With practiced skill, I overtly ignore the patron who is perusing the wares of my apothecary shop for the third time. I have seen her kind plenty of times. No doubt she’d heard about the exotic man who ran the apothecary shop just on the other side of the road from where the bad side of town began. Some just wanted to see if the rumors about a giant of a man were true but there were plenty who were looking for an escape from a mundane existence and saw me as a means. The way this woman is trying to catch my attention tells me that she is in the latter group.
I have no patience for this game today. She looks like the needy type so will not be among those with whom I occasionally take up the offer for a quick tussle under the sheets. I rather prefer to spend time alone and I certainly don’t wish to have any kind of ongoing relationship. I spend most of my free time studying, although there is little to learn in this rural pitstop of a town called Nodkis enVoll. As trade cities go, it is forgettable. It is surrounded by farms who have never had to concern themselves with drought or depleted land. The soil is dark and rich. The crops grow tall and broad as a man without need of wood ash, let alone an irrigation channel. The rains come through regularly, but not so often that it sours the mood of the populace. It is usually sunny with big, fluffy, white clouds meandering gently across the vast, blue sky. How fitting that this country is called the Gates of Elysium. This place is a paradise and they don’t even know to appreciate it.
As I watch the woman clumsily handle a pot of lavender unguent in my periphery, I sigh inwardly. The humans of Elysium aren’t bad people. Quite the opposite, in fact. They are aggravatingly pleasant and would stoop to help a stranger without hesitation…generally speaking. It certainly helps if that stranger has the same skin color or begins each conversation with “blessed be”. I do not. Despite settling in Nodkis nearly a decade ago, I still get stared at when I go out. Men puff their chests and women gather their young around their skirts when I pass on the street as though I were a monster. The truth is: I like it.
These people in their halcyon nation in their quaint city surrounded by paradise deserve to be unnerved sometimes. They are right to fear me for I do not hold their well-being in high regard. Given a passable reason, I would slit any one of their throats and speak a prayer to Ner Ngal as they slip into death’s embrace. After all, life is impermanent. Everything will belong to the Void in the end and sending something to Him a little early would be as noteworthy as a drop of rain in the ocean.
These people do not possess the fortitude to put their faith in Ner Ngal, however. They worship lesser gods who don’t let them carry the burden of existence themselves. I think on the Elysian Pantheon, made up of Kurdu the Guardian, God of War and Death; Ard Agdawn, God of Life, Fertility, and Rule; and Risha the Goddess of Love, Peace, and Harmony. There are a handful of other Gods that stake some claim in these lands but none are able to act with as much potency as these three. Their protection and blessings are apparent everywhere, imparting duty, order, and tranquility in all things. As a result, the people are soft. None would last a day in my homeland.
As my mind wanders, I turn to watch the woman pick up a small jar of nettle acid and smell it. Of course her nose wrinkles as the pungent aroma burns the inside of her nose—it’s for dissolving fats. Even the inn cooks who come to purchase it handle it with care. My eyes roll inwardly but I remain outwardly composed. I never let my thoughts mar my face. Instead I keep a steady gaze, boring my eyes into her until she gets the hint to leave. The owl that I keep, a strange companion from a different time, hoots its own annoyance at this intruder. It is a lousy day and closing up early will suit me just fine. Though I can always use paying customers, this is an apothecary shop, not a brothel. And though she would undoubtedly offer to pay me for services rendered, her coin will not make me forget how stupid she is.
Outside, I can make out a crowd shouting in the distance. There is no celebration today so, no doubt, some thief has been caught in the marketplace again. Elysium does not tolerate criminals well, though their policing of unsavory behavior dwindles just up the street from where my shop is. I still get a bad element in the area but guards will suffer to come down this far if called so it’s really the best place for my kind of shop and my reputation. I do lament that I cannot wield my dagger to protect myself but weapons are not permitted to be carried in town without the writ of the Earl at least. Another softness of the people of Elysium. It’s surprising the nation hasn’t been conquered a thousand times over.
As I have so many times before, I mentally scoff at the frailty of Elysium, yet my mind will not allow me to forget or deny the one true reason that the nation retains its sovereignty. Above all the Earls in the enVolls, above the Barons of the six Vulls, above the Dukes of the South, West, and North, sits the High Priestess of Risha and her son, Non Agdawn. Borne from the chosen High Priestess and Ard Agdawn himself, their son is a demigod whose influence on the land goes far beyond what mortals are capable of. He is thought of as a fair and just leader and uses his divine power to protect the Gates of Elysium. It is unheard of to imagine Elysium going on the offensive or being the instigator of a battle. As easy a target as it might seem, Non Agdawn only ever defends the borders from the surrounding nations who would threaten them. And so has it been for thousands of years.
The thought makes me reflective of my situation and it stings. I am meant for something greater but here I am in a pointless city in an irrelevant nation. What am I really doing here?
I stand and the woman turns to me, a slight upturn at the corner of her mouth and a pensive bite on her lower lip. Her chest heaves with anticipation as I round the counter and approach her. She sets the jar down noisily and steadies herself on the shelf as she leans her head back to take all of me in. I stand easily two feet above her head and retaining eye contact strains the muscles in her neck and stretches her decolletage taut. So certain she’s caught my fancy with her mock-customer antics she notices too late the glint in my eyes as my presence bears down on her. She stumbles backwards, suddenly fearful of the exotic man she’d come to bed. Bold in her loneliness, she tries to smile and reach a timid hand to my chest. She still wants to have a go, it seems. I shouldn’t be surprised; this is why they come. They want the danger.
Not today. I swat her hand away and bring the full weight of my countenance to bear; intimidating her without saying a word.
“I—” her words catch in her throat and she takes a step backwards.
I step forward to press her back. Step for step, I steer her toward the door. The commotion outside is getting louder. What an obnoxious day. I consider whether I should take a walk outside of town or go people-watching in the fountain square later. This noise will not be conducive to studying.
The fear and excitement effervescing in the woman turns to disappointment as her shoulder blades touch the door. The hinged, double door swings gently outward, streaming the bright, mid-day light into my dim shop. It’s finally occurred to her that my show of intimidation is not foreplay. She straightens her posture haughtily, trying and failing to reclaim her lost dignity in the encounter. But as she juts her chin out to say something demeaning to me, her eyes go wide. In the washed-out brightness in the street I make out a dark shape that has come up behind her. There is a sickening sound of metal on bone as a thick short sword erupts from her ribcage and lifts her off the ground. Blood splatters my chest as it pumps from the gaping wound in her chest.
The Wordbearer Chronicles is a dark fantasy web series with new passages on Tuesdays.
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