As Narim and his new friend, Ixta, came upon the first signs of civilization, he felt a sour churning in the pit of his stomach. Perhaps, he thought, it was because the fun part of this journey was drawing to a close. He and Ixta had laughed and danced the entire time. Her feelings of gaiety fed into him, pulsing through him. He truly wanted to believe that this fun time together coming to an end was the reason for his unease but deep down he knew otherwise. Something was truly wrong.
Ixta threw down her pack and sat down heavily in the soft grass with a long tired sigh.
"We'll rest for th'night an' arrive tamarra."
"Why wait, I can't believe we're so close."
"Nor can I" she said softly and turned to attend to the bedrolls.
Narim always dreamed but seldom were his dreams so vivid and lucid. Above the night sky streaked by in vibrant streamers of white and yellow set upon impenetrable black. The wind whipped across his face so fiercely that his lips were dead to him. Suddenly his ears were assailed with the cries of a great multitude of weak and frightened. "I'm here, fear not." He wanted to call back but he could not make his voice speak over a hoarse whisper. The streamers that flashed by him, he realized, bore the origins of the cries, each streak another soul tormented with fear and sadness.
He felt his heart burning deep within his chest. His cold hands aged before his eyes, growing thin and spider like in the dim light. Time sped by so quickly here. Then as the pounding in his chest grew unbearable, the streamers turned their directions away from their predestined paths and shot toward him. As each one struck him, he was imbued with all of the fears and woes of the multitude, impaled by their strife, their helplessness. Here was his death, but in his death, the multitude was saved from the plague of sadness.
The energy of his soul bled from his deadened fingertips, fanning out in a spectacle of light over him. One final moment remained and he finally found the strength to speak aloud. "For my people I give myself."
"I thought you said you only gave him a tibble of schilf"
"He is a-awful small boy. He'll live, however."
Narim heard the voices floating around him in the darkness but he didn't have the strength to raise his head from where he lay to address the speakers. He became instantly aware of two things, his hands and feet were bound by coarse rope and the air stank of oppression and fear. One eye opened wide enough to catch a glimpse of familiarity.
"Ixta?" he struggled, his throat raw and parched. Soft hair covered his face as his traveling companion whispered a hurried apology.
"You're sure he's trainable?" the stranger said dubiously, feeling the scrawny build of Narim's arms. "It's doubtful he could even weild a slatted practice bokan, much less a sword."
" I promise his talents far surpass an ability to wield a weapon." Ixta sounded far away, as if retreating from the room. Narim caught the thread of sorrow and guilt she emanated. She had betrayed him to some unknown force yet only now, it seemed, had she truly realized the evils of her actions. Narim finally opened both eyes, catching the dark gaze of a strange man standing over him. He struggled to sit up but his muscles wouldn't obey.
"Lie still now, boy, it seems our scout has possible over medicated you. It'll well be into the next eve before you can move much. Until this we can ascertain nothing of your usefulness to us. Once we have determined that we can decide whether or not to keep you."
"And if you do not keep me?" Narim whispered.
"We will deem you a parasite on our resources and our nation and have you ... terminated."
For what felt like eternity, Narim lay bound, soaking in the negative emotions of this place. He was unable to move anything except his eyes and lips. Left helpless in his own bodily waste, Narim felt his tarik senses throbbing inside of him, matching his heartbeat with each pulse. Sometime late in the night, his control and a wave of terror and sadness enveloped every resident of this strange place. The few that had free reign in this place fled from this unknown terror. Many who could not escape simply died of fright, their fragile, weakened spirits unable to manage the influx of emotion that poured from their newest captive.
The only one not overwhelmed by this outpouring of emotion was the elderly Sidgal Tun. The old man sat at the window of his quarters with his rheumy eyes turned to the bright star of Auraach. There was a tarik here, a strong undisciplined tarik. He felt the urge to weep, albeit not due to the emotion pouring through the halls of the castle, but for the captive who would indefinitely fail the abilities screening and be slain tomorrow. Sidgal knew the ways of the tarik well, and knew no tarik could raise a blade against another person. It would be a tragic loss.
Ixta threw down her pack and sat down heavily in the soft grass with a long tired sigh.
"We'll rest for th'night an' arrive tamarra."
"Why wait, I can't believe we're so close."
"Nor can I" she said softly and turned to attend to the bedrolls.
Narim always dreamed but seldom were his dreams so vivid and lucid. Above the night sky streaked by in vibrant streamers of white and yellow set upon impenetrable black. The wind whipped across his face so fiercely that his lips were dead to him. Suddenly his ears were assailed with the cries of a great multitude of weak and frightened. "I'm here, fear not." He wanted to call back but he could not make his voice speak over a hoarse whisper. The streamers that flashed by him, he realized, bore the origins of the cries, each streak another soul tormented with fear and sadness.
He felt his heart burning deep within his chest. His cold hands aged before his eyes, growing thin and spider like in the dim light. Time sped by so quickly here. Then as the pounding in his chest grew unbearable, the streamers turned their directions away from their predestined paths and shot toward him. As each one struck him, he was imbued with all of the fears and woes of the multitude, impaled by their strife, their helplessness. Here was his death, but in his death, the multitude was saved from the plague of sadness.
The energy of his soul bled from his deadened fingertips, fanning out in a spectacle of light over him. One final moment remained and he finally found the strength to speak aloud. "For my people I give myself."
"I thought you said you only gave him a tibble of schilf"
"He is a-awful small boy. He'll live, however."
Narim heard the voices floating around him in the darkness but he didn't have the strength to raise his head from where he lay to address the speakers. He became instantly aware of two things, his hands and feet were bound by coarse rope and the air stank of oppression and fear. One eye opened wide enough to catch a glimpse of familiarity.
"Ixta?" he struggled, his throat raw and parched. Soft hair covered his face as his traveling companion whispered a hurried apology.
"You're sure he's trainable?" the stranger said dubiously, feeling the scrawny build of Narim's arms. "It's doubtful he could even weild a slatted practice bokan, much less a sword."
" I promise his talents far surpass an ability to wield a weapon." Ixta sounded far away, as if retreating from the room. Narim caught the thread of sorrow and guilt she emanated. She had betrayed him to some unknown force yet only now, it seemed, had she truly realized the evils of her actions. Narim finally opened both eyes, catching the dark gaze of a strange man standing over him. He struggled to sit up but his muscles wouldn't obey.
"Lie still now, boy, it seems our scout has possible over medicated you. It'll well be into the next eve before you can move much. Until this we can ascertain nothing of your usefulness to us. Once we have determined that we can decide whether or not to keep you."
"And if you do not keep me?" Narim whispered.
"We will deem you a parasite on our resources and our nation and have you ... terminated."
For what felt like eternity, Narim lay bound, soaking in the negative emotions of this place. He was unable to move anything except his eyes and lips. Left helpless in his own bodily waste, Narim felt his tarik senses throbbing inside of him, matching his heartbeat with each pulse. Sometime late in the night, his control and a wave of terror and sadness enveloped every resident of this strange place. The few that had free reign in this place fled from this unknown terror. Many who could not escape simply died of fright, their fragile, weakened spirits unable to manage the influx of emotion that poured from their newest captive.
The only one not overwhelmed by this outpouring of emotion was the elderly Sidgal Tun. The old man sat at the window of his quarters with his rheumy eyes turned to the bright star of Auraach. There was a tarik here, a strong undisciplined tarik. He felt the urge to weep, albeit not due to the emotion pouring through the halls of the castle, but for the captive who would indefinitely fail the abilities screening and be slain tomorrow. Sidgal knew the ways of the tarik well, and knew no tarik could raise a blade against another person. It would be a tragic loss.
