing?”

I think to him.

“We have much to discuss.”

He raises his head.

“Much to discuss about what? The bond we’ve enacted? Or their terrible cooking?”

I smirk.

“Is it that bad? Or is it the fact that it’s cooked that’s bothering you?”

He straightens his body, massive paws facing forward.

“It’d be one thing if it were cooked well. But the combination of dreadful and cooked presents me with the greatest of daily sins.”

I sit cross-legged across from him, closing the door behind me so Aaro doesn’t find me staring wordlessly at a glorified eidelion.

“Let’s set your jests aside for now. Tell me everything.”

“Where should I start? When I was a young cub-”

“I told you to set your jests aside.”

A deep breath draws itself into his maw.

“Very well. What do you want to know? Take your time. Perhaps they’ll manage to cook the roots properly then.”

I nod.

“My gift.”

“Your gift?”

“I don’t have it yet. Or, I’m assuming I don’t. I’m not sure what to look for.”

“Have patience. You’ll know when- trust me. It’ll manifest on your arm in a grand ornamentation. Gierant had one, as well- his armor just hid it. It’s a common tactic for a militarial Empath- to hide amongst the commonmen in the midst of battle, to be the trump card in any campaign.”

“When, thought?”

The creature stretches its paws, the razor-sharp talons sliding out menacingly.

“Whenever the gods deem it right.”

I laugh.

“Fuck the gods. It’s what my father believed. If the gods existed, then none of this would have happened. Most of the fucking city believed in the gods. If that wasn’t enough then I don’t want anything to do with them. If they are real then they can take it from me. Gift or no gift, I can survive.”

I can hear a booming laugh through my thoughts.

“How brave of you. Persisting like an insect.”

“Well, then, beast. Your form. What did you mean by that?”

A soft growl emits from him. I can sense an excitement in the noise.

“Every nexumon has its own form that it can enter when given permission by the Empath. It’s similar to your gift- though, where you are able to alter the environment around you, I am able to alter my own body. I reach a new level of lethality in this form- one that makes me a formidable foe. There’s a reason Meilios slaughtered Gierant first- without the order, I am just a beast. Despite this, there are drawbacks. There is a system of balance, girl. Every time you use your Gift- and every minute I am in my form- we are slowly dying. There is an invisible clock, and time moves swiftly.”

Somehow this excites me. It means that we already have an advantage on other Empaths and nexumon that have existed longer.

“So what you’re saying is that we have to be smart about this.”

Luciaphon nods his head.

“As smart as any general. We must work together. We are bound now. If one of us dies, then the other will start to wither themselves. I was just incredibly lucky that there was an Empath in this small dwelling.”

“About that. How common are we? And how common are you?”

That same laugh haunts me.

“Common? There is nothing common about us. Empaths are exceedingly rare- rare to the point of regality. They are considered the highest of beings. Generals, assassins, explorers, rulers. Meilios is the only non-empath to be honored an Archion in the entire history of Cistria- and it haunts him every moment of his life. That rare. As for us? Nexumon? Somewhat less, though still an anomaly when seen by the common man. We are blessed beings, gifted with the powers of the world around us and told by the Gods to hunt, all of us unique from each other. Though we are more common than an Empath our truest of abilities are locked away without one.”

I’m starting to put the pieces together. We need each other.

“In other terms, it’s a codependent relationship.”

“Indeed. We do not know why this link exists. We do not know how this can happen. We do not know how this world bends to the will of our abilities. But we still must work alongside each other.”

I hear a voice calling from downstairs. Aaro. I hear a door open to the right, followed by the voices of excited children. Luciaphon snickers.

“Time for the slop ceremony.”

I turn to leave, but stop midway.

“One more thing.”

“Hm?”

“Did you believe in Centralis? In what they did?”

He stands up, claws sliding noisily across the stone.

“I had no choice in the matter. I was bound to Gierant, the same as I am bound to you. But I could read him, knew him better than anybody. Better than the wildwoods of which I dwelled for decades. And I knew that he believed in what he was doing. I knew that he believed that he could do good. And I knew that Gierant was a good man. The best of men. But this, child? What has happened here? This is not what Gierant believed in. And this is certainly not something that I can stand idly by for.”

“Luciaphon-”

“I will make them BLEED.”

CEREAN

I idly turn the dagger around in my hand, occasionally flipping it in an attempt to grab the handle without cutting myself. It only works half of the time. The other half leaves me with small cuts where I’ve failed. My father often jests that this is the pastime of warriors, though his hands remain unscarred. I theorize that he does this to make me feel like everything I do is important- a kind of tactic meant to align me with his gravity.

My left foot is restless as I bounce my heel on the cold marble floor, my dark blue wrinkling around the ankles as I do so. The gold that lines it makes me all the more nervous. I must look an idiot, sitting in this vast chamber, the ornate chair grounding me. I am solitary, of course.

Nobody comes here without massive importance.

The ceiling above is grand and exquisite. It’s been fitted with massive IllusoScreens. They display vast fantastical environments, each a living painting in itself, a passageway to the realm of some higher being. Massive, glowing nexumon fly elegantly across a vast blue ocean, while winged humans reach out and make godlike contact with them. Glorious fire streaks across this peaceful sky, contrasting it in its grand destructive power. It does not, however, stoop to that level- it simply coexists. When I was a younger child, I would often run through this hall, playing make believe, acting as if I were one of these impossible actors. My father even thought to let me meet the artists responsible for these works, though I remained uninterested- I was just happy to witness their glory.

A door opens to my right, drawing me away from the screens. I quickly slide the white glove back onto my hand in an awkward attempt to correct my lapsing appearance before slotting the dagger back into its holster. It’s a middle aged woman with short gray hair and glasses. She locks eyes with me.

“Cerean Sarvahn.”

I nod, taking a bow before her.

“Ma’am.”

She steps aside, saluting.

“The Archion will make counsel with you now.”

“Thank you.”

I reach out, hand shaking, and turn the golden handle. The white double door splits down the middle as I step inside. The windows are open, allowing for the golden rays of sunlight to dribble into the room. White eidelion- Hiari- flitter by outside on four wings, engaged in some sort of primal sport. The emblem of Cistria sits engraved into the ceiling. The walls are lined with artifacts, grand spoils of proxy wars and games. A grand bed sits at the end of the vast chamber, its coverings perfectly replaced. A grand clock rests upon the wall on the opposite side, filling the entire frame and ticking softly. I look for my father, finding him sitting alone next to one of the windows.

He’s sweating, his hair falling forward as he sits. He’s bent over on a stool, shirtless. His Mark stands behind him. The man has a headset with lines of magnifying glasses, smallest set forward. He grips an automated needle.

My father’s body is lined with an endless tattoo that starts at the neck and goes down. It’s gotten filled out constantly over the years.

“Cerean.”

I pull over a chair and sit across from him.

“Father.”

He smiles at me, a genuine smile. The Mark keeps working, his hand incredibly steady. It’s one thing to be a Mark, another to be one granted the ability to work on an Archion.

“I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“Yes. I am sorry.”

He grips the windowsill as the needle travels over his back.

I shake my head, smirking, looking at the floor. I can’t believe this.

But yet, I should, shouldn’t I?

“Sorry. After what you’ve done.”

He bows his head. He remains silent.

“It’s a necessary evil, Cerean. I had to.”

He raises his hand. The Mark stops his work. He stands, stretching himself.

“Do you see these names, Cerean?”

I look into his eyes. They’re still there. My father’s eyes.

“Of course I do. What does this have to do-”

He steps forward before turning around. I look past all of the names that have been tattooed into his body to find a newer, larger mark. A small shape with bolded lettering over it.

It reads eight hundred and sixteen.

“I have committed a great sin today, Cerean. I have taken the lives of all of these people. They did not have the chance to name themselves. Do you know why I did what I did? Why I forced you to end that man’s life?”

I look away from the number.

“Because you need to learn, Cerean. One day you will have to undertake what I must. One day you, too, will be forced into The Great Burden.”