Apocalyptic.

The TV flickers on. Without warning, remote untouched.

“Quarantine is still in effect. One person from rooms thirty to forty are now permitted out for no more than an hour. An alert will be sent to your wrists when your allotted time is nearly up. Thank you.”

There is a mad dash for the door. Declan makes it there a second before Vance, and is rewarded with a frustrated hit from his roommate.

“You know you went last time, too,” Vance says, trying to hide his scowl.

Declan grins back. “Rules are rules. All four of us agreed to them.” Vance tuts once before throwing himself back down on the sofa. “Do you need anything?” Declan continues.

“Toilet paper.” A pause. “And a cornetto.”

“Roger that.”

Out in the corridor, Declan nods as best he can at the other tenants on their floor. None of them speak – none of them are allowed to. It was not that they are unfriendly, it’s that rules are rules. The Break did not permit such pleasantries as socialising whilst out and about. Everyone is in a rush.

Down the stairs they all go, practically running. A strange sort of race, given they all end up queued by the front door to scan their chips.

Wandering the apartment building is allowed, in moderation, as long as you don’t spend time lingering in another’s company. Gaining access to the outside world, though, that is a privilege.

Declan is the fifth to reach the front door, the fifth to scan his wrist against the sensor fixed on the wall. The chip flashes briefly under his skin, and then he is out.

He allows himself a second to enjoy the lazing sunshine, before he sets off at a hurried pace.

The other highrises are also free. Like little ants, they all scurry along, falling into the semblance of order that has developed in the past four months since the quarantine began.

It is organised, after a fashion. The government drew tracks on the pavements and roads, arrows pointing which way to walk. Intersections exist, too, where chaos always ensues.

To begin with, the lack of cars had been an eerie one on such a busy road. Now it was just normality.

Someone coughs. The ant-like procession ceases almost immediately. Everyone freezes in their place, waiting for the reacton. Eyes on the offender.

It is someone from Declan’s building. Jason, perhaps? Names outside their own apartment were often mysteries.

The man has a wild look to his eye, of prey who knows its time is up.

“It was an accident,” he says, an octave higher than what Declan thought it should be. “Something in the air!”

They appear from the crowd. A common occurrence, for agents to be dressed as the general public. To hide until forced to act.

Potential-Jason tries to make a break for it. They always do. Only there is nowhere to go amongst a sea of bodies.

Two agents grab him, restrain him even as he shouts out and tries to wrestle his way free. One pins his arm, looks at the wrist. “Serial 8137629,” she says into a mircophone that cannot be seen.

There is a whirring sound, as an agent somewhere enters the serial number into a computer. Clicks a button.

Jason – it is Jason; Declan remembers a girl saying it sometime last week, breaking protocol – convulses, unseen current of electricity coursing through his body. He goes limp, and the agents drag him to the side. The ants resume their march, as though nothing happened.

The walk takes fifteen minutes. Add on the extra two for Jason’s outburst, and that leaves Declan with eighteen minutes to shop, fifteen to walk back, and an extra ten for breathing space. Clockwork.

Shopping is the main necessity during the Break. Simple food, like pasta and rice. All the exotic treats are gone, no longer considered as essential supplies. Declan often wonders who decides what is essential and what is not.

He loads up the basket with pasta and rice, mushrooms and peppers. They have seasoning and sauce at home, enough to last until the next Break, he reckons.

He gets lucky – only two cornettos left. He picks up one; a girl picks up the other at the same time. He attempts to smile; she gives a small one back of her own, before bustling off.

There is only one pack of toilet paper left. An essential, rather than an exotic. And yet, it is always the first thing to go. The two fighting over it certainly seem to think it is worthy of an exotic.

No words are said – mouths are not allowed to open for fear of contamination. They tussle in a weird, silent way. Toilet paper in danger of being torn apart in their greedy little hands.

An agent makes herself known. Took the packet from them both with a warning glare. Her eyes meet Declan’s. Once the two fighters waddle off, she gives the toilet paper to him. With a wink and a finger to the lips. Declan wonders if she knows him.

He lines up to pay, checks his wrist. Thirty-three minutes to Deadlock. Shopping took longer than expected. He should be fine. There is a reason he always leaves an extra ten.

He settles up, leaves the shop with two heavy bags. Joins the river of docile humanity.

Sixteen minutes later, he reaches his building. He’s getting slack. A minute could be costly.

Opening the door, he scans his wrist, is rewarded with a green thumbs up and the removal of the countdown. Up the stairs, he knocks on his apartment door.

Jamie opens it, Vance’s girl. Not girlfriend, they are adamant on that. Quarantine forces them to live together, though. Declan thinks it amounts to the same thing.

“I see you’ve got toilet paper,” she says, eyeing the shopping already.

“That’s not all,” Declan says, moves inside and dumps the bags on the counter. Vance has not moved, apparently still sulking.

“Oi, prick,” Declan says, and throws the cornetto at the sofa. Vance just manages to catch it.

His face lights up. “Legend!” he begins to unwrap the treat. “Anything eventful happen?”

The cough springs to the mind, as does the tussle for the toilet paper.

“I smiled at a girl today,” he says, after a moment’s thought, and begins to unpack the shopping.

The Kesik People.

The Kesik people are a peculiar sort. They fear love over death, celebrate the dead opposed to the living. 

Their culture is built upon the foundation that love is evil, foul and fickle. A torture to be avoided at all costs, lest it unravel sanity. For “who acts with rationality when love strikes?” – *a quote found in my source’s documentation*

The only way to be free of the temptation, of that yearning for sacrilegious affection, is to depart from this plane to the next. We know it as the afterlife, the void. Vibsk, in their tongue. Bondless, in ours. 

Of course, the belief comes with complications. To give in to love is to be branded craven and denied access to the next plane. Suicide, as another instance, despite its allure, is dubbed the Coward’s Retreat. Bondless then cannot be reached. Instead the soul remains, bound to the plane as the body decays. Undeath, as complex as the concept is. 

Instead, death is to be accepted naturally. It is common for a potentially avoidable death to be accepted as inevitable in Kesik folklore. The Cargaen, for instance (closest translation would be a tiger, of sorts. Though, unlike ones we’ve ever seen), is treated as a beast of prey, rather than predator. To the fatality of many locals.

Kesiks choose perilous places to live. Build houses at the feet of crumbling mountains, make camp near the entrance to beast’s lairs. It is their way of ensuring they remain closer to Bondless, an increase likelihood of finding their way there.

It is not up to them, however.

They pray to the God Aknopa, a deity unlike any I’ve ever known. Aknopa is both the God of Love and the Goddess of Death, an amalgamation of the two. Feared and revered in equal measure.

The prevalent theory of the Kesiks is this: love is unavoidable. The world cannot exist without it. Aknopa knows this. ‘Amour’s’ t Temptation is a test, to separate the pious from the frauds. All claim to worship the Deity; devotion is shown by avoiding the allure of love. AknopasAknopa judges whether a Kesik has remained true to the hardy root of their forefathers, or if hearts have been softened over time.

Childhood is an exception. A child, no matter how resourceful or indepedent, cannot be expected to survive without the love of its mother. It is a limbo, of sorts, where the mother attempts to maintain detachment whilst providing those vital necessities a child will not thrive without. The father is of no importance – the act of copulation is a chore, rather than a pleasure. It cannot ever be viewed as more. Aknopa would know; Bondless would be denied.

Once the child is grown, the mother must sever ties. This, at least in my intepretation, is to prove that no love can exist between child and caregiver. To most, it will appear a barbaric ritual.

The age Awuwe occurs – Severance, in our tongue – varies depending upon which example I look at. The earliest I’ve noted has been six; the latest fifteen. It is at the mother’s discretion, when they deem their child ready to forfeit a life of care. There is, perhaps, an ulterior motive, one I shall return to after I have explained the ritual.

The translation of Severance is by no means an accident. It is a severance both physical and metaphorical. A blade is taken – the same used for all mothers in a clan. Though, this fact is an assumption on my part, pieced together after years of research. Kesik’s are forbidden from describing the weapon, lest it be stolen. It seems it is stored amongst a variety of other blades, other red herrings, if you will. Only the clan knows which blade is the correct one.

The blade is never cleaned. Another concern, yet it is a ritual steeped in divine history that has not been changed in decades.

With the blade, the mother must prove her devotion to Aknopa. A cut is made upon her forearm – deep, to the bone. The child is bathed in the raining blood, before the wound is sealed with “flame and metal”. I presume cauterisation is the intended translation, yet it is not a word known to the Kesiks. Do not forget that death is revered. To die during the Severance is to reach Bondless prematurely. This could be the ulterior motive. Another is that, to sever a child in its earlier years, is to leave less chance for attachment to develope. 

The pattern of the burn – once it becomes clear enough – is then etched onto the child skin (in a place of their choice), using the same blade. It is a perverse reminder of their previous affiliation to their mother, one I still do not understand to this day. Perhaps it is a tribute to Aknopa, God of Love?

I shall end this passage with a final point.

Whilst the Kesik culture died many years ago, descendants still remain. To all intents and purposes, they look like you and I, their steppe heritage watered down through blood. But they remain, I assure you.

How to spot a Kesik? Search for their Severance pattern.. Discrete parts of the body are chosen instead yet the mark will always be there. 

Remember this: Bondless cannot be achieved without such a branding. Even now. Aknopa lives on.

 

Duality: Scene

Trust, Betrayal, Challenges

 

“You used me.”

It was hard for Anios to keep the hurt out of his voice. The two of them had been on the move for three years now. Three years with no other regular company than each other. And Leor had used him.

A dismissive sniff. “It was necessary.” Leor had always had a mean streak. Despite their time together, Anios still could not call him a friend. Would not.

“There’s always an alternative to violence, Leor. Always.”

The older boy barked a laugh at that. Cold, without mirth. Anios thought he would say more but he didn’t. He wondered whether his words had somehow penetrated the hard exterior. He decided it was best to leave his companion to his thoughts.

Leor did not ask where he was going as he made to leave their hideout atop the derelict belltower.

Anios jumped from the window, the roof of the building below hurtling towards him. He channelled his Magecraft into his feet, cushioned the impact as he connected with the tiles. He put more power into it than he needed to. Whilst they had trained to lessen the cost – the Weaver and the Conduit – they both knew the limits of their powers. The other’s pain threshold not to be crossed when they used their Magecraft. Either Weaver could kill their conduit, if so inclined. Anios did not want to go that far, but he did want the older boy to feel something.

The lack of penitence towards violence, just because Leor thought they had the capability, the right to do so, left Anios queasy that had nothing to do with their shared Magecraft. Their were horrors in the boy’s life. Horrors that Anios had been a party in some way or another. And all before Leor had become an adult.

He was nineteen now, the suffix he hated so much finally dropped. Not that it mattered. They were not likely to return to the south anytime soon, perhaps never. Staying on the move was the only way they were guaranteed safety, and even that Anios doubted sometimes.

It was a challenge not to become paranoid. A healthy dose of wariness, even suspicion, was acceptable. Yet they could not be jumping at shadows.

On the rooftops, this late at night, Anios felt safe. There was a layer of Magecraft on the soles of his feet to muffle his footsteps on the tiles. He wandered aimlessly, hopping from one roof to another, reminiscent of their recent chase and the reasoning for his renewed mistrust of his older companion.

There was a saying his father used to be fond of, before the war had started. When the South had been an idle threat, rather than an invading force. “People in the South walk with blades in hand, not in scabbards.”

  Anios was beginning to see the truth behind those words.

Duality: Backstory #2 (Word Prompt)

“You’re an incorrigible youth, Leor-tan.” It was not unusual for his teacher to speak to him with harsh words, yet he rarely did it in front of the others. For some reason, that stung more.

He bristled at the asperity. He was the son of a Therne – a title far above the rest of the rabble and their ilk. “All I’m saying is that it’s a simple word,” he said, sticking his chest out in grandiloquent fashion, proudly displaying the family crest on his gambeson. “Con-flag-ra-tion. Even a dolt should be able to spell it.”

His teacher frowned. “Therne Arytyx educated you himself from birth. That’s why you’ve been sent here – to learn some modesty from someone other than your father. Not all lack such diffident as you.

“Now, thanks to young Leor-tan here, we have established how the word is spelt. Can anyone tell us what it means?”

Sanguine raised her and with a nod from the teacher, she spoke. “It means a great fire, ablaze, engulfing a large surface area.” She was one of the few in the class that Leor-tan could respect. Sharp and pretty. He smiled at her as their teacher expanded. She did not return it, an almost glacial glare enough to wound.

“To tie the word into our history,” their teacher continued, oblivious to the tempestuous emotions of the teenagers, “there was such a conflagration some fifty years ago, about hundred leagues from this city. The damage can still be seen – perhaps one day we’ll take you to the field.

“It is believed a miscreant stoked the beginnings embers, but how it was left to spread so widely and carelessly is still a mystery to this day.”

“Slapdash,” Leor said.

Their teacher stared. “Pardon?”

“You could’ve used slapdash. ‘How it was left to spread so slapdash is still a mystery to this day’.” It was a vain attempt to impress. The correction received a few sniggers for its boldness from the most loquacious of the class, yet they were quickly stifled by a warning glance.

There was a growing feeling of disquiet as their teacher continued to stare. The other pupils around shuffled uncomfortably at the oppressive miasma of animosity. “Thank you, Leor-tan,” their teacher eventually said. “For that expert piece of education. Mayhaps leave the teaching to those intelligent enough to teach though, nay?”

He fixed the teacher with a blistering look, before looking away and yawning, feigning facetious indifference. “Apologies, teacher. Please, continue.”

Their teacher nodded, as though the confrontation had never happened. “Now, this fire was a great cause of concern for our Yalder at the time. Does anyone remember his name? Any of you?” his eyes fell on the pupil sat next to Leor, listlessly lost in some happy place in his mind. “Patraek?”

The youth started, the tips of his ears turning red when he realised all the attention was on him.

“The Yalder’s name?” the teacher prompted, not unkindly. Leor took offence at that. “Petraval’s father?”

Patraek looked round the room, perhaps for support. He found none. Leor would never do such a thing. He was too parsimonious, too gregarious, for that. “Petrad, sir..?” the boy gandered.

It was an audacious attempt. Leor laughed. That earned him another death glare from Sanguine, as fierce as the Chimera of myth. For some reason that excited him, before realisation struck.

She reviled him. He was not used to the feeling that followed. The wilting of a love-stricken heart as it turned exanimate. He hardened. It was undeserved rejection, ill-befitting a boy of his stature.

The teacher smiled, ignoring Leor. “A nice try, but sadly not correct.” His eyes found Leor’s. “Care to enlighten us, Therne’s son? Or does your intelligence only extend to mockery?”

Leor vacillated between snapping back or playing it cool. He chose sangfroid. “Yalder Asark, sir. It’s common history. Any halfway educated child should know their monarch’s lineage.”

Someone threw something at him. It was damp, unpleasant, hit him on the cheek and stuck. He jumped from his seat amidst sniggering, swiped the wet mess off his cheek without looking at what it was. He had eyes only for his classmates, searching for the culprit.

What he thought was a fiery gaze did nothing to quell any of them. They were all mocking him, pointing and laughing. Even Sanguine had a cruel torsion to her lips.

Something snapped inside him. The constant jabs, the rejection of the one girl worthy of interest, the constant abhorrence from all. It was all unfair, unmerited. They needed to be taught a lesson. Learn their places.

A finger twitched.

A squall forced the classroom door open, bringing with it a deluge of rain and sleet. Pupils screamed as the frigid air struck their unprepared bodies, a cascade of ice following, leaving angry red marks. A pelagic bird some sort – a gull, Leor thought, though it was hard to deduce in the moment – flew in to join in with the revelry, squawking its displeasure at finding itself trapped inside.

It was chaos, the young running round in circles like headless chickens, some attempting to flee via the backstairs, crashing into each other when they realised the door was locked. Leor just about managed to stifle his laughter.

“Enough!” roared the teacher, a gelid sound to match the gale outside. That stopped the frantic pointless runners, attention diverted.

He pointed a finger at Leor, an imposing figure framed against the storm outside. He flicked his hand towards the banging door. “Out.”

The word was not spoken loudly, but the authority in it could not be denied.

Leor attempted to stare his teacher down, stubborn to the last. But age and experience won out, and he was forced to break eye contact, dragging his feet towards the exit. Slammed the door behind him as he left.

Tranquillity reigned inside, save for the squawking of the petrified and unfortunate gull.

 

Flash-fiction: Cornered

“How did you find me?”

She was a mean-looking girl. Dainty and slim – she’d have to be in her profession, he supposed. Perhaps she was attractive to some. Blonde, pale and confident. You could see it. The pride in her face, the refusal to be cowed even when backed into a corner.

He raised several locks of yellow hair. “Need to be more careful what you leave behind.” He dropped them on the floor, adjusted the knife at his belt. Her eyes followed the movement. “You break into our house.”

“You eat our food,” his wife said, taking a step forwards.

“You destroy our home,” his son added. The man placed a hand on his shoulder, both a warning and a show of affection. The boy had a shorter fuse than the rest.

“And to add insult to injury,” the man continued, grip tightening on his son’s shoulder subconsciously. The boy winced yet said nothing. “You use our home as your own, spend weeks there. It’s a good thing we returned when we did. Caught you in the act, eh?

“Tell us: what did you need it for? You stole nothing, took nothing, other than food. Why?”

The girl did not speak. He drew his knife to make a point. That loosened her tongue.

“Would you believe me if I said the birds led me there?”

It was a flippant response, one that nearly caused the man’s son’s temper to boil over. If it had not been for the hand on his shoulder, the girl would be dead now.

“I care not how you find it. I care why. Speak!”

“I needed a place to hide.” For the first time, he sensed the desperation in her words, saw the bravado slip.

“Hide? Hide from what?”

“Not what,” she whispered. Her eyes darted around the alleyway.

She was not afraid of them. By reputation, she should’ve been. They were a notorious family, known far and wide. People knew to leave them be, leave their house alone.

No, this girl was not afraid of them. She was afraid of someone else.

“Who, child?” his wife almost sounded sympathetic. He threw her a look and saw the resolve harden. It would not do to show weakness.

The girl shook her head, violently. Took a step back. Muttered under her breath. “Love makes love.”

“What? Tell us who, girl!”

It was a stalemate. Either she was a fine actress, or her story rang true. The man would be damned if he let her go, though.

“You’re a thief,” he said, sheathing his knife. “We’re thieves, too.” His meaning seemed to be lost on her. He sighed. “You chose the wrong family to steal from. We have a reputation, the foulest in a foul city.

“Two ways this can go,” he continued, mind racing. “You come work for us. Work off your debt. Or, we take you to the Prince.”

That sparked a reaction. Wild eyes found his. Manic, even.

She sprung forwards before any of them had time to react, dodged the man’s desperate grab. “Come back here, girl!” he shouted after her but knew it was no use.

“Look.” His son moved forwards, picked something up from the ground.

The blonde girl had lost a shoe.

Flash-fiction: Festooned

Festoon. Adorn (a place) with chains, garlands, or other decorations.

 

There were chains, that much is true. Yet this is not a tale for garlands, or decorations in that sense of the term.

A grotty, rotting shack. Festooned with chains and cobwebs. The moon high in the sky, the one, murky and cracked window the only source of any illumination. It is enough to see the focal points; not enough to penetrate the corners, the shadow. Where the unknown lurk.

Vivid enough for you? How about the addition of sound, too.

The wind is a must, of course. The howling, coarse whipping gale that rattles the already fragile window panes. Some would interpret it as the cry of a banshee. Others would claim it to be the howling of wolves, circling prey that lives within. The mind twists these things into that which we fear the most, given the right setting.

We must not neglect the dripping, audible even in amongst the wind. That steady, almost monotonous  drip, drip, drop. Water running down one of the many chains, maybe? A leak in the roof, perhaps.

Except there is no rain. A pathetic fallacy avoided; a stereotype neutralised. There is no need for rain when it is blood dripping instead. Where it came from is an enigma. In this desolate shack, festooned with chains and cobwebs, who can say where blood comes from?

Is the picture still not complete enough? Very well. It is scent we must turn to next.

Damp is the overwhelming smell. You can almost taste it on your tongue, that unpleasant ripeness of swollen and damaged wood. It may not be raining now yet the lingering damage is there. Corrosion, weakened rivets, structural damage that makes any exploration a perilous adventure.

Rot is worth a mention, lest it be forgotten. A scent to offend the nostrils. That repugnant stench that threatens to overpower, festoons the air. The damp becomes background, little more than a tolerable inconvenience. It is the decaying corpse that becomes the prominent smell. It’s location is left a mystery, yet there is no doubt that it is there. Somewhere. Hidden. Infecting the air with its stench.

These are all the correct premises for a tale of horror. A cultivation to send a shiver down your spine as you envision the setting.

We have covered location. Yet what of the characters?

The protagonist, the antagonist. The minor characters, the fillers whose deaths matter little. These are all important parts of the craft.

This tale is devoid of them. They are not needed.

The setting, festooned as it is with horror, is enough to traumatise, to conjure images of evil and malice that this day and age craves.

All that is required is the active imagination of our dear reader. That, is where the true horror begins.

Flash-fiction: Lifted Up

Lifted Up

 

It is one of those moments, where you walk into the elevator and you know it’s going to be an awkward journey.

There are two others – one woman, one man – already stood there, separate corners, as far removed from one another as possible in the confined space. Two pairs of eyes flick in my direction, assess me for brief seconds, then move back to stare at the sections of wall that interest them so.

I press my button for the top floor – noting at the same time that they intend to get out a floor below mine – and take my place between the two of them. I cough, involuntarily, as we wait for the doors to close. That garners me another glance from both.

Just as the torturous journey is about to begin, a hand snakes through the gap and forces the doors open again.

“Sorry!” the man says, hurrying in to stand directly in front of me.

I frown, study the newcomer from behind. He had dispensed with unspoken elevator etiquette: unless packed, you utilise the walls, leaving the space in the middle free. A quick glance left and right tells me the others hold the man in the same disgust as I do.

My frown deepens. As the doors finally close, and the rumble upwards begins, I realise he did not select his floor. Our offices are small – no more than ten people per each floor. I do not know this man, nor, judging by their reactions, do the others in the elevator. That in itself is an oddity. I slide my hand under my jacket.

“I suppose you’re wondering why I’ve gathered you all here.”

I blink. Rapidly. Then I draw my gun.

The others do the same, all three directed towards the newcomer. Still he does not turn round, even as the synchronised sound of safety latches coming off resound throughout the metal box.

“Explain,” says the woman to my left. A fleeting moment of shared assurance as our eyes meet before we turn back to the predicament at hand.

The newcomer turns, slowly. I’m drawn to the floor number highlighted above the door, as it rolls ever on. Four more floors to resolve this, before the others reach their destination. Five until mine.

He looks ordinary. No stereotype afforded by a blemish or marking. Just a regular office guy, at apparent ease with having three guns pointed at his chest.

My eyes flick up again. Three more floors.

“None of you were meant to work today. That is correct, yes?”

I couldn’t fault him on that. I received a call not thirty minutes earlier that there was a security breach, that I had to come in, as a matter of patriotism. Had the others been told the same thing?

One more floor.

“Congratulations. You are all being promoted.” His eyes meet mine and they twinkle in the bright lights. “No more floors.”

The elevator continues its journey, passed their stop, past mine. Into the impossible.

Duality: Backstory

“No!” The cane rapped him across his already bruised knuckles for the sixth time that morning. “Focus, Leor-tan, focus. Control it. This is important, as it all is.”

“Why?” The word came out as a whine, the product of a task he felt he had an inability to complete. “What’s so important about lifting this?”

“It is not the object itself,” his teacher explained, in that raspy voice that Leor had come to connect with self-imposed wisdom, “but the concept of the control it takes. Your gift is not to be squandered. You are a weapon, Leor-tan, one that even God shall fear. To reach that stage, however, you must first learn the beginnings.”

“How is it you know so much?” he asked, even as he readied himself for another try. The prospect of God fearing him had relit his boyish enthusiasm.

“We have been over this. I am part of the Teaching.”

“But there hasn’t been another Weaver for a thousand years! You can’t be that old.” Leor paused, turned to look at his teacher. “You can’t, can you?”

All he got by way of an answer was a knowing smile. “Complete the task and I might tell you more.”

With reluctant acceptance he turned back to face his nemesis.

The chest stared back, goading him into trying to lift its heavy-set wood once again. For some reason, this added to his resolve. He raised a hand and channelled his Magecraft into it, aiming it at the chest’s smug-looking lock.

“Good, good,” his teacher said as the chest started to shake. “Control it. Don’t overextend your power.” Sweat was beginning to form on Leor’s forehead. He had a desire to wipe it away but knew he couldn’t. This was progress. “The strain will feel immense but I promise you, give it time and practice and you’ll be able to lift things ten times the weight.”

The chest bucked, finally realising it was losing. It was fighting against him, intent on remaining fixed to the floor, of sabotaging his need for answers. He channelled more energy into his hand. “Control your flow. Too little and you’ll achieve nothing. Too much and you’ll sever your Conduit from you.”

What did this man know? He could not feel the power he felt, the feeling of invincibility that the Magecraft brought. He would conquer this challenge. All he needed was more power.

“Enough, Leor-tan. Release it.”

He could feel the chest rising, millimetres at a time. He was winning. This newfound success sent waves of confidence through him. He could do anything with this power, anything he wanted. He could throw the chest at his teacher. That would serve the man right.

“I said enough!”

The cane came down again, drew blood this time. The connection was gone, just like that. The chest hit the ground with a resounding crash, a miracle that the wood did not splinter.

He rounded on his teacher. “Why did you stop me? I was nearly there!”

“There is a price, Leor-tan. Do you not remember?”

His Conduit. Had he come close to killing them? His teacher’s face definitely suggested so. His shoulders slumped. “I wish I knew who they were. I wish they were here with me.”

“So do all Weavers. It is a lonely life. This gift you’ve been given is a curse.” His teacher placed a hand under his chin, lifted his eyes to his. “Be glad he is not here. Both of you would suffer far more under your father’s supervision than you do already. Promise me if you ever find him you will get as far away from here as possible.”

Leor wanted to ask more but it seemed his teacher was done talking about his father. “You did well,” he continued. “Remember there is an addiction to the power. I will not always be here to help you. You must learn to combat that allure yourself. Now, I believe you had a question?”

It took him a moment to remember; the remnants of adrenaline were still coursing through his veins. When he did, he jumped at the gifted opportunity. “How old are you?”

“Me? Older than your father. Older even than the Yalder. But not old enough to remember the last Weaver.”

“Then how do you know so much?”

“Books, my boy, books. Our order has always existed, passed on from generation to generation, for when the next Weaver will appear. There are countless tomes on the subject. Advice, guidance, even warning.”

“Can I see them?” He was not one for reading but, even so, the prospect of learning more about his gift was an enticing one.

His teacher shook his head. “Only the Teaching are allowed to read them. It is for us to divulge as little or as much as we see fit. There are things hidden amongst those pages that you are not ready to know. Perhaps one day you will.”

Leor was about to complain but his teacher cut across him. “I believe that is enough for one day. Get some food, and rest. The Yalder would not be happy if his greatest weapon died from a lack of nourishment.”

“I’ve never even met Petraval. Why should she care what happens to me?”

His teacher frowned. “I would advise getting into the habit of addressing her by title. As for why she should care,” and his features softened, “this country expects a great deal from you. Far more than you realise.”

Duality: Idea

They flew across the rooftops, cloaks billowing behind them like giant wings.

Anios jumped, soared, glided across the alleyway below, hung in the air for five seconds or more, before his feet hit the next rooftop across and he kept running.

A week ago he would’ve thought the jump impossible. A fool’s errand, one that would surely lead to a long fall, arms flailing as gravity beckoned the inevitable splat to the ground.

As much as he disliked Leor-tan, he couldn’t deny that the boy was a good teacher. Unorthodox in his hands-on approach, but good.

He said boy, but Leor was two days away from coming of age, two days away from dropping his family suffix and being a free man. If they could catch this guy.

Being Weavers gave them a distinct advantage yet their prey was agile, more agile than should be possible. Leor ran below on the streets, eyes focused upwards whilst Anios closed in from behind. The suggestion had been Leor’s, and he still had misgivings about the reasons behind it.

The prey jumped, threw a grappling hook and swung to the next roof, wasting no more than a few milliseconds in righting himself again. Anios would’ve fallen behind ages ago if it wasn’t for his imbued flight.

The first time he had practised, Leor had nearly fainted. He was more attuned as a Conduit but Anios’ raw, untaught Magecraft was volatile to say the least. It had taken copious amounts of pain before he was capable of jumping without injuring his partner.

Presuming Leor felt the same as he did as the Conduit, the early lances of pain when Magecraft was used had faded to a dull ache, one that was bearable as long as the mind didn’t focus on it. Which, during a high-speed chase where their safety depended on the apprehension of the prey, wasn’t difficult to do. There was a lot else for the mind to focus on.

He could only blame himself, in truth. No doubt Leor-tan would blame him as well, once it was all over. They had been careful, so careful, since fleeing to the Western Isles. Few from the South would dare come here, memories of previous attempts at conquests still fresh in the minds of the locals. There were always a few, though, who had reasons to visit.

Distant relatives, diplomatic relations, espionage agents, the Southerners always found a way to infiltrate the other lands. It just so happened the two of them were unlucky enough to meet one of the foreigners. A foreigner who also happened to be incredibly fleet of foot.

They could finish this quickly. Anios was pretty sure he could hit him with Magecraft from here. Powerfully enough to stun; controlled enough not to kill. He had been practising, after all.

Yet what if he missed? An unexpected usage like that would leave his Conduit dazed and any further use could lead to Leor-tan’s permanent incapacity. That was the benefit with working together, with travelling together. They could always keep an eye on the other’s usage. Train together, learn their limits without the worry of the ‘Snapping’, as Leor called it. Murder, in Anios’ own words.

No, the only way forward led in catching the prey first. After that they could decide the best course of action. He feared he already knew what Leor-tan would suggest, and try to enforce. There remained a gulf in their moral codes, one that years together had not yet fixed.

Anios felt a steady building of pressure in his head. The dull ache transformed into a throbbing sensation that weighed him down. He could feel his feet faltering, the chase dwindling as the prey gained a valuable few seconds on him. What was Leor planning? If he kept going like this Anios would not be able to go any further. Already he did not want to risk a leap from the roof in case he misjudged it.

He reached the edge of the current building and succumbed to the pain, watching as the prey looked back and, sensing his eminent freedom, slowed just a little bit. He made a jump – a small one, one that even Anios could’ve managed in his weakened state – to a nearby roof.

His foot went straight through. There was no breaking, no shattering of tiles. It just fell through, as though there was nothing there at all. Then he realised. It was Magecraft beyond anything he could manage. Leor had always been the more elder, the more experienced. The more gifted.

But to create a whole building out of nothing. It was no wonder Anios’ head was pounding.

Distantly, through the throbbing of his temple, he heard the long drawn out scream of someone plummeting to their death. If, by some miracle, the fall didn’t kill him, he was sure Leor-tan would be there to finish the job. And Anios could do nothing about it in his weakened state, trapped on the roof of a building.

The older Weaver had played him like a fool.

Duality: Excerpt

Prompt: “It is a hollow of greenery where a river sings,

Wildly catching the silver tatters of grass;

Where the sun shines over the proud mountain;

It is a small valley bathed in sunlight.”

 

© Richard Ford

  The valley was bathed in setting sunlight. Their temporary camp looked meagre and unimportant in comparison to the surroundings. Luscious evergreen trees lined the opposite bank of the river, a waterfall completing the picturesque backdrop.

It was impossible not to be drawn to the roaring, foaming cascade. It stood nearly three times the height of Anios, a strange contrast to the calm that it led into. The river wound past their camp, taking a lethargic journey deeper through the valley. He could see it stretched out before him, going down and down, until it reached a pinpoint in the distance and he could see it no longer.

His eye twitched. He turned to find sparks shooting from Leor’s fingertips, catching the already prepared stack of logs before him.

“How do you do that?” Anios asked, curiosity overcoming his dislike for the older boy. “How do you… work with it?”

“You mean channel it?” he blushed at the correction but jerked his head in acknowledgement. “I had a teacher, once,” Leor said, standing up and turning to gaze at the waterfall.

“Well where is he?” Anios scrambled to join him. “Maybe he can help, teach me how to use my power, how to control—”

“He’s dead,” Leor said abruptly. “I killed him.”

Anios took hurried footsteps back. “How, how old were you?”

“Eleven, perhaps? I forget. I lost control.”

Five years ago. He understood little about Magecraft, yet enough to know that he would’ve felt such a loss of control. His mind raced back to five years ago. He would’ve been nine, only just starting his apprenticeship. He remembered on his second or third day, a stabbing pain in his head that drove him to the ground. He had come close to fainting then. Could that have been it? Had he been responsible for Leor’s old teacher’s death?

“Relax, Ani,” Leor said, not unkindly. “I didn’t use Magecraft to kill him. You are guiltless of the old man’s death.” Anios breathed a sigh of relief. He didn’t want that knowledge weighing on his conscious.

“There are others, though,” Leor continued. There was a glint in his eyes that did not go unnoticed. “Others that, as my Conduit, you are guilty of by association.”

With renewed dread, Anios remembered the last time he had suffered a powerful surge. “About a month ago,” he close to whispered, “You did something bad, didn’t you?”

Leor nodded. “It was war. I’d just arrived at our base to inspect it – it’s amazing the amount of responsibility they give us just for an innate ability. I sensed the enemy spying on us. Have you ever had that feeling? The inexplicable sensation that you’re being watched, that you can even tell where it’s coming from?”

He didn’t want to agree, but his hesitation must’ve shown.

“Well I had it then.” Leor returned his gaze to the waterfall, seeming to forget Anios was even there. “They were up on the cliff, looking down on us. Well-hidden, but I knew. I just knew. Something built up inside me. Anger, maybe? I’ve spent my whole life being watched and studied, and here I was, suddenly in a position to do something about it. It didn’t take long for them to move. They must’ve realised I knew where they were.

“One was foolish enough to stand up before thinking. I turned that anger into something horrible and threw it at him. Turns out he was the Marshall of their army. I was credited with ending the coming battle before it had even begun. Funny how things happen, eh?” he turned to find Anios backing away from him. His body was shaking.

“Fear me, if you wish,” Leor said, with a sad smile. “But we are connected. Our lives are bound together. The Weaver and his Conduit. Best to embrace it.”

“No.” Anios stopped, and the shaking Leor had taken to be fear was revealed to be anger. His hands balled into fist, a fierce look to his eyes. “I ain’t afraid of you. You use your power for bad.” His voice grew louder, the passion and fury coursing through him. “I will never, ever, be like you. I will never use my power to kill!”

The fire beside them exploded, a great plume of flame bursting up into the sky, before returning to normal.

Leor winced, hiding the pain as best he could. The outburst left him unmoved, the same sad smile staying on his face. “Never is a long time, Ani,” he eventually said. “A very long time. Come, let’s find something to eat.”