The Boy:
More go missing over the next few days. The village council argues in the hall day and night, disturbing my sleep because I live in the house next door. It does mean I get news quicker than the other children; like how there's a monster prowling at the edges of our village, the same monster that they suspect killed Hobbes, Locke, and a few other militiamen now. Or how there's a nasty cough that's taking the Springside sector of Havenmarch by storm.
Once, my father waltzes into my room in the middle of the night and puts his ear to the wall.
"What in the name of the spirits are you doing?" I ask him.
"If these blabbering idiots are going to keep me up all night, I might as well eavesdrop," he responds calmly. Well, regarding that at least, we are of the same mind.
Things go about as normal for the most part. The change is slow. Creeping. I can tell it's there, I just don't understand what it is quite yet.
My father gets busier. He makes me work the forges overtime with him now and sometimes, we spend the entire night at the smithy. It is hot, back-breaking work. The village girls laugh when I emerge from the smithery like some hairy ashen man-bear. Even Ella snorts—and I thought she fancied me.
At first I care. I care a whole lot.
Then, as the days mesh together, the only thing that begins to matter is the heat of the forge, the make of the blades, the beauty of the craft. I wasn't born or built for smithing. But, I have almost been forced to start liking it.
I both resent and love my father for that. I know the work is important: the villagers and militia all want weapons on the double. But, I think my father brings me in for more reasons than just that. I think he's passing on the torch. He's teaching me the little things now, the smallest details. What distinguishes a good sword from a great one—stuff like that. It's the most time I've ever spent with him.
I spend less time with the children.
I am finally fourteen when the monster breaks through the walls.
…
Erot:
My routine has been pretty consistent for the past few years. Wake up at the crack of dawn to the cawing of some rooster and bawling of spirit whales passing high above my fields. Take to the horses and brush them, feed the livestock, tend the crops, do a weekly-field check, then update the logbook. It's not as glamorous as my… previous life was. Yet, it works. It's enough.
It's been enough for twenty-five years. Honestly, I wonder at times why I haven't gone mad. Then, Dandy or Ferot or lil Jack comes and falls on their face in the mud, or they kick a chicken and set the whole flock hounding after them and that makes me smile. It's always the children that have pulled me back. Yet, they are getting older. As am I.
I am growing weaker.
I hate that.
My bones creak and crack like the bent-up wood shed at the outskirts of our farm. Sometimes, when I bend down to rip out a crop, my leg buckles and I crumble to the dirt, panting like a mutt. It's humiliating. I am glad none of the children see me like this.
Once, however, someone does see me in that vulnerable state.
As I bend down to grasp the soft hair of a blossom-berry, my leg rumbles something fierce and I yelp in pain. A hand steadies from falling.
"You alright Erot?" the voice asks. I sigh, thanking the heavens that it's not the little ones.
"Raiten—I'm fine, just give me a second," I say, steadying myself by flapping my arms about. However, instead of letting me be, Raiten hooks his arms under my pits and hoists me up. I grunt, shooing him off and dusting the dirt off my loins. "You're too kind for yer own good."
Raiten chuckles at this. "I think this is the first time anyone has described me as, 'too kind.'"
I raise an eyebrow at the lad. He has a strong look about him now; some muscle on those bones of his and his hair is no longer wild and wily, but cut clean and sharp, kept long but manageable. He looks more the part of a warrior than a farmer. I knew who he was the moment I saw him—the type of man he was at least. I could see it in his eyes.
Those hungry, haunted irises.
"You sure you alright Erot?" Raiten asks, waving a hand in front of my face. I snap out of my trance and stand to my full height, stretching out.
"Don't mind me lad. Just lost in my thoughts, is all."
"Hmm. I see. Well, I'll be off now—if I'm late, your Dandy will sic her lizard on me." He spins on his heels to head off, hopping on Redtail. Right. No wonder he found me. I let him take riding duties today. When did I become so forgetful? I hold my head, as if doing that would preserve whatever memories yet remain in this useless noggin.
Before Raiten can canter off I call out to him: "Raiten!"
He turns back to me, patiently awaiting my answer. But, I have lost my train of thought once more. It is on the tip of my tongue too… something important.
I struggle to stammer out the words before, giving him a grunt and just saying, "Yer a good lad Raiten. That's all I wanted to tell you." Though it wasn't what I originally meant to say, I truly do mean it. He has been a tremendous help on the farm for the past few weeks and he has been a good friend of the children. The only thing I dislike about the young man are his nightly visits to good old mayor Sorina.
Raiten looks mildly shocked by my words. However, once he seems to process them, he gives me a little bow and rides off into the fields.
…
The Boy:
Jonah has come. The original missing boy, the one who started this whole mess.
When he climbs over the walls and starts tearing into the homes of the Eastern side, the young men rally to help. I slap a sword into each of their hands and soon find myself being tugged along by their wave of rage, running along with them.
We come as a mob rather than an army. And we see the beast in the glow of moonlight: young Jonah, upturned, mouth agape, eyes dead, face bloated with parasites and detritus, black worms wriggling out of his pores, eight giant spider-like legs protruding from his back and carrying his body like an offering. Those are what cause the most damage—those hairy legs claw their way into the roofs and kill without pity, without bias.
They skewer Ella's mother now. She's screaming as her Ma's blood comes spattering like rain, drenching her in gore, all while the too wide, too giddy maw of Jonah opens up and takes little child-sized bites out of the woman's head. He grows bored of her soon and tosses her half-gutted torso away, trailing entrails across the rooftops.
Before Jonah can kill Ella, our mass of men and hunter-women get over themselves and finally attack.
Not that it matters.
Jonah's legs move in a whirlwind, spinning like dark blades. He slices and sluices, cleaves and executes our company. We are not soldiers. We die like peasants.
I see limbs fly, spraying blood like rain. An arm soars above my head.
I cower behind the others, arms shaking, my sword slipping out of my hand. I fumble to pick it up—scramble back once the head of a hunter comes rolling my way.
This is insanity.
I am about to run, to hide away and abandon it all. I am no adult to be fighting here, amongst everyone else. I should be hiding away with the other children. I do not deserve this.
Then, I watch as my father, shaking and cursing like a sailor, goes running into the fray. I yell at him and begin to mutter a litany of curses. Then, I surprise myself by following in his footsteps, flanking around the beast. My father wields a large hammer and smashes it against one of the creature's legs, actually making Jonah stumble.
The spider-child wheels on him and screams.
Black worms issue forth from its mouth.
I take to the roofs, sliding across scales and tiles.
Then, before the monster can swipe at my father, I scream and jump on its back, stabbing at Jonah's head. Black blood sputters all over me, viscous and thick like honey. Worms squeal. Some leave Jonah's nose and mouth, coming towards me. Too many. As Jonah falls, I am thrown from his back, rolling on the dirt, yelling and scrambling to get the damn worms off me.
Not that it matters.
They burrow into my nose, eat into my skin, eat up to my brain. I hear people screaming.
I need to be a forgemaster.
I wish I could chase fireflies.
But now, I have risen.
My father is the first one I kill. Then Emma. Then… Well, it's like catching fireflies, in a way. Except, instead of letting the bugs free, you snuff their light.
And thus I get my dream. I become a messenger, chasing fireflies all across the village and beyond.
…
Dandy:
The sun hangs low when Raiten finally arrives. I blow my tongue at him out of spite. Lizzy has gotten too attached to him over the past few days. Without Raiten, the shepherd lizard refuses to do its job. That's what I get for tending to the lizard for the past five years, all on my own. As soon as she sees someone new, Lizzy clings to him like a spurned lover from one of Mama's books. It's so annoying!
"Sorry Dandy, sorry. I got held up by Hansel and Ferot," he says, but I won't hear any of it. I give him a loud and sufficiently dramatic HMPH! Before turning my back to him. Who does he think he is, keeping me waiting? "I can see that you're angry with me. But…"
Something flashes in front of me, a glint of metal catching the golden sunlight. Raiten dangles a flower blade—I squeal in excitement.
"Give me!" I say, jumping up to grasp it. I nearly snatch the dagger by the blade itself before Raiten expertly pulls it away. I whimper. "Come on Raiten! You know how much I've wanted this thing."
He strolls in front of me and bends down to my level first. Then, with a wicked smile, Raiten grabs the flower-wreathed handle of the blade and holds it even higher.
"A few ground rules Dandy: don't point it at anyone you like, don't play with it too recklessly, and for the love of all the Clans and their wretched Elders, do not grab the dagger by the blade!"
"All right, all right!" I hold my hands out placatingly. "Sorry."
He sighs. Then, he hands the blade over to me. The metal is slick, the petals are soft and red and blue and oh so beautiful. And the spine of the blade hums with a deep, ethereal energy. Mama used to read me tales about flower blades and their incanta powers. I always wanted to buy one from the market, yet Erot wouldn't let me.
And now I hold one in the palm of my hands.
"Teach me!" I ask Raiten, bending low and bowing like they do in those books.
Raiten chuckles. "You don't want me as a teacher Dandy. That would be the blind leading the blind. Seriously. I'll try and find you a teacher—maybe Sorina. For now, just learn how to handle the blade carefully. And… safely."
With a grin, I hold the blade out to Raiten. He backs up, grimacing.
"What's rule number one Dandy?"
"You said don't point it at people you like! I hate you right now Raiten!"
"But, I just got you the dagger and everything –"
"You were late!" I yell, giving my best warcry. And so, rather than herding the sheep back into their pens, I spend the evening chasing Raiten with a dagger and yelling, all while his laugh bubbles throughout the fields.
…
The Boy:
Walk—walk—walk—walk, walking through the streets. Mother dead, gone, destroyed, rotting in the gloom. Father alive—alive— alive—then dead, scarlet line across his throat, hand clutching mine, eyes asking why?
The worms have starved. They ran out of tissue to feed on a long while ago.
Foot—foot—foot—foot, blistered and boiling, black and bubbling. Pus and blood leaking.
I am in and out of bleeding consciousness. I realize that insanity is an illusion.
Break break break break again once more.
They—they—they watch and they watch and they wander and wonder who I am but they do not know.
Last time. For the last time, I am sober under the sun, drinking in the meadows.
And then, the ache comes back with a vengeance.
Run—run—run—run—run I tell them, run! Yet my mouth does not move. Meadow, dead zone, witch, wake, fireflies and snakes—disparate thoughts race and plague.
March march march march marching up and down again.
I stumble into the lady with crimson hair. Her red eyes peer out through a wooden mask.
She points me South.
Blood slick, dead head, eye falls out and pus dribbles, bleeds, and they look and watch and see me now, understand me now, and I smile at them for they have finally witnessed the running the dead the fields of bodies I have seen oh I have seen it all, fourteen years of peace to grant me weeks of beautiful, ultimate pain.
And now they shall know it too.
After all, there's no cure.
And now, I see the new fireflies.
…
The Girl:
I am trying to juggle oranges when I see the boy. His clothes are brown, ratty, and torn. His hair is a mat of grease and dirt, blood and dried sweat. I sniff the air and close my nose with my hands, backing away, taking cover from the assaulting scent behind my stall.
"Hey! Go away!" I yell, tossing an orange at him. It hits him in the shoulder, and, to my surprise, completely knocks the boy over. Damn! I jump over my stall, running to the boy. Mother and father will kill me for this. They have gone to talk with the other vendors in Takemeadow, as they always do on early mornings like these.
"Sorry! Sorry, you alright?" I ask as I approach. Then, when I stand over him, I can't help but cover my mouth.
His body is wrought with black sores, bumps and pus leaking from his arms. Yellow boils on his face. One particularly obtrusive boil has colonized his left eye socket. It pumps white and red, like a bloated heart.
I back away, breath quickening.
But he clutches my leg. Tripping, I let out a scream.
His mouth moves.
I can barely hear him.
Then, he too begins to yell: "March! March! March! Mad mad mad mad I am not mad for I have seen it and so shall you!" His grip tightens and he points with his other finger. "And so shall you!"