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Vol.5, Ch.5, P.16

 

We’ve got an undercroft b’neath the house. A dark an’ empty place it is, just there for storing bits an’ bobs. Well, not ’nymore, leastways. Last I heard, me dad’s made it into some sort o’ place for “punishment”. I don’t very well know where Timo’s been taken to. But that undercroft—it’s got me best guess, it has. So later that night, I find meself standing ’fore its door.

Up till then, I’ve been stuck in me room with a watch an’ all posted outside. I’d tried to save Timo. I really had done. Kicked an’ screamed ’bout ev’rything that’s really gone on. ’Bout how I were the one that’s taken Timo ’long. ’Bout how it were all me silly idea. But no one bothered to listen. They all just turned the other way.

An’ so I snuffed out me lamp an’ waited through the night. Waited an’ waited on pins an’ needles, fretting ’bout Timo. An’ when the watch finally got themselves gone, I slipped out o’ me room an’ slinked downstairs.

An’ now, here I am. I don’t know what to think. I’m rather scared to see what’s happened to Timo. Or even to find ’im nowhere in sight. Aye, maybe he’s vanished now. Gone ’fore I can say goodbye. An’ then his shoving an’ yelling’ll be me last mem’ry o’ ’im. That turns me tummy, just to think ’bout. But I gulp, crack open the door, an’ step inside.

There’s no other light in here. No sound. Only me steps an’ the light o’ me candle. An’ a sick smell wafting all ’bout. An’ soon ’nough, I steps on summat wet. I look down, an’… an’ I find ’im: Timo, lying flat on the cold ground.

“T-Timo!!”

I bends down quick. There’s blood ev’rywhere. On the stone floor. All over Timo.

“No… H… how could they…!?”

I lose all breath. Timo—he’s been whipped. That’s an ordeal ill ’nough for a grown-up. To have the back all skin-broken. To have the flesh all slashed up. To have to take it, over an’ over, mercy be damned. Timo, though… he’s just a bairn. Not a grown-up. But looking at ’im, he’s not just been whipped at the back—he’s taken it all over.

Legs, arms, bosom, face… Me dear ol’ chum; nothing ’bout ’im were spared.

“A… ah…”

He lets out a tiny breath. An’ then his eyes open. An’ then he sees me. Timo, he’s lost so much blood that his face looks all pale. Pale as… as…

I figure it then. It’s not just blood that he’s bleeding. It’s his very life. All over the ground. I can tell. Just from the look on his face, I clearly can. An’ ’cos o’ that, I can’t help but wheeze out his name in despair.

“Timo! Timo!”

An’ then, I see his lips move.

“Y… you c… ca… me… Hhhow…?”

“No… Don’t be worrying ’bout that! Don’t you be worrying…!”

I set down me candle an’ rummage me pocketses for a handkerchief. An’ after wiping his face as best I could, I find Timo smiling. Softly, kindly—as he ever has done.

“Timo…! I’m sorry, Timo! I’m so, so sorry! I, I…! I ought never’ve brought you ’long! The sea, me sorrows—I were selfish! Stupid! It’s all me fault! Always dragging you ev’rywhere! Always pushing you ’round! Always… always…!”

But Timo, he just shakes his head. Slow an’ slight. An’ then he speaks ’gain in a weak whisper.

“N… no… it was… always fun… with you… always… Without you… every… every day… would be so sad… so… so grey…”

I know it then. Aye, stupid, stupid me knows it now. Timo—he’s saying his last words. His very, very last. All ’cos he’s spent his life. Spent it all on me. His weak an’ stupid an’ selfish an’, an’… an’ bad an’ rotten friend. The dumb-pate he’s had no choice but to save.

“T… Timo! Hang in there, Timo! Uaah! Me fault…! It’s all me fault! I ought’ve… I…! Oh, forgive me, Timo! Forgive this bumbling, blasted coward!!”

“What… what coward…? Here… you are… crying… for me… Isn’t… isn’t that… brave enough…?”

“Timo…!? Timo!”

I cry out his name. Over an’ over: the name o’ me dear ol’ friend. The light’s leaving his eyes. The strength’s leaving his body. Me one an’ only friend, he’s… he’s going to…

I don’t want to say it. I don’t want to think it. A world without Timo—that’s no world worth living in. Why, if I could, I’d—

“Th… thank you… for everything…”

But Timo stops me. His hand, it tries to move, but can’t. So I take it an’ hold it. An’ then he looks at me. An’ tears start in his eyes. An’ then he says:

“…Become big… Become… grand… I know… I know you can do it… I… believe in you…”

“No…! No, don’t go! Don’t leave me here! Timo! Timo!!”

Me cheeks’re all wet. I’m crying. I’ve been crying. More than I’ve ever done. But Timo, he just smiles on. Smiling his gentle, gentle smile—’fore saying the very last words I’ll ever hear from him.

 

“…We’re friends…
…forever…
…and for true…

 

…Alfred…”

 

♰

 

I’m a noble now, one of many in this manor. I’m made to wear fancy things; I’m made to eat fancy food. And like back home at the old mansion, I’m made to study and ply myself. Only, a lot more. A lot, lot more. Everyday’s a living hell. I’m broken all over. But to become big and grand, just like Timo said, I glue myself back together and keep at it. Over and over and over again. But one thing hangs in my heart: that to become big and grand in high Londosian society, I have to fight someday. I have to march to battle. And against whom else but Timo’s own people: the Nafílim.

It’s nothing I can help. There’s no other path I can take. Timo’s short life—I can’t let it be in vain. I can’t. That’s why I have to keep going. I have to forge my own future, piece by piece. Else, there’s nothing left. Nothing.

There are times, though; times when I feel less like myself. Less than human; less than rubbish. Times when I wonder whether where I’m headed is a rightwise place; when I lose sight and doubt everything I’m doing. But in spite of it, the days keep wheeling and this hell keeps burning. And slowly, I feel it fading. My memory of Timo—his tears, his smile—disappearing away into some mist.

I can’t let that happen. I won’t let it. Timo has to live on somehow, if even in memory. So in such times, when his face feels so far, far away, I close my eyes and recall his last words.

And remembering them, I endure these days on and on.

 

♰

 

Two winters thence as a fostered son of House Isfält, and I was received at the Roun of Orisons, and thereupon graced with a grand gift of odyl; so grand that I was made heir apparent to the Isfält name.

The years thereafter brimmed with naught but study and discipline, sorcery and battle. Such were my duties. Such was my lot. And in time was I accounted the mightiest sorcerer in all the Champions Salvator.

Each day was filled with death. Death upon the devils. Death upon the Nafílim. So long as such stones laid themselves upon my path; so long as they dared bar my way, there was naught else but to accept and sentence them to their slaughter.

“Enemies” I had come to mark them. Indeed; enemies to be wrought their ruin. This I no longer questioned. Thus I no longer hesitated. Once had there been times when I meandered on the matter, for true, but ever since the Rounic rites of years past, all indecision in me had died.

As it must. I am an issue of Man, after all; a soul given flesh and duty upon this realm, this world. Hence must I don the cold cloak of cruelty, and wield might and main the staff of massacre should ever I be brought aface the Nafílim. I must. As it is the future given to me, my very fate… I must.

A matter of course. All of it: a mere matter of course. Of such had I convinced myself—over and again, till it was graven into my heart. But when that man, that rebel—Rolf the graceless wretch—risked life and limb afore my very eyes to save one, one Nafíl… I felt that graven granite in my bosom begin to crack and all manner of ire to seep forth.

 

‘…A son of Man…!
…A son…!
…And a fool besides…!
…For you had only to abandon one brave
to see me slain…!
…Me…!’

‘…Not just a brave…
…A friend…
…And I am not one
to abandon my friends…
…Alfred…’

‘…Friend…!
…Fr… friend…!?
…You dare…!?’

 

“Friend”, he had said. A Nafíl: his friend.

The life long lost to me; the path I had long parted from—here he was, living it, walking it with all the aplomb and pageantry in the world. Such a sight I could not suffer. Such a fool I could not forgive. Envy, enmity—such a storm it was that the rebel had roused in my long-slumbering bosom.

He withal must be unmade. He must. Lest I be denied this sole lot of mine. This I reckoned and let roil in my conscience, till once more did another fool manifest afore me. Only, this time was it a woman.

 

‘…What mean those hands
to do with that haft…?
…Hm…? Fight…!?’

‘…A-aye…! Aye…!
…These smallfolk…!
…I can’t let you…!
…I won’t let you…!’

 

Nafílim—a herd of them, one hundred and more, trembled and blenched now behind her. And there the woman was, vowing to deliver them, each and all, by virtue of one weapon against twenty. Even as succour would come for her not. Even as she would surely die in the deed.

What is this? What? What am I being made to witness? These churls and their betrayals—why now? Why here?

Why?

Nay. Again did I ask the wrong questions. Again did I seek lies and excuses.

Once more, then. Right from the start.

 

What am I…

…what am I doing?

Where am I going?

 

What must I do in this moment?

 

There we are. The burning questions I’ve long baulked. The thoughts now thundering forth. And only in seeking their cold and stabbing counsels may I at last confront these long-festering follies of mine.

The woman’s eyes. In them, there burned a bright resolve. In them lived a will unwavering. And at them, I stared back, grave and unbroken of gaze. And in so doing, I perceived next in the pits of my pate…

…something cracking and crumbling all to pieces.

 

“Gāstċēn!”

 

My flames, woven unto a sphere to flood the aedis with heat and light, hasted instead unto the Salvator escorts. A blinding crash, and the soldiers all bellowed and beheld me with haunted wonder.

The woman, too, shared in their shock. Warhammer in hand, she stared at me, stunned of all wit and words.

“Stop gawping, woman!” I cried to her. “Or already have you forgotten your conviction!?”

“W-woah!?” she yipped, but before another sound could come from her, Jón’s voice barked next from afar.

“M-my Lord! Faith! What madness now takes you so!?”

Now?

Nay.

It has taken me.

For far, far too long.

But no longer.

“A way most winding I’ve wended. And marrow-deep seeps this sin of mine. Still…” I whispered. And standing poised with staff in hand, and after looking all along both those I must deliver and those I must defeat, I pleaded with pride reclaimed:

 

“Watch me, and watch me well…
Timo!!”

 

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