When a flame burns out in Dunreach Village, those left behind to grieve never do so in the presence of the deceased. While the fence excels in keeping external evils at bay, that which spawns from the heart consumes from the inside out. Several times have I witnessed as such in both the metaphorical sense and the literal.
Instead, they are to seek out the Lightbringer, who carries out the grieving on their behalf. My grandmother, if she had not done this a thousand times throughout her life, she'd done it a thousand times, take one.
She would kneel in the candlelight, speaking in tongues. Praying for guidance for the ones who were lost until death. Emphasizing names so their souls may recite them at the gates, giving them up to the angels, and passing into eternal paradise.
And she would remember on their behalf—Tales of mischief. Small-time grandeur. All imparted to her by the broken ones left behind.
Out before the sun and in after the moon. Six days of mourning and one for preparation.
Once, I begged her to take me along, having no idea what would be required of me.
In the first hour, my neck hurt from bowing for too long. My knees hurt from kneeling. My tongue ached from lack of use. And I'd sworn the body twitched a dozen times when it knew my grandmother wasn't looking.
"Grandmother. I think this guy's going to hell."
In the end, she snapped and sent me home early, which was completely fine by me.
Truth be told, I've little respect for the rites of ascension.
What business has the living bowing at the foot of the dead?
Rituals, tears, devotion—they are for the living, not the lost.
These lifeless things can no longer hear your stories, correct the record of it, and they will not be there for you when you're expected to write a new chapter.
What remains after the end is an empty vessel, nothing more. And should the living sacrifice their hours in a thousand sets of seven days, when the time comes, they will have nothing to share about the rest of their loved ones, who spent all night by the door, waiting for a grandmother to come home.
Perhaps The Heavens heard these unkempt thoughts. For now, they have left me without a single loved one in the world. So when it comes to grieving, I fear I have the privilege of taking all the time I need.
Jonah's body is under a tree in a corner of the clearing.
In the morning following his execution, the mercenaries strung him up with a rope around his neck.
The branch creaks above him, as if the tree itself is tired of holding the weight. A final cruelty, this hanging. Not a punishment, but a display. A joke at the expense of his defiance. He sways gently every so often, like an object to the whims of a carefree breeze.
Six days have come and gone.
The Eunuch was irate with his men for killing Jonah, but his anger was offset by the mercenary leader's return, whose torture of the leaders from the other processions bore fruit. Since then, the mercenaries spend all day carving a seventh path out of the clearing, through the dense walls of green, but it isn't long before I overhear the eunuch lecturing them about missing something called "The fall."
The next day, they remove our chains and take us to labor.
They chop and slash with their axes and swords, and we pull down vines and uproot wild pin-bushes with our bare hands. That is, most of us do.
While the other captives break their backs in a perpetual bow, my hands stay virgin from the sudden penetration of thorn and insect alike.
I haven't a clue why I'm following these rites at this time. I know my sheep need me, but my mind is occupied by the violent rustling of leaves and the gentle smashing of metal against bone.
Whether to compassion or a sick satisfaction, the mercenary leader and the Eunuch allow me to stay behind in the clearing while the others work, alone. To them, I am nothing but a pair of eyes that has yet to fulfill their purpose. Though I suppose it matters not.
What use is saving the world if there's nothing left for me in it?
My grandmother and grandfather are dead. My mother and father, too. My sister is dead, and now my brother. All this, but one thing is clear to me now: never was there, in the history of this world, a man who suffered more than I.
I don't grieve my brother—not yet. Right now, I only grieve this world and the fact that, on top of all his troubles, he was given a useless little brother like me.
Today marks the seventh day of grieving, where the Lightbringer cleans the vessel.
On the first day, the corpse is laid upon a bed of straw. Standing over the body during the rites will block out the watchful eyes of the heavens, letting the soul go unnoticed, condemning the sheep to the earth until the final day. The Shepherd's Logbook mentions not the procedures for a hanging, where the body is above the Shepherd, but I remain on my knees nonetheless.
At this height, I can only wash the feet.
I do so until they are spotless.
"May the heavens understand you, brother. Lumere."
At that, I hear a tapping against the grass.
A limp rhythm. One that doesn't ask permission to interrupt. "Hey, kid."
The old man stands before me, using the useless wooden thing from those nights ago as a walking aid. "Eunuch sent me to tell you that he's sorry again for what they did to your… for what they did to him. But he says he's given you more than enough time to grieve, so—"
"That's fine," I tell him, interrupting his sentence. "Did you give him my request?"
"You mean, about the girl?"
"Yes. His response?"
Apart from myself and the old man, who is too damaged for labor, there is a young lady who is sometimes exempt. An unremarkable child with a flame much too weak for her age, I sometimes catch her stealing glances in my direction at night when the other sheep are resting.
She is the last child remaining from a procession numbering thousands. If nothing else, she deserves to be saved from the rest of their fates.
His flame twists awkwardly as he scratches the back of his head. "Look, kid. Before we get into that, I wanna say that I owe you an apology."
Several.
He shifts his weight, as if the words burn more than the sun.
"The heat got to me out there in the desert. Made it hard to think straight. There are… other reasons I was angry, but seeing that boy face-down in the sand—well, you were an easy target."
A pause.
"But I knew it wasn't you. Deep down, I knew. You're nothing like the rest of 'em."
The words wash over me like a single droplet of rain after a drought. Insignificant to the withered fields, but filling the farmer's cup to the brim. With everything that has happened since I left the village, since then, even, I'd completely forgotten about that brief interaction.
I remember now what those words sounded like.
First from him and then the assailant.
The last thing I want is to be the one pulling the chains.
My brother hangs before me, so it does not bring me close to laughter, but it does bring some slight solace to the soul. "Thank you, Sir Squalling. I still believe you are selfish, but perhaps The Heavens will hesitate before sending you to hell."
The old man doubles over with a ragged cough, half-choked by a wheeze of laughter. His chest rattles like a broken bell, every breath caught between amusement and agony. Then he wipes a tear. "Aaah, the heavens will hesitate. I wouldn't want it any other way, kid! If that little girl grows up to be half the comedian you are, I'll be a damn proud man, I tell you. Damn proud!"
"Pardon?"
"Yeah, I said it, kid! Sir Dickless said he's gonna let her go free."
The old man taps the crook happily. I half-expect another jig, but he stops when I don't respond. "Come on, kid. Open your ears! After all that trying, you finally made something work. You rescued one of the sheep!"
Yes… finally. After all my efforts, I finally rescued just one…
Just one.
I rush a hand through my hair, noticing how long it's grown since I started, and fall onto the grass. If even just one, this plight has not been for nothing.
For the first time in days, I clasp my hands together and utter the Shepherd's Prayer of Dawn. "I pray for light within the darkness. For shelter in the rain. For love amongst my neighbors. For mercy in the pain. I pray for love unending. I pray for hate abstain. And when the night is over, I pray for day again."
Then, I stand.
I've wasted enough time caring for this body. If Jonah were watching, he'd chastise me for giving him such a boring sight. For my sister, my parents, my grandparents, and now for him… I will create a world where their stories never have to be told like this again.
The old man is happy, but I am better. The Heavens are watching, and the Shepherd will not fail.
"How are they sending her home?" I ask.
"Says they're gonna bind her to one of the Men of Fer, whatever that means. It'll take her home while the rest of us go on ahead. Speaking of which, that's coming up soon, so you'd better act fast if you're still planning on saving us."
That's relieving. I would not entrust her to one of the mercenaries.
"Damn, right—"
"Aww, what's the matter, dreamer boy?" A voice that triggers an explosion within me strolls in from the edge of the forest. "You don't trust me?"
Apart from the old man and the curious little girl, there is one person who makes a habit of "checking" on me.
The Backbreaker, Wilhelm, approaches my brother's body and stands there, as if admiring his work. "Aaah. If only, huh…"
"Don't listen to him, kid," warns the old man as the other mercenaries, captives, and Steel Men fill up the forest center.
"I tell you what, little dreamer." The Spineless lands a slap that echoes through the forest. "Right now and never again, I'll make you an offer that you can't refuse."
Barely on my feet, I spit out a tooth that came loose. "I refuse."
"Hear me out first, will ya!" He slaps me again, though softer, almost caressing my face. "I'm a fair man, and I can admit when I've lost. You did it—you win. Yer unbreakable. Twice the man the ol' Backbreaker ever was, anybody with eyes can see that. So I've been thinkin'."
He leans closer, grinning wide enough to show the rot in his teeth, and announces so the entire forest can hear, "I'll walk you back to the clearing. Hand over my cut of the day's hunt, a skin of water, a jug of wine, even the map—whatever you like. Then I'll send you off, pockets empty and teary-eyed, and you'll never have to look at my ugly mug again. All this behind you. Clean, simple. Sound like a damn dream, don't it?'"
"It does."
"Right, but it ain't as far as you might think," Wilhelm entices, "Captain might kill me for it, but I'm more about forgiveness than permission. If you know what I mean." I imagine he winks, referring to all the women he's hurt over his career. "And all you have to do for me in return… is bow."
I feel their eyes on me—the captives, the mercenaries, all of them. Watching. Measuring. Waiting to see if I would bend. There is envy within the crowd. This is an offer they would take without a moment's hesitation.
But….
"You are right, Spineless," I say, letting go of that dream in my head.
"Alright, then. Let's see it."
"No. You're right in saying I have nothing left. I failed to protect every person I've ever loved. I left my village in the hands of a stranger. And now, here I am, speaking to a man who once pissed on my face."
He doesn't respond. So I keep going.
"You're right about all of that. But you're wrong about me being unbreakable. Every day, I wake up in a world that wants me dead, questioning the twisted path The Heavens have laid out in front of me."
His hand falls on my shoulder, heavy as the weight of the world. "Gee, I'm with you, kiddo. That's why I'm trying to help you out. Since I'd be doing the same thing you've been praying for, why not just worship me and get it over with?"
"Still," I grasp his heavy hand and slide it off. "If I take the knee to something that walks the earth, I'd no longer have the one thing that's stood by me since birth. I still have my name, Sir Spineless."
His comrades burst into a fit of laughter. A loud, mocking fit that makes you question whether they are friends at all. It is oil to the hungry lamp inside of him, one that promises to set the whole forest ablaze.
Wilhelm adjusts his bloody gauntlets for what I know is to follow.
Yet still I continue, staring directly at the ground while braced for impact. "And I can't let you walk the earth saying I gave that up."
"Ah, to hell with it!"
---
In my dreams, I'm dressed in a suit of silver armor and holding a sword of blinding light.
When I cut off their limbs, the wounds cauterize and smoke. Four swings of the sword for each one. One for hurting me. One for disrespecting my family. One for the things they've done to live this long. And one for the reason they were exiled from my village in the first place.
Their tears evaporate in the heat of my salvation. I cleanse the world of their very existence. I don't ask the heavens to act in my stead. I don't ask for wisdom to do the right thing. And I don't hear my grandmother's voice telling me that this entire world and all its people is my sole responsibility, including the ones that don't deserve to see my salvation.
I laugh, truer than I ever have in my life. Ash heaps scatter beneath my stomping boots, the earth cracking with each strike. And the best part? Not a drop of blood sullies my hands. The flames have burned it all away.
The scent of burning wool sneaks through the gaps in my armor. Somewhere in the blaze is a flock without a shepherd. They scatter, but there is no path out. Forgive me, my sheep. I was never the one meant to save you.
In the emptiness of a dilapidated room, the stench of blood was thick. There was nothing but straw bedding by the window and an assortment of slacksteel weapons neatly organized by the head. Of course, if anything had changed, I wouldn't have been the one to notice.
The coldness of my father's armored hand released mine. "Open your eyes, Solvanel."
I opened my eyes to the darkness, a man lying unconscious upon my father's bedding. His left arm and leg were missing, leaving strings of tissue exposed to the air. Both eye sockets housed pools of blood that were almost full, and rising still. Deep wounds littered his torso, leaking infected droplets of yellow and green, with an especially cavernous gash in the face.
"What can you see?" He asked.
"Blood," I answered quickly, turning my head.
"No." He forced my head back to the sight, fingers digging deep into my neck. "Not with your eyes. What do you see?"
"I don't want to see!"
He forced me to my knees, face inches away from being covered in the blood of the dying man. My stomach recoiled at the smell. Tears welled up in my eyes as I thrashed against my father's hold. "Look, Solvanel! If you're really some child of prophecy, use your bestowment to look into his core and rekindle the flames of his existence!"
"I can't!"
"Don't tell me that! You don't get to say you can't without trying."
"I'm trying!"
The pain in my neck was akin to a pair of blades digging into each side. Knowing what would happen to me if I did as I was told, but desperate to be released from the hold, I closed my eyes in concentration and activated the gift that was never enough.
The heat within my chest boiled over and travelled up to my head. It circled behind the eyes until the world was dyed in myriad colors. I gritted my teeth and cast a quick glance at the man's chest, where the final wisps of his inner flame flickered out.
Feeling my trashing cease, my father softened his grip. He was silent for a second-long eternity before his voice came out in a hopeful plea. "Can you heal him?"
I shook my head. "I… can't."
I felt his steel-clad fingers turn cold with disappointment. "Of course not," my father said. "You're all so weak."