Wellllll after keeping everyone in the dark for so long and then pushing back the release date by two months, I felt kind of bad.
So, to ease my conscience and for no other reason at all (except, maybe, to get you MAD INSANE EXCITED FOR FEBRUARY), I have decided to make the first chapter of Vol I: The Fall available, here only, today!
Are you as excited as I am?!
(you aren't)
(you might be after you read it though)
So uhh, without any further fanfare, I guess...
This chapter contains a strong trigger warning. Ignore this to avoid spoilers:
TW suicide
EPILOGUE
Insects sang and chirruped, but all the birds were silent.
Boots crunched on desert rock, the steps soft and even and purposeful. Ahead, firelight burned; the hunching forms of tents hovered on the edge of vision in the endless dark, casting looming shadows in the twitching light, but their neat rows were deserted. There was life within some of them, and sparse patrolling activity, but as the steps walked intentionally between the rows they seemed to be utterly alone. Even the fires guttered in this cold deep dark.
Suddenly, the boots stopped. On their left was a larger square tent, a formal affair of canvas and wood; on their right, a softly-crackling campfire. The boots turned toward the fire, and waited.
A dog limped from the darkness behind the tent. There were deep cuts in its flank and shoulders, and its pale fur was crusted brown with half a life's worth of blood. Clearly it was in immense pain, every movement stiff and slow, but its eyes were bright, and when it alighted upon the man between the tent and the fire its body slumped with relief and joy.
The dog's tail went up despite its limp, its ears lifting as its golden eyes filled. Its whole body wagged as it pushed his head against the man's leg, searching for harm, searching for love. The man's fingers tightened as if to snap and warn it back to a respectful distance - and then went loose. He dropped onto his haunches, and let the dog nuzzle the palm of his hand as he dug his fingers into the soft spot behind its left ear; the dog let out the softest hfff, and closed its eyes for a moment. The man let the dog lick his neck and chin, and then with the softest laugh pressed his nose to the side of its muzzle, and closed his silver-steel eyes.
For a moment they were stationary, faces together, with the dog's thick tail beating a breeze close to the warmth of the fire, and orange-yellow flames flickering in the stone-like face of the man.
Slowly, he put one hand behind the dog's ears, and the other at the base of its neck.
Leaving the broken, bloodied dog half-curled and limp at the edge of the fire, the man straightened and simply breathed for a moment. He took a step, and when the boot landed it was on a narrow paved path surrounded by trees, the desert and camp and dog gone.
The depth of night, dawn still a few hours hence, was a ripe time in the forest. The land watched and listened; the air was heavy with its collected breath. Ahead, a villa loomed, dark and abandoned. It spoke of a place of life and commerce, but now it was empty and cold. No torches were lit along the path or walls, the only light the moon between the trees, and no greeting came as the steps took the man slowly past the stables and kennel. The man's head twitched as he passed them and wound around the villa, to the slaves' entrance dug into the ground, but he made no motion to change his path.
Inside, he reached into his cloak and pulled out a handful of fine rich yellow powder. In one fluid motion, the man tossed it toward the nearest empty furnace; his other hand brought out a handful of something else, and where they caught in the air and in the furnace white-yellow flames blossomed.
It was with an easy twist of his hand that he gave the fire strength, form.
For quite some time he stood before the furnace, hands moving as if manipulating the flames as they strengthened and grew. Sweat beaded beneath his clothes on on his face, and the fire glowed on his skin and armour as it became hot and close, but he seemed unaffected as he worked with the flames.
When the heat was sweltering and the fire in the furnace was huge, the man left the now-bright room, with its layered flickering shadows and sweltering orange air, for the cold darkness of the pre-dawn. And it was now, truly; there was no tint of light in the sky, but the world knew when it was supposed to wake, and it was ready. Still it watched, though, as if there was something that had to happen first.
It seemed as if something was missing, in this waiting watching life-filled forest; all the sound in the world was insects and the rustling of leaves, and even the crackling of the furnace was muted as the door swung shut. And then along with the insects and the leaves was footsteps again, expensive leather boots on neatly-laid paving slabs, this time around the villa, past the stable and kennel, and then up the main path, to the entranceway.
The floors were cold, and the walls were dark; after a moment, the man removed his boots before he stepped further inside. As he crossed the atrium to a darkened study, his pace was slow and intentional.
The contents of the desk were scattered; books and scrolls lay on the floor, ink spilled staining the wood, and even in the chaos things seemed to be missing. For a moment, the man surveyed the carnage. In the darkness, his brow twitched ever so slightly downward.
He used crumpled parchments to wipe up the spilled ink. He re-organised the books, including ones still hidden, and placed them in chronological order in piles on the desk. Then he crossed - strides faster, but still controlled and calm - to a bedroom, and retrieved two books hidden there; one had already been found and taken. Another was retrieved from the dining room, and another from the wall of the garden, and then when he was done he stood and looked at the desk.
For a moment, the man seemed to grapple with something internally. His face was set and his eyes cold, but just as the forest seemed to lean in and watch, so his own body was poised and fighting.
Sharply, he turned. He took up an unlit torch from the wall, and when his fingers brushed the handle flames burst forth, no powders mixing in a bright flash this time. He crossed the villa, to the bathhouse above the furnace below.
Steam rose from the water, greeting him warmly as he closed the door behind him. He fit the torch into its sconce, and turned to the bath.
As the man undid his cloak, his hands were still and sure. Pulling it from around his shoulders, he folded it neatly and laid it on the tile beside him. His belt was undone, sword and dagger aligned perfectly parallel, and then went each of the straps of his armour, which joined the cloak.
His breaths had started to accelerate. Hands on his tunic, the man stared down at the flickering firelight reflection of his face in the water, until the eyes were silver-steel and the hands were still.
Then he removed his tunic and his undergarment, and folded them both beside the cloak and the armour and the belt.
All that was left was a leather harness on his shoulder, and the sheath it held against his ribs, and the dagger inside. Staring directly ahead, at the mosaic wall painted orange in the torchlight, the man stepped down and slipped into the bath.
There were goosebumps along his skin, and as the heat enveloped him a shiver jerked at his body.
Breathing slowly and steadily, he took the dagger from its sheath and carefully made two clean cuts in the leather. With great care, he removed the harness and placed it behind him, with the rest.
For a second, he paused.
He raised one arm carefully above the water; it trailed on his skin, wet and warm and dripping loudly in the hollow emptiness of the room, and his breaths were shallower now and his eyes wavering in the reflection of torchlight on water.
The man made one neat cut, precise and unwavering, from halfway down his forearm to his wrist. Blood welled immediately, and for a moment he stared at it as if transfixed.
Another few seconds passed as he stared at the pouring blood and the blossoms of darkness like ink in the water.
Then, transferring the dagger to the other hand, the man made the other cut. At the last second, his hand hitched, and before the blade left his flesh it juddered and tore the skin.
He placed the dagger back on the tile, fingers trailing blood. It spilled into the water and turned it pink, and then dark.
His breaths were coming faster. Silver-steel eyes blinked, and became bright blue-grey with tears and terror. Suddenly fighting for breath, chest heaving, the man leaned his head back against the tile, arms resting on the warm surface of the water. His bright blue-grey eyes were unfocused; though they stared at the wall, as blood pulsed headily from his forearms his lips moved softly and his fists suddenly clenched as his face crumpled. Just for a second, stone seemed to crack.
"I'm sorry," the man whispered, the words slurring, almost unintelligible.
All around the villa, and in the water and the stone and the flame, the world pressed in to watch and wait.
As the bright blue-grey eyes became glassy and blank, and his body slipped down so that water snatched at his skin and pulled his face beneath the surface, the terror vanished in an upwelling of something else. His lips turned upward, and formed the outline of whispered words that were lost in a cascade of bubbles which broke thickly through the blood-dense water.
And it was like this that the man died.
Boots crunched on desert rock, the steps soft and even and purposeful. Ahead, firelight burned; the hunching forms of tents hovered on the edge of vision in the endless dark, casting looming shadows in the twitching light, but their neat rows were deserted. There was life within some of them, and sparse patrolling activity, but as the steps walked intentionally between the rows they seemed to be utterly alone. Even the fires guttered in this cold deep dark.
Suddenly, the boots stopped. On their left was a larger square tent, a formal affair of canvas and wood; on their right, a softly-crackling campfire. The boots turned toward the fire, and waited.
A dog limped from the darkness behind the tent. There were deep cuts in its flank and shoulders, and its pale fur was crusted brown with half a life's worth of blood. Clearly it was in immense pain, every movement stiff and slow, but its eyes were bright, and when it alighted upon the man between the tent and the fire its body slumped with relief and joy.
The dog's tail went up despite its limp, its ears lifting as its golden eyes filled. Its whole body wagged as it pushed his head against the man's leg, searching for harm, searching for love. The man's fingers tightened as if to snap and warn it back to a respectful distance - and then went loose. He dropped onto his haunches, and let the dog nuzzle the palm of his hand as he dug his fingers into the soft spot behind its left ear; the dog let out the softest hfff, and closed its eyes for a moment. The man let the dog lick his neck and chin, and then with the softest laugh pressed his nose to the side of its muzzle, and closed his silver-steel eyes.
For a moment they were stationary, faces together, with the dog's thick tail beating a breeze close to the warmth of the fire, and orange-yellow flames flickering in the stone-like face of the man.
Slowly, he put one hand behind the dog's ears, and the other at the base of its neck.
Leaving the broken, bloodied dog half-curled and limp at the edge of the fire, the man straightened and simply breathed for a moment. He took a step, and when the boot landed it was on a narrow paved path surrounded by trees, the desert and camp and dog gone.
The depth of night, dawn still a few hours hence, was a ripe time in the forest. The land watched and listened; the air was heavy with its collected breath. Ahead, a villa loomed, dark and abandoned. It spoke of a place of life and commerce, but now it was empty and cold. No torches were lit along the path or walls, the only light the moon between the trees, and no greeting came as the steps took the man slowly past the stables and kennel. The man's head twitched as he passed them and wound around the villa, to the slaves' entrance dug into the ground, but he made no motion to change his path.
Inside, he reached into his cloak and pulled out a handful of fine rich yellow powder. In one fluid motion, the man tossed it toward the nearest empty furnace; his other hand brought out a handful of something else, and where they caught in the air and in the furnace white-yellow flames blossomed.
It was with an easy twist of his hand that he gave the fire strength, form.
For quite some time he stood before the furnace, hands moving as if manipulating the flames as they strengthened and grew. Sweat beaded beneath his clothes on on his face, and the fire glowed on his skin and armour as it became hot and close, but he seemed unaffected as he worked with the flames.
When the heat was sweltering and the fire in the furnace was huge, the man left the now-bright room, with its layered flickering shadows and sweltering orange air, for the cold darkness of the pre-dawn. And it was now, truly; there was no tint of light in the sky, but the world knew when it was supposed to wake, and it was ready. Still it watched, though, as if there was something that had to happen first.
It seemed as if something was missing, in this waiting watching life-filled forest; all the sound in the world was insects and the rustling of leaves, and even the crackling of the furnace was muted as the door swung shut. And then along with the insects and the leaves was footsteps again, expensive leather boots on neatly-laid paving slabs, this time around the villa, past the stable and kennel, and then up the main path, to the entranceway.
The floors were cold, and the walls were dark; after a moment, the man removed his boots before he stepped further inside. As he crossed the atrium to a darkened study, his pace was slow and intentional.
The contents of the desk were scattered; books and scrolls lay on the floor, ink spilled staining the wood, and even in the chaos things seemed to be missing. For a moment, the man surveyed the carnage. In the darkness, his brow twitched ever so slightly downward.
He used crumpled parchments to wipe up the spilled ink. He re-organised the books, including ones still hidden, and placed them in chronological order in piles on the desk. Then he crossed - strides faster, but still controlled and calm - to a bedroom, and retrieved two books hidden there; one had already been found and taken. Another was retrieved from the dining room, and another from the wall of the garden, and then when he was done he stood and looked at the desk.
For a moment, the man seemed to grapple with something internally. His face was set and his eyes cold, but just as the forest seemed to lean in and watch, so his own body was poised and fighting.
Sharply, he turned. He took up an unlit torch from the wall, and when his fingers brushed the handle flames burst forth, no powders mixing in a bright flash this time. He crossed the villa, to the bathhouse above the furnace below.
Steam rose from the water, greeting him warmly as he closed the door behind him. He fit the torch into its sconce, and turned to the bath.
As the man undid his cloak, his hands were still and sure. Pulling it from around his shoulders, he folded it neatly and laid it on the tile beside him. His belt was undone, sword and dagger aligned perfectly parallel, and then went each of the straps of his armour, which joined the cloak.
His breaths had started to accelerate. Hands on his tunic, the man stared down at the flickering firelight reflection of his face in the water, until the eyes were silver-steel and the hands were still.
Then he removed his tunic and his undergarment, and folded them both beside the cloak and the armour and the belt.
All that was left was a leather harness on his shoulder, and the sheath it held against his ribs, and the dagger inside. Staring directly ahead, at the mosaic wall painted orange in the torchlight, the man stepped down and slipped into the bath.
There were goosebumps along his skin, and as the heat enveloped him a shiver jerked at his body.
Breathing slowly and steadily, he took the dagger from its sheath and carefully made two clean cuts in the leather. With great care, he removed the harness and placed it behind him, with the rest.
For a second, he paused.
He raised one arm carefully above the water; it trailed on his skin, wet and warm and dripping loudly in the hollow emptiness of the room, and his breaths were shallower now and his eyes wavering in the reflection of torchlight on water.
The man made one neat cut, precise and unwavering, from halfway down his forearm to his wrist. Blood welled immediately, and for a moment he stared at it as if transfixed.
Another few seconds passed as he stared at the pouring blood and the blossoms of darkness like ink in the water.
Then, transferring the dagger to the other hand, the man made the other cut. At the last second, his hand hitched, and before the blade left his flesh it juddered and tore the skin.
He placed the dagger back on the tile, fingers trailing blood. It spilled into the water and turned it pink, and then dark.
His breaths were coming faster. Silver-steel eyes blinked, and became bright blue-grey with tears and terror. Suddenly fighting for breath, chest heaving, the man leaned his head back against the tile, arms resting on the warm surface of the water. His bright blue-grey eyes were unfocused; though they stared at the wall, as blood pulsed headily from his forearms his lips moved softly and his fists suddenly clenched as his face crumpled. Just for a second, stone seemed to crack.
"I'm sorry," the man whispered, the words slurring, almost unintelligible.
All around the villa, and in the water and the stone and the flame, the world pressed in to watch and wait.
As the bright blue-grey eyes became glassy and blank, and his body slipped down so that water snatched at his skin and pulled his face beneath the surface, the terror vanished in an upwelling of something else. His lips turned upward, and formed the outline of whispered words that were lost in a cascade of bubbles which broke thickly through the blood-dense water.
And it was like this that the man died.
