I hadn't planned on posting anything this weekend, because praise the Lord, my wife and I just closed on our first house! We're in the long and involved process of painting the house, re-painting the cabinets, cleaning, and getting it prepped to move into.
But all of this has gotten me thinking. I'm a software engineer for work, and my hobbies beyond writing include rollerblading, running, reading, and pickleball. I've enjoyed kayaking down Florida rivers, hiking up the slopes in Colorado and Oregon, and exploring my nearby forests and neighborhoods.
I was reminded of how blessed I am. Because instead of these things—walking, hiking, carrying boxes and bottles and beds—being a necessity, I do them for fun. That's crazy.
Some people are not as fortunate. Many are not.
I just finished CivilWarLand in Bad Decline by George Saunders. I know I have a section for book reviews, but since writing one for Foundryside, I haven't known how I want to do them. But that's irrelevant.
I highly recommend it. It does an excellent job highlighting various worlds in which many unfortunate people struggle to get by, struggle with injustice, struggle with pain and sorrow and things outside of their control. It grapples with people, real, human people down on their luck and taken advantage of by others.
It got me thinking too. George Saunders had an author's note at the end explaining some of his life and the situations he went through to get where he was, how he ended up writing most of the short stories in CivilWarLand. He didn't have it easy. He didn't have it incredibly hard, but it wasn't a walk in the park.
There's something about experiences like that that change us. That grow us.
I remember my brother-in-law, who was on a rowing team for four years, explain to me the capacity for pain that people must have.
Not only do I think that's a wonderful book title, but I also believe it. We, as humans, need pain. Need struggle. Need failure. That, in many ways, is why I believe we have suffering in the world.
That is not to say that there is not undue suffering, or even that all has a purpose. There are people beheaded in the streets, children stripped from their mothers, missiles raining down on innocent civilians and ripping through homes like paper mache. That's not to mention the starvation, plague, and corruption that piles on it like a stinking mound of horse crap.
The world isn't perfect, not by a long shot. But those of us, those who have it good, have it easy, have it peaceful, we need this capacity. We need struggle in our lives, from the smallest of things in sanding cabinets to larger, longer stretches of tight budgets, because it reminds us to be grateful. To see the good in what we have.
There's a quote by Glokta in Joe Abercrombie's Before They Are Hanged that sets a sour mood towards suffering, but makes sense given Glokta's story: "It’s a sad fact, but pain only makes you sorry for yourself."
I sat on that quote for a long time. In a cynical, Glokta-stained worldview, that's true. What else is there to do with pain than to dwell on it a spiral down forever? But there's more; there's better.
Pain might not always have a purpose. Failure might not always be necessary. Suffering might not lead to success. But one thing is true:
In all these things, we can persevere, we can learn, and though we will feel abandoned, there is an eternal hope we can rest in.
Keep it up. Take it one day at a time, even when it seems like everything could crumble around your feet at any moment.
You'll make it. And if you don't, you can always get back up.
A CHILL WIND BIT AT PEROHIM'S NOSE, HIS HANDS, HIS NECK. It
made him smile. Golden wheat fields spread around the base of Sebros Mountain,
tickling his legs as they swayed in the breeze. With his cleaver strapped to
his belt and a pack on his back, Perohim set up the slope toward the peak of a
mountain that no man had ever returned from.
He knew cold well. In his shop, he stored meats in
below-zero temperatures and often had to work in that environment to keep them
fresh. He knew creatures well, the soft spots where sinew met muscle, the
perfect ways to dissect anything that stood in his path.
It was while butchering a boar that he had decided on this.
He had seen dragons—everyone had—but no one knew them as well as he did.
Had he faced one before? No. But he had carved ones head from its corpse after
being asked to do so for a knight.
This was possible for him. He would not fail—could
not fail. There was no mountain, no monster, dragon, or beast of the land that
could stand in his way. Knights had refused to conquer Sebros Mountain after
several of their kind failed to slay the beast on top.
But Perohim would be different. He didn’t have family in the
village, but he knew them. Butchered meat for them. He could slay a beast for
them.
The air grew colder a hundred feet up, but Perohim was
prepared for this. He was swathed in warm clothes several layers deep, and he
knew how to fight in them. This could not best him.
Perohim crested a large boulder already covered in snow and
stopped by it. He wasn’t even winded by this point. The winding road stretched
out before him, crisscrossing up the mountain. It had not been well-made.
Whoever had carved the path was hasty, or they weren’t allowed to finish at
all. Perohim would have to cut through the second half. That did not bother
him.
However many hurdles I have to face, and then it will be
over. I will return with the head of the beast, be heralded as a hero, and
return to my butchering. At peace.
Perohim knew he would. He carried on, pumping his legs and
easily crossing fallen trees, deep pits, and icy stretches.
Then he came across the first body. A man lay strewn on the
road, neck snapped, head lolling at a wrong angle. His armor was gnarled, his
helmet crushed, already in the clutches of deep ice. It was a shame, to be
sure, and Perohim bade him a restful eternity, but he would not be like the
rest.
Around the next bend, he was assaulted by a ranka, a
six-legged winged demon with a penchant for blood. He chopped into the thing’s
shoulder with his cleaver and sent its corpse tumbling down the mountainside.
Other bodies lay in its wake, failed adventurers whose
corpses had wilted from poison and age. He closed their eyes and carried on.
A path of ice stretched perilously ahead of him, but he
steadied himself and shimmied across. When his foot slipped, he jammed his
cleaver into the ground, calmed his breathing, and reached the end of the path.
The mountain road was nearing its end. Ice drove daggers
into his sides and cut through the clothes on his back. I must be quick. I
cannot survive on the mountaintop for long. He covered his nose and mouth
with a cloth and trudged on.
A shadow crossed his path, and far above spread the wings of
a dragon. It roared, sending a hail of snow and boulders down upon the
mountain. Perohim looked up at it and gripped the hilt of his sword. Soon.
He crossed under the boughs of a fallen tree. Then he heard
a voice cry out. A man, still alive, collapsed. Perohim came to his side and
crouched beneath the snow-laden branches to look upon the figure.
He was a scrawny thing, and on his side were the telltale
wounds of dragon’s fangs. The man had been thrown from the peak at first
contact.
“What’s your name, boy?” said Perohim, brushing snow from
the man’s face and eyes. His skin was pallid, almost blue. His ears were
already turned black.
“Ah—I’m…Colin. Are you…an angel?”
Perohim shook his head. The dragon high above roared again.
Colin coughed. “I…I’m so cold.”
“You will die up here,” he said quietly.
Colin gripped Perohim’s arm. There was no strength in it. “I
can’t. Please, oh, God, please don’t let me die up here. I was so foolish.”
The wind howled, and Perohim cast his eyes to the heavens
again. The dragon was up there, looming. Peace, finality, and greatness awaited
at the top of this mountain.
He sat beside Colin and held his hand. “Tell me of yourself,
Colin.”
Colin shivered, cheeks missing all color. “I…I’m from a town
down south. Uh…”
“Why are you up here, Colin?”
“I wanted to kill the dragon. It…it killed my sister, raided
our farm.”
“I’m sorry.”
Colin laughed bitterly. “It doesn’t matter, does it? Killing
it? I can’t bring her back.”
Perohim shook his head. “No.” The ice was getting in
Perohim’s bones now. He didn’t know if he could stand. “Keep talking. What
about your other family?”
“They told me I’m an idiot for coming up here. I…oh…” Colin
curled in on himself. “I…I’m so cold.”
“I know.” Perohim put a hand over Colin’s eyes. “Sleep now.
It’s alright.” It was difficult to move his arm, but the boy accepted it and
closed his eyes. “Sleep…for an eternity.”
The boy perished. Perohim looked up, but he could not stand.
His cleaver had frozen into the earth, and his legs were stuck despite the warm
clothing. He could have killed the dragon, protected his people, lived in
relative peace.
Instead…instead, he had ushered on one afraid soul from this
life to whatever lay ahead of him. Somehow, that was better.
Perohim laid next to Colin and died.
That was Insurmountable, another short story from my writing group! Upon editing it, I realized the message had similar tones to Witness for the Dead, but I think the themes I hit with that one were somber in a different way. A bit more hopeful, too.
But I enjoyed this one. It's short and doesn't need to be (can't be, even!) longer. Thanks for reading!
THE WHEELS OF TIME DO NOT ALWAYS TURN AS THEY SHOULD.
The
flaws and ridges of the wheels bump on the well-worn road of life, tossing
souls off the wagon though they were prepared for a longer journey. It might
have been better for them to hold on a little tighter to the rails, but what is
the joy in life when your only focus is the ending?
The wheels were poorly oiled the day Nylis was hanged. He
bellowed with all the breath in his lungs that it was not his fault. That the
world was cruel. That I am cruel, even. He may be right, should I follow
the lead of my brothers and sisters to interfere with the lives of men. But I
do not, so I am not. And poor Nylis was left kicking out the thieves' dance as
the crowd watched on—eyes wide—some full of horror, others of vengeance, and
more than a few of weary resignation.
You see, I knew this was coming. From the minute the
desperate thought came to Nylis' mind, I knew there would be no averting this.
For a man of his understanding, he had made few wayward decisions in his life.
He had always tried to make the right choice, so when the time came to make it,
he did not fret over the consequences. He just…did what must be done.
The problem was that, when the fears and woes of your fellow
workers niggle at your ears in the early hours of the night, and you remember
the life leaking from a goat when you clamped your hands around its neck for
waking the sick child, and you see the old-age nobles throw your hard-earned
money wherever their whim lands that day, you feel, as Nylis did, that you
should make a decision.
A terrible thought. The Harbel family was old, stretching
far into the past. Their patriarch and matriarch were worse for the wear,
having struggled so to start this new, free kingdom just to fall to the same
plights and pitfalls as the last. Nylis had wondered when they might pass on
and leave the ruling to their only daughter, Kalia. But the hope that she would
be different was weak. Raised by her parents, she would be much the same and
marry some power-hungry, pin-headed brat of a nobleman. Together they would
pilfer the money of Nylis’ coworkers in just the same way as those who came
before them, and those who would come after them.
Did you know I was there, sitting in the unused chair in the
corner of his bedroom, when Nylis decided to kill her? It was dark that night
in the wooden shack Nylis called home. Some might call me cold—or evil,
even—that I would let such thoughts stir in a man’s mind. That I would allow
Kalia’s life to be snuffed out in such a plot. But, I remind you, I am the god
of fate. Not of nagging thoughts or quiet sufferings. I only reign over what is
to be, not what could. And so I watched.
The next day when he spoke his plan in a small whisper to
his two closest friends, I listened. Poison, an architectural accident, even
scraping their money together to hire an assassin—all these ideas were
scrapped. Poison could be given to the wrong person. Accidents were too hard to
plan. And an assassin, well, they kill for the highest bidder.
It had to be one of them. Or two.
They chose Nylis and that man full of wrath, Kernden. Both
had doubts, and both knew it might end with another pithless nobleman lording
over their village, or worse, with a noose tightening around their necks. The
Harbel family would last two, maybe three years with only the parents. They
were far too old to have more children.
Of all the men to lose something, Nylis knew he was the best
choice. No wife, no parents, no children who needed him. Only the rough calling
to a dark business. He heeded it and made his choice.
When the time came, and they were standing on the walkway
across from Kalia’s reading room on a bright day, Nylis knew he had to make a
decision. The same one he had made at least a hundred times leading up to that
day. When they bought the stewards’ attire, when they offered their services,
when they spoke to the lords of the house with murder in their eyes. He had so
many times made the choice, and here he was, making it again.
I stood at the half-open door, watching both of them.
Watching Nylis and watching Kalia. She was ready, I knew, for death. It
surprises me when one so young is prepared for their fate. But it happens every
so often, as it did with Kalia. She was tired but fulfilled. Hopeful, yet sure.
A mind like that makes me wonder what the world would be like if she had lived
a little longer.
But it was not so. Nylis approached the door, grabbed the
handle, twisted, and entered the cavernous reading room. Kernden stepped in
behind him, and Kalia barely even noticed. She was absorbed with the shape of a
cloud outside, and the end of a book she had finished, and how she knew, at
some point, that everyone would forget her.
Watching Kalia think, Nylis stopped. He had made his
choice. Finally, with no misgivings, with no decisions otherwise. And he would
do what had to be done.
Nylis turned on one heel, nodded to Kernden, and strode for
the door. There would be no deaths this day.
But Kernden had also made his decision. And, being such a
god as I am, I knew his destiny as well. And when he stepped up behind Kalia’s
chair, knife in hand, I could not bear to look. I had seen it already a
thousand times in Kernden’s eyes: the blood, the quiet gurgle, the rage. And
lastly, that terrible idea when he saw Nylis’s horrified face.
Kernden leapt for Nylis and cuffed him across the side of
the face. The man, unprepared, dropped. He dragged Nylis over to Kalia’s
corpse, dabbed her blood over his hand, face, and neck, and slipped the knife
into his hands. Then, after a quick wash in Kalia’s basin, he put on the best
horrified look he could—not unlike Nylis a minute earlier—and ran to the
Harbel’s door in a fit.
Then he lied, and lied, and lied. And they sent guards up to
Kalia’s reading room, and even once Nylis was awake, they did not believe him.
And on the day he was to be hanged, when he pleaded with the prison keeper, he
was not listened to. I listened.
When he was strung up to be hanged, my eyes were the only
ones filled with tears. A man such as Nylis should not be thrown from the wagon
in such a manner. But that which the wheel decides will and must happen. He
died, and Kernden went free to be made lord of his little village when the
Harbels passed away, for all that he had served them in their time of grief.
He lived a long life. And on his plush deathbed, while
Kernden reflected on his many choices, I watched. I waited for his life to slip
away, and at the moment it did, to catch his soul and deliver it into eternal
judgment.
For his fate was not in the successes of this earth, but of
an everlasting damnation in the choices of his past.
That was The Wheel Turns, another short story I wrote in my writing group! I came up with the prompt for this one: we created our own mythological god, then wrote a story from their perspective with the prompt: "In a freshly-established kingdom, the first murder has taken place: a young noble girl of only twelve. Nylis was blamed and hung for it, but claimed to the end that the fault lay elsewhere."
This god is Cetriphuse, the god of fate and destiny. (Can you tell I'm interested in fate?) I'd be really interested in writing more about him, and how he observes/interacts with the world. I felt pretty good about how I wrote his perspective, too.
I was reflecting today on how much posting my writing on this website has been helpful to me. Everyone's their own worst critic, and that couldn't be more true for me. However, putting things out there and getting them seen is really beneficial for several reasons.
For one, it requires vulnerability. If you want to be in the creative field, you have to get used to rejection, critique, and failure. It's easy to hide behind a wall of anonymity and never show your work, but if you want to push yourself and grow, you must. It's like putting a glass sculpture in the middle of a crowded daycare—it's going to get bonked. And that's okay. Rather, that's good for you.
Second, it puts some restraints on you. You can't keep sections in the mental clouds anymore, you can't keep "(write this later)" in the manuscript, you've got to try and write it! That's one of the most helpful things to learn: when to consider and brainstorm, and when to just write! I used to spend hours and hours worldbuilding, but wouldn't write. I had a cool world, perhaps, but you can't publish a world. And as cool as magic and countries and races are, people don't relate to those. They relate to characters.
And characters only grow when you write them. Get them down on a page; it doesn't matter if it's messy! Once it's down, once it's got bones to it, you can work with it, pull it, change it. You can't get a handle on a cloud. Putting your stuff out there—whether it be to friends, family, or a couple of strangers on the internet—will get you to write.
Dress for the job you want. Pretend you've got a drove of people waiting for your stories, if that's what you want to do with them. Don't delude yourself—be aware that there's a high chance you'll fail. But get excited! Rejoice in the small victories.
And you might find that along the way, you don't even need to get published to feel confident about your stories. You just need people to read them.
We overthink so many things. How we'll phrase a request, how we want to reword something, how we want the finale to feel, and too many times we do more thinking than actual doing. In basically all creative fields, it's better to just go. Get stuff out there. Get critiques. Learn to change, learn to not change.
Learn to flush all those thoughts that are bouncing around in your head down onto paper, and let them go.
SAI LEFT HIS MOTHER TO WHITTLE, FINDING IT TOO HARD TO SAY GOODBYE. The most he had been able to eke out was “I love you” and an assurance
that he was going to keep trying.
But walking back into the house, he realized there was more
to say. More that he had to say, to
set things right. And Hanako had given him the perfect idea.
He plucked a paper from Hanako’s needlessly tall stack on
the table and took it to his room. He had a quill there and took to writing a
letter of his own, but this one wouldn’t travel far.
Sai spent what felt like hours on the thing, worrying over
the phrasing, and repeating again and again in it that he would be okay. This was something he had to do and something
that Dad was calling him to do. He apologized for not telling her earlier, and
that this was the only way he could ensure that he could escape Rakuken. By the
time he finished it, the dappled sun stretched for the horizon. It would be
time soon. He deposited the letter beneath one of his mother’s projects and
hoped it would not be long before she moved it.
Hanako had long finished writing her letter; she had dozed
off on the table, snoring quietly. He stroked her hair and took the sealed
letter. “Dad” was scribbled in neat handwriting on the front. Sai grinned. He
slipped it into his bag and replaced it with the wooden, carved windpipes he
had made for her on the hilltop three days ago.
Sai leaned next to his sister’s ear and whispered, “Goodbye.
I love you.”
Hanako stirred, but did not wake.
As she had said, Theo was nowhere to be found. It’s for the best, thought Sai as he
sat, anxious, in his room. Theo would figure him out. He had barely evaded
Mirai’s prying eyes; if Theo took too long a look at him, he’d figure out
exactly where he was planning to go and when. Sai assured himself that Theo was
busy and gathered up the last thing he needed for his trip: a sack of money.
Eleven jins and six gabs. It was half of his savings. Sai
was grateful that he hadn’t converted his twenty jins into a fela, a shiny gold
coin emblazoned with the steam caverns of the mountains. He stuffed the coins
into a small bren-skin pouch and strung it to his belt. A shiver danced through
his hands and arms as he closed the pouch and stood upright.
That was all he needed. He had said his goodbyes—as best he
could, to those that would listen—and had packed all he needed. He hadn’t found
Theo, but that was okay. Distance would do them good.
He trusted his mother’s letter would take care of things
with Lev. His friend would by soon enough, and Mom could tell him everything.
If Sai tried to tell Lev in person, it wouldn’t go down well. Lev would blab to
Rane, then to his dad, and it would probably get back around to Mirai before
their mother even had a chance to explain. Lev would forgive Sai once he
thought about it.
Mom was soundly asleep, her door pulled tight. He tucked a
sleepy Hanako into her bed, and Mirai was still awake, working something by
candlelight in her bedroom. It was the perfect time.
He hesitated at the door. It would be spans before he saw
this place again. Sai tried to etch every corner and curve into his memory,
breathing in the scent of home, and felt the old sturdy floor through his
boots. He stood there for longer than he had expected, hand on the doorknob,
trembling at the thought of leaving it all behind. Eventually, he took one more
lungful of air, pulled his hunting cloak over his head, and stepped outside.
It was quiet. Very little light penetrated the Tree during
the day. During the night, there were several moons to guide him. Only five of
the eleven were visible tonight, all in different phases of round and crescent.
The closest moon, the Watcher, was full tonight. Sai stared at it through
shifting leaves, catching only glimpses of its soft blue curves. The sun
strengthened him, encouraged him. The light from the moons was of an entirely
different quality. Something about them made him want to go back inside.
Staring up at the dark sky, feeling the night breeze wash over him, Sai felt
wet on his cheeks.
He was crying.
Sai sniffled, pulled his cloak tight to wipe his tears, and
left the protection of the porch. His travel bag over his left shoulder and the
mystery box over his right. The hunting bow was slapping his thigh as he
walked; adjusting it didn’t help. He would move it when he had time. For now,
Sai had a mission: escape from Rakuken.
He set his shoulders, rolled his neck, and reached for the
box on his back. The white thread appeared with a little focus. This was part
of his father’s invitation, so he would have to trust it. He breathed in,
breathed out, and started following the ethereal thread’s path.
It led him first off his home tower, then across the
creaking bridge. Sai stopped in the middle to glance back one last time at his
home. Lev’s house stood near the bridge, not a light within. Forgive me, friend. I’ll bring something
back for you and Rena.
The white thread continued past the agriculture pillars and
onto the one connected to the Windy Mountain, which he and Dad had crossed just
two days ago. Sai watched for the patrol guards; even during the night, this
was the one safe way in or out of Rakuken. By Reza Tharon’s rule, it had to be
guarded at all hours of the day and night. One guard stood at the gate, but Sai
had prepared for that. There were no lanterns patrolling the outer perimeter.
The last thing he had grabbed at home was from his father’s
study: two pitons and forty feet of rope. Sai approached the ledge, gentle
beams of moonlight outlining the point where land ended and open air began.
There, he wedged both pitons in a crag. He cinched the rope beneath the piton’s
hooked head, hammered the metal pin into the rock, and pulled the rope tight,
then dropped the free end of the rope over the ledge.
Rope uncoiled freely into the night air. Sai wondered idly
how he would recover it. By the time the rope hit the ground, he decided he
could—and so would—not. Now came the tricky part.
The guard at the gate rested his head against the archway
leading out ofRakuken. Still no lights
in the forest. He was clear.
Sai approached the craggy ledge on hands and knees. He
pulled on the rope once, twice. Still
tight, he assured himself. You and
Mirai talked about this enough times. It will work. He swallowed, feeling
lightheaded. He wasn’t even off the plateau yet. If I fall, it’s forty feet. People survive those. Usually. Lev survived it. A moment of silence as Sai
set his feet on the ledge and tugged on the rope one more time. He can summon the wind. Doesn’t exactly
count.
If he sat here all night worrying over whether he could get
down, he never would. Better to do it…
he thought, and dropped. It was only a couple of feet, but it felt like ten. He
pulled tight on the rope, feet set against the side of the pillar, and felt his
lifeline taught in his hands.
It held! He
slipped down, all the strain on his hands and shoulders, and found he could
lower himself a few feet at a time. His palms burned at the friction, but soon
enough, he lowered himself far down so that he could drop. Sai lowered himself
to the bottom, just to be safe. When his feet hit the ground, his tight chest
shoved out a breath.
Still no lights dancing in the forest. He could make it. He would make it. Sai grinned, pulled his
bags close so they wouldn’t jangle, and started toward the perimeter of the
hunting grounds.
Further in, golden light from guards’ lanterns poked through
the trees. Sai stayed far away from the beams and walked slowly, keeping his
head low. His heart beat madly in his chest. Sai pressed a hand against his
cloak, sure that the rapid, intense beats would draw the guards.
But he crossed the draped forest without drawing any
attention. One more line of trees, and he would have traveled further than ever
before. Sai approached one, placed a hand on the weather-smoothed alester bark,
and stared at the shadowy form of Rakuken behind him. Goodbye, Mom. Goodbye Hanako, and Mirai. And Theo. I’ll be back.
The night air was cold in his throat. He took in a lungful
of the crisp stuff regardless, breathing deeply in, then out.
A figure stepped from the shadows. Sai stuttered back and
scrambled for the knife at his belt. Upon a second, frenzied look, the angles
and ridges of the face made the figure’s identity obvious: Theo.
Moonlight reflected off the sharpened edge of the Wargrave
halberd planted firmly by his side. An unlit lantern hung from his belt. His
expression was like the blade of a razor: thin, flat, and all edges. “What are
you doing out here?” Sai hissed. “Is this where you’ve been all day?”
Theo stared at the box over Sai’s shoulder. His voice was
low and grave. “I can’t let you leave with that.”
Sai grasped the leather strap of the box. “You don’t even
know what’s inside it.” You can’t stop
me, Theo, he responded in his mind.
Theo jarred his halberd from the earth and, hefting it in
one hand, circled Sai. “How could you not?” Sai opened his mouth; he didn’t
have a retort. All he had was shame. Had his brother figured it out before him
without even inspecting the box? Sai clutched it close to his side. Theo’s eyes
lingered on it. He paused mid-stride. “You can’t feel them?”
“What? This is mine. Dad entrusted it to me.”
Theo took the halberd in both hands. “Sometimes, even Dad
makes mistakes.”
He jabbed the polearm at Sai’s stomach. Sai narrowly dodged
back, bending at the waist to pull his body away. He slipped on a root, caught
himself with a firmly placed foot, then stumbled back as the halberd came at
him from the opposite direction. Sai took three steps back and splayed his
fingers.
“What are you doing?!” His voice rose over the quiet din of
the forest, making lights stir between the trees. One of them approached.
Theo cast a look behind him. “Taking what’s rightfully
mine.”
Sai turned on one heel and ran. He heard the thundering of footsteps behind him—or was that
his heart?—but he kept running. He may be loaded down with bags, but Theo had a
duty to stay in the forest. Go much further, and he would betray that duty on
his first assignment.
Sai ran with all the strength and speed in his legs. His
brother wasn’t one for giving up easily. Tonight, neither would Sai. He pumped
his arms, his legs, and ran until his chest burned and he wanted to collapse.
Then he kept running.
He didn’t check whether Theo was behind him. But neither did
he feel a tug on his bags nor blood dripping from a cut on his legs or arms. He
just kept running.
Sprinting through black trees, stumbling over stumps and
roots getting in the way, further and further down the mountain, Sai ran. He
knew it would take a while to reach the bottom; he didn’t think about that. He
only thought about running and staying ahead of Theo.
Gnarled roots snagged his feet and knees, and he crashed to
the ground, heaving, shaking, chest rapidly rising and falling. Sai pushed
himself up by his elbows, scooted away, and for the first time all night looked
behind him.
No one was there.
That was Chapter 6, the last chapter of Peacemaker that I'll post on here! Sai is safely out of Rakuken, but things between him and Theo have never been worse. If you enjoyed these chapters, I hope you'll keep an eye out for the full book!
Thank you so much for reading! Please, feel free to check out the other short stories on the blog; there are even some set in the world of Hearth! I'll post a Welcome to Hearth page soon enough to give some insight about the world as a whole.
