Chapter 86: Volume 2 - CH 4.03

Under the wheeling morrowlight we raced.

Evergreen woods soon gave way to wild grasses as our galloping horse hurried us into a new vista: open fields, an ocean of verdure swaying with the whistling winds. Above vaulted the feather-cloud skies, its sun yet to take the noontide throne.

And just before us stood our destination—Mia’s village, and her harrowed home.

Nearing it, I slowed our steed to a canter. Only, my heart drummed faster with dread. Wishes, waning with each moment, were its only mitigation.

A wish for survivors.

A wish for a friend of Mia’s. Or a neighbour. Anyone at all that might know even just her face.

And a wish, dearest of all, for the well-being of Mia’s last sister: Eva.

I know.

To be enlightened of the truth to this tragedy is enough, even if what awaits may be the discovery of one more loved one’s death.

I know.

To finally set her first step to tomorrow, Mia must accept the very truth of this ruined yesterday. Of whether her sister waits with a touch as warm as the clearest sun, or one as cold as any stone.

I know.

All too well.

Yet I could not help but hope for the better. Hope, for a long-due measure of happiness for Mia.

It was then that we passed by the first fences and fallowed fields. Here, my breaths were bated and broken. But before me sat Mia, and from her petrified portance, I well-espied the anxiety holding her fast in its grip.

And with no ceremony, we then arrived at the village sprawl.

The withered walls, the wood-hewn houses, the shadowed sheds, the neglected gardens.

Mia’s home.

We were here at last.

♰

We dismounted, our feet finding the dirt carpeted with overgrown greenery.

Around us, a village, violated and vanished of its erstwhile vitality. The houses sagged, heavy with black wounds burnt into their facades. The fences, screens, and all manner of other buildings stood broken and beyond all recognition of their prior purposes.

And absent in all of this: the steps and breaths of any other soul besides Mia’s and mine.

The Fiefguard had indeed quit the place five moons past with not a single camp erected. The rubble was barren of banners, a belt buckle or errant armament, or any article once bedighting the marauding Men. Missing, too, were traces of any Nafílim enterprise in restoring these ruins.

It soon set in for us both.

The village was all but abandoned.

“…”

Mia stood there, still and silent, staring upon the husks of her home. A place once beloved, but now changed forever. What was reflected in those amber eyes of hers, I could not fathom.

Yet, I sensed uncanniness afoot. For all the destruction wrought upon it, not one corpse laid upon the village courses. The Fiefguardsmen certainly fostered nary a flicker of compassion for their foes, not even to spare them a pittance of a burial. What explained this, then?

No…

Could it be?

That the fallen folk were buried by their brethren passing by from other places?

Or were there truly survivors here? Ones that might’ve done the solemn deed?

If so, then there was hope, however faint.

“Mia,” I called. “Your sister was a well-lent hand at the orphanage, wasn’t she? And it was there where she last went—know you the way?”

“…yes…”

Her answer, verging on vanishing into the zephyrs. I followed Mia as she went her guiding way, a winding trek during which, too, we found no bodies. A relief, then, that she did not have to meet a cold, acquainted face—not yet, at least.

But my suspicions gained the colour of confidence as we continued on: someone truly had buried them all. Indeed, the contrary seemed the inconceivable course. There yet breathed, then, some surviving soul within these ruins.

This, I dearly hoped.

Fates be fair, let it be so.

At the end of the wishful walk did we arrive at the orphanage. I looked up and all along its oaken countenance, finding its air oddly austere and reticent. It was, in a word, sacrosanct, and of an architecture wholly untouched by Londosian aesthetics.

We stopped at the entryway, and glancing upon one another, nodded. Carefully, I cracked the doors open, and calming my nerves with a deep breath, ventured in.

My heart raced.

Eva… Is she truly alive?

Entering deeper, I peered all about. But try as they might, my eyes found not a hint of activity, save for sunbeams brimming in from the mauled and misshapen windows, casting bright bands through the ambient dust.

“…”

Mia tiptoed in tow without a word, tugging at my sleeve as she went. Upon her visage was a veil of quiet despair and defeat, her own eyes just as lost as mine at the stillness of this space.

Another look, then. With frayed focus, I scanned about.

Ore-pine posts stood in succession, great in girth, almost pillar-like, and wooden, as though they were once trees-trunks themselves, bare of their bark and planed with all care. Stairways, too, slanted up from the ground and into the overlooking lofts. And upon the walls, there hung tapestries, delicate in their weave and intricate in their design.

These features, all, composed a pall of piety to some higher power, holding in them past purposes for rituals and worship.

“Mia, this place… It looks more a fane than an orphanage,” I observed aloud. “What is it, really?”

“…it was a shrine… they told me once…” she answered. “…but other than that… I…”

A shrine?

The puzzle pieces fit squarely, then. Most realms of Man hold themselves to be herds of lamb for Yoná, their one and only shepherd, as it were. But the Nafílim walk by a different creed, for they follow not any one deity: theirs is instead a belief that in each and every thing, living or no, there dwells an essential vættr.

I’ve heard before that where we Men have churches and cathedrals, the Nafílim have shrines and temples, within which dedications are made and these vættir are venerated. This place well-fit the bill. Little wonder, then, why I sensed sacredness within it.

Then, my skin was roused.

Goosebumps all around; sweat beaded upon my nape.

In the spheres of Man, it is not rare that orphans and oblates are brought into the care of a convent. A cultural commonality with the Nafílim, then, from the look of this establishment. And it is within shrines such as this that subterranes are often constructed below for the storage of ritualistic implements, as well as the brewing of myriad liquors.

Knowledge that is naught more than trivia to the churlish minds of the Fiefguard. Indeed, I cannot imagine that any amongst those men would deign to bother with studying the folkways of their foes. And so would the marauders five months past have been oblivious to what might lie beneath our feet at this moment.

That meant but one thing: survivors, sheltering out of sight.

And perhaps within their number—Eva herself.

Or perhaps… I presume overmuch.

Truly now.

Could there really be survivors here?

Yet alive after all this time?

I snapped back to the moment, finding my breaths thin and hurried. But my feet were already on the move; if memory serves, entryways to foresaid basements are often built behind the main altar.

My cautious steps sounded through the shrine, its spaces no smaller than a church’s. At its furthest reaches was the seeming altar itself, stark and stolen of all that Men might’ve espied any value. To it I went, then wound about to its dusty posterior.

There, I squinted at the floorboards, finding a faint outline etched into them. A hatch, no doubt, square in shape and quickly discernible only to eyes keen on its discovery.

Kneeling, I went to work opening it up. With care, it cracked and lifted open. Just as I thought. And further confirming my suspicion: an unveiled set of stone stairs leading down.

“…ah…”

A surprise for Mia, too, as she watched on from behind. It would seem the Fiefguardsmen weren’t alone in their unfamiliarity with this feature.

“Wait here, Mia,” I whispered. “I’ll have a look.”

“…y… yes, Master…”

With Mia staying put, I descended the stairs, finding the flight quite deep: thirty steps and more had me reaching the bottom. The hollow was dim, lit only by the shaft of light from the entrance above. But soft echoes were enough to betray the breadth of the basement space, its generosity earning my astonishment.

Spanning further in was a corridor, fifteen passūs forward, thereabouts, with numerous rooms sighing from both sides. And at the end: a ponderous double-doorway, before which I soon found myself standing.

Hands upon the doors, I pushed. Slowly, they creaked open.

“…Aah…!”

Relief.

Rapture.

A mirthful mix of the two was expelled from my lungs, leaving my lips in a silly yelp.

Before me, a cellar of sorts, large and lambent with wick-light. And in the softly glowing space: numerous Nafílim.

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Almost a score of them; all children, save for two.

And they were alive…

By the fates, they were alive!

The moment left me numb of words. I but stood and stood, stunned by the discovery.

Then, to my dumbfounded figure, a Nafíl.

An adult, one of two, hasting forth—a spear, firmly in hand.

Hostility, clear as day as it was a damper upon my elation. I was careless; the price was paid with a spearhead piercing where my heart once was. Having backed off into the corridor, I raised my hands forth.

“Wait! I—”

“Eaaah!!!”

The Nafíl: a young woman. Desperation twisted her face as her spear itself twisted to me once more. A motion of utmost abandon.

“Uaaaaah!!”

“Ach…!”

Her spearmanship was unsharpened. Yet in spite of its dulled delivery, the Nafíl heaved the weapon with the whole of her soul, instilling her very life into its iron tip.

Indeed. She well-intended to die if it meant I went along with her.

“Stop! Pleas—”

“You’ll not take us!” she screamed. “Not one more! Not anymore! Not…!!”

She fast followed me into the corridor, wielding the spear in unwieldy ways. But awash in her eyes was both a wrath ready to sear away aught and all, and as well, a sorrow set on chilling everything through and through.

Far behind her were the affrighted children, trembling in their shared embrace. And to protect them, one and all, she was ready to face purgatory itself.

Thus, did she face me with all readiness.

“Please! Hear me out!” I pleaded.

“You killed us! You kidnapped us! But no more!!”

A wuthering wail from her lungs as she lunged forth with her spear.

“Egh!”

A glancing wound across my shoulder. A blow that should never have landed, dealt by a spear gripped in unhoned hands. But I couldn’t keep up. The girl Nafíl was giving her all, offering her life as tinder to a flame she well-wielded. And there was I, harrowed by its unseen heat.

“My dear ones I’ll protect! From you! From all of you!”

She was no warrior.

Nor was there a wisp of odyl imparted into the spearpoint—odyl with which all Nafílim are born. Were she wise to the odyllic arts, I would’ve long been blown back, clear through the corridor. Yet it was the truth that of those I’ve faced in battle thus far, she stood above them all.

And before I knew it, I was pressed against the wall, not far from the foot of the stairs.

“I will…! I must!!”

Her soul was set. At me, she stared. Truly, a soldier of abandon.

But I could not fight back.

I could not kill her.

Staring back at her, I knew it then.

Hers…

“Wait! Listen!”

…were eyes of amber.

“…Eva!”

“…Hh…!?”

My whole-lunged call lingered through the dim. My assailant stood, stilled of all forward movement, her body shaken by my words.

“H… how…?”

I answered with only a longer look back. The light-shaft above shone down upon her desperate mien. Behind the strands of hair dishevelled in the vehemence, her eyes were indeed bright with amber.

“How? Why…!? My name… why do you know…!?”

At last.

At long last.

For Mia, happiness. At long last.

My efforts were not vain. Finally could I return Mia to someone who yet yearned for her.

Thank you, Eva.

For being alive.

For never giving up.

For being our hope.

“Mia told me,” I revealed. “She’s here. With me. We’ve been searching for you.”

“…Wha…?” Her amber eyes widened. “…What is this you… speak…?”

The spear rattled. A weapon weeping. Its wielder’s hands, quaking and quivering. I turned to the flight of stairs and raised my voice.

“Mia! Come!”

Then, a pitter-patter.

Timid footfalls from above, making their way down.

Mia looked at me along the way, eyes locked till she alighted at the bottom. Only then did she turn to the corridor. Only then, did she find the figure standing there, transfixed.

Amber eyes met.

“…ah…”

A quiet gasp from Mia’s lips. But with it, a welling of tears.

Ones shared with her sister.

“M… Mi… a…?” trembled the sibling voice. “Mia…? Is that you…?”

“…Sis… ter…”

The spear fell.

The sister flew forth.

A flight taken, too, by Mia.

Then were sisters reunited, locking in an embrace.

A torn weave, now rejoined of threads.

“Mia! Oh, Mia!”

“Eva! Sister…! Siste—r!”

A dim basement, brightened by their cries.

“Mia—!!”

“uaaah!! E… va…! Sister…! waaaah!!”

Together, they wept and wailed.

Together, they shed their shared tears, one after another.

Together in arms, an unending embrace many moons in the making.

────　Notes　────

Passus

(plural: passūs) A unit of measure used by the ancient Romans, taken from the length of a pace (2 steps). 1 metre is equal to 0.6757 of a passus. A passus, therefore, can be roughly equated to 1 and a half metres.

Vættr

(Language: Old Norse; plural: vættir) “Spirit”. In Norse mythology, can also refer to all beings supernatural. In Soot-Steeped Knight, they are to the Nafílim what kami are to the Japanese in their own mythology.

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