《Growing Wings》


 The Tower I

    It must¡¯ve been summer that day. The sun beamed high in the sky as it always did, beaming its baleful gaze down upon the backs of the humble Iberii fishermen of Costa Verde. The air reeked of salt and ash, with the former hailing from the sea breeze down to the south, barely just warding off the latter as clouds and specks of Ash attempted to worm it¡¯s way past the tiniest crevices of the Great Divide to the east.


    The scent of ash, however, was all the more stronger today. Fortunately, there were no Ashstorms to speak of; Merely fires, and the things that burn and fade so easily beneath its covetous fingers.


    There was a village here once, just a few ways off the shore. Every morning, its residents would be greeted by the sound of the waves and the endless waters that stretched far on from the horizon. Despite what the laymen and the scholars might say, the sea was a colorful, whimsical beast. In the noon, it would¡¯ve been dyed with deep soulful hues of blues and greens as it beckoned the fishermen over to go beyond the horizon, the waves gently foaming and lapping away at their heels while they loaded themselves and their gear into their rickety old skiffs.


    Come dusk, they would find themselves sailing home as the sun sets to the west, dying the emerald seas red with the gleam of burning rubies as the day slowly recedes and gives way to the cold sapphire hues of the night.


    In the distance, they would see their homes; Houses lining the shores as open windows glimmered as though they were the stars through which the old, weary fishermen would chart themselves home.


    But today was different, yes.


    The sky was blue as it could¡¯ve been, peeking through the pillars of thick, black-ish smog as the scent of burnt meat lingered softly in the air, making stomachs gargle, twist, and churn in equal measure as a singular man¡ªunexceptional in every way, swung his harpoon at the air with wild abandon, fending off beast after beast, though he found it quite difficult to actually hurt them.


    He had poor form; With each and every one of his swings a bit too wide, almost toppling himself over in no small part due to his poor footing. Perhaps he would¡¯ve been a better fighter out at sea, where the boats and ships rocked uneasily in tandem with the waves, but alas, on still grounds and crumbling sands, he was only slightly better than a flailing child.


    But if there was one thing he was proud of, it would¡¯ve been his body. Built and scarred with the days and years he had spent out at sea; Arms stocky with muscle built from casting and heaving nets day after day, hour after hour. The skin of his hands thick and calloused from handling roughly hewed wood and rope. All that time and effort couldn¡¯t have been for nothing, no? How could it fail him now, when he needed it the most?


    But the truth was that he didn¡¯t need his strength now, as much as he did just then. How long ago, he was not quite sure. Every second seemed to stretch on to agonizing eternity and he found himself lost: Here, vision blurry from the sweat and tears as his extremities burned from either exertion or actual burns. He did not know. He could not tell, as all that echoed in his head was the sound of his own grunts and yells as he swung and brandished his weapon against anything the beasts that strayed just a bit close.


    Wolves. Wolves, and more wolves. All come crawling to this burnt heap of a hamlet in search of easy meals after the fires had done most of the bloody work. Homes, lay battered and in flames as these scoundrels dug and dragged the charred corpses of his neighbors from the debris out into the open, smearing their black-red viscera into the sandy ground as skin and muscle, embrittled and cooked by the fires, broke before the force of the beasts'' bite and pull. He saw one corpse have stomach crack open like an egg after a wolf had attempted to pull it out of a collapsed shed, and it barely even took seconds for the rest of the pack to jump into the bloodied trail to bite, gnaw, and tear at the spilled entrails.


    The fisherman balks, almost throwing up, but even his instincts seemed to know all-too-well the price of distractions in his current situation. The only reason he had not been swarmed and quartered by these horrid ravenous beasts was the presence of easier meat, and for as long as he could hold his harpoon tightly in his hands and other bodies remained, he would remain safe.


    And more importantly, his family would be as well.


    He stood alone in front of his rickety old shack, with nothing but the clothes on his back and a measly harpoon in his hands, dulled and rusted from excessive use, recent or otherwise. Much of his home had collapsed, much like the rest of the houses that comprised this ruined little hamlet, and perhaps the only reason the entirety of his home did not go up in flames was in no small part due to the damp salty air that pushed up from the shores of the coast. For that, he was thankful, but given that his house was slightly uphill in comparison to the rest of his village, the stench of fresh blood, cooked meat, and spilt viscera mixing in with the brine of the warm sea breeze almost felt unbearable against the hairs of his nose.Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.


    A wolf slowly approaches from the fisherman''s side¡ªThin, gangly, and sickly. It had apparently gotten tired of squabbling with the rest of its kindred and would rather take its chances with the worn down man. It keeps itself and its ears low to the ground, baring its teeth with a growl in an open display of challenge. One that he answered heartily with another yell and a threatening stab of his weapon, to which it seemed to retreat a step, but did not seem all to pleased with the rather wary but impassioned reception.


    It lunges¡ªswiftly, though not swift enough that the man was wholly unprepared. He steps back with his right foot, narrowly dodging the attack with just enough time and presence of mind to retaliate by swinging his harpoon downwards where the hook of the makeshift blade burrows and latches itself beneath the wolf¡¯s skin. The fisherman feels resistance, his weapon almost flying out of his hands as the beast¡¯s momentum instantly bled unto the harpoon, but before he could even think, his reflexes kick in.


    He holds fast, reeling the harpoon backwards as though it were a rod with a particularly stubborn catch; He tears it free from the wolf¡¯s pelted skin, eliciting a sharp yelp and a splash of crimson, glimmering as it drew an elegant, haphazard arc in the air while the man finds himself almost frozen in time.


    He can barely hear the sound of his own heart but even still, he could feel its incessant rush, urging him to move¡ªhowever, whenever, as long as he did something. Anything else but stand still.


    Sluggishly, with the pace of a snail leaving trails of slime behind as it crawled up the surface of a seaside rock, inch by agonizing inch, he watches as the wolf fumbles its landing, too distracted by the pain of the newly earned wound by its side; A splash of pink in the otherwise grays and browns furs of this matted feral beast. It falls, stumbling disgracefully onwards before crashing against the closest wall; The house of his annoying drunkard of a neighbor who always had something to drink, even in spite of the protestations of the drunkard''s wife who was always just a few steps away from snapping and getting sick of his antics.


    Did they make it?


    The fisherman didn¡¯t know. There was so much that he didn¡¯t know. He didn¡¯t have the time to think, however, as the ruckus the wolf had made somehow echoed clearly through the crackling of fires and the ravenous tearing of flesh. Every wolf perks their heads up, and finds their eyes suddenly fixed at him. Those that had their meals secured remained silent, mostly uncaring as they soundlessly resumed chewing on their meals, but there were those have-nots that have either run out of flesh to gorge themselves upon or were simply too slow to catch themselves a few bites before they were subsequently scared away by their larger, better fed kin.


    Ah.


    Death has come for him. He could hear it now, the galloping of its trusty steed¡¯s heels rapidly encroaching upon him as the wolves did the much the same, only at a slower pace. The beasts¡¯ ears drawn back, teeth laid bare by feral wrathful scowls. But just as the first beast began to make its move, the fisherman catches movement in the corner of his eyes. A shadow swiftly looms over him, arms raised in the air in the impression of a beheading swing aimed at his neck¡ªjust in tandem with the lunging of a wolf from another one of his flanks¡ª


    Ah.


    Ah.


    Ah.


    Nothing comes to mind. Only silence, and the distant crackling of a hearth, still echoing in his ears. A dull weight presses itself upon his eyelids, breath shallow while his extremities burned with exertion. Exhaustion. There was no other word for it. All his courage, all his determination, suddenly vanished with the wind. Like bubbles foaming at the shore, bursting without a trace as the tide recedes back into the ocean.


    It has left him.


    His lungs squeeze once again, out of dread and resignation, though there was barely enough time for a sigh to escape the sore confines of his throat. And then¡ª


    *Bang!*


    *Whine!*


    He hears it. The sounds send him recoiling slightly backwards as a burst of air slams against his sides, but strangely, he feels no pain. He could still feel the soles of his slippered feet press his weight against the ground while his skin simmered and boiled with the warmth of his pumping blood¡ªthe sensation only mildly tinged by the prickling of frayed nerves and cold sweat.


    The fisherman opens his eyes, and he winces once again¡ªthe bright flickering of fires overwhelming against the thin film of dried mucus that coated his bloodshot eyes, but even then, he could see it. A blurry silhouette in the faint outline of a steed, somehow not quite as pale and ephemeral as he had been told. Instead an earthy brown, like freshly tilled soil or the shade of newly waxed wood.


    And riding this steed was not the gauntly pale figure wrapped in the rotten black fabrics he had heard from the stories, but rather, a silver, shimmering thing cobbled together in the loose shape of a man. THEY held not a scythe in their outstretched arm, but a staff, fashioned into the shape of a thin, elongated cross; Not of rotten wood and rusted iron, but of stone, judging by the ways in which the staff refused to glisten and glimmer before the raging flames of his burning hamlet.


    But above all that, what the man found most notable of all, was the image of a wolf, sent sailing through the air as specks of blood, fang, and broken bone scattered all over.


    "Nolie timere, rusticus."


    "Nam adfui."

 The Tower II

    ¡°A knight?¡± The fisherman could not help but rubs his eyes in doubt as he bore witness to a sight that he¡¯s only seen once as a boy. Perhaps not even directly, as the memory lingered in his mind so faintly that it seemed as though the impression came from a story.


    His father once told him Ascalon was the home of pride and honor, where virtuous knights roamed the streets to maintain peace and order. They stood tall, coated in shimmering glint of Ascalonian steel plates, of such elaborate make that each piece seemed much like painting; Inscriptions, telling tales of dragons, brigands, and demons all felled by the hands of heroes holding heroic blades of Ascalonian make.


    He dreamt of becoming one, as any boy should. It was the dream of children to have more than their parents ever could, and perhaps the latter dreamt much of the same. For the skies to remain ever clear, and for the light to remain immutable as it guided the children down the straight paths of a life devoid of hardship and adversity.


    But such is the nature of dreams, no? To be distant? Unreachable, as they glimmer on from high, like the stars in the sky? Like the home, from which children were born and raised, fading further and further behind them as they cheerfully sprinted away in pursuit of the day, never knowing of the days they will leave so far behind.


    ¡°Ariete, Thiago!¡± The Knight boisterously commands as he raised his staff high into the air while his steed drew its forelegs high in much a similar manner as well. Suddenly, with a huge gust of air, the mount charges ahead with a loud, vigorous cry, just in time for the Knight to bring down his weapon in a massive, sweeping strike that cleared the clamoring of wolves in front of them, with the beasts either sent flying or fleeing by the sheer force of the strike alone.


    As the wolves fled in fearful whines and cries with their tails tucked in tightly between their legs, the fisherman then, could not help but notice the fact that the knight¡¯s steed was in fact not a steed at all, but rather, a bull¡ªA toro, of black, thinly furred sun-scorched skin, and of raging bulk and muscle just poorly contained within its rippling physique, as was made evident by the puffs of white mist it exhaled from its nose with every breath.


    The Knight¡¯s voice as well, the fisherman could not help but note¡ªseemed a touch bit higher than his steely exterior would¡¯ve implied. It did not matter, of course, though the strangeness of it all does lend credence to the idea that old fisherman might¡¯ve been dreaming all along.


    ¡°Tu! Rusticus!¡± The Knight calls out, shaking the man out of his stupor. ¡°Ubi sunt ceteri!?¡±


    ¡°Wait¡ªuh, tch¡ªah, goddammit!¡± The man stumbles over his words and breath, suddenly aware of the fact that he did not speak Iberian at all. At least, not all that well. ¡°Ego, noli, Iberianus!¡±


    ¡°Ah?¡± The Knight¡¯s pause was as incredulous as it was palpable. ¡°Iterum dic?¡±


    ¡°Iberiana, not good, very bad!¡± The shorter, notably steedless man ¡®elaborates¡¯ with a few choice gestures towards his mouth and a vigorous shaking of his head.


    ¡°Esne Ascalonus!?¡± The Armored One seemed to perk up a bit at that.


    ¡°Ita! Ita!¡± Finally, naively thought the fisherman. ¡°Ego, Ascalonus, Ita!¡±


    ¡°You should have¡ª¡± The Knight suddenly pauses, tugging at the reigns of their agitated steed and forcing it to make an abrupt turn just in time to gore its horns against a particularly rude wolf who had the very bright idea butting in the midst of a very important discussion. ¡°¡ªstarted with that!


    "Survivors!¡± The Knight then loudly continues, turning their attention back to the man. ¡°Are there more left?¡±


    His wife. His son.


    ¡°Ita¡ª¡± The man catches himself, ¡°¡ªYes! My family, they¡¯re still¡ª!¡±


    A deep, loud cry however, cuts the pair off amidst their conversation. A sound then, that was followed shortly by the sound of a loud crack and the Knight¡¯s burden beast abruptly springing into motion; It gallops forward, kicking its hind legs into the air where another wolf had now found itself with its fangs and jaws locked tightly against the poor old toro¡¯s leg. It desperately clamped for its dear life, growling viciously even as it fluttered on high in the scorching air, much akin to laundry on a particularly windy day.


    The Knight reacts swiftly, not even uttering a sound as their staff once more came swinging about like a hammer¡ªIt meets the feral beast by the back of its neck with such force that it could not even let out a cry of pain as its neck instantaneously snaps and the force of the blow forces its throat shut before air could even dare to burst out of the its lungs.Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.


    Unfortunately, however, that particular course of action failed to take into account the fact that the poor wolf¡¯s fangs had still burrowed themselves deep unto dear old Thiago¡¯s leg, and instead of simply dislodging and coming lose, they gouge out no small amount of flesh before said teeth were then forcibly dislodged from the wolf¡¯s broken gums, and all of them scatter, along with the beast¡¯s soon to be remains more than a few feet away.


    ¡°Tch. Vah¡ª¡± The Knight curses under their breath as they worriedly ran a soothing hands on the bristled furs that ran along the length of his beloved steed¡¯s back while it irately brays. ¡°Serenare, Thiago. Bene es?¡±


    The beast, of course, has no response. Though perhaps the sudden shaking off its head seemed answer enough, as coincidental as the act had been. The Knight¡¯s lapse in morale and bravado must¡¯ve been obvious, judging by the reaction of the rest of the wolves. They had looked up from their meals of nothing but scorched bone and leathery scraps of cloth, locking their voracious gazes upon the veritable stack of meat that had now presented itself before them¡ªLured over by the scent of blood, fear, and fresher cuts of meat that far outstripped the likes of burnt, meatless cadavers that they¡¯ve been desperately gnawing away at for the last few hours or so.


    ¡°Do you need¡ª¡±


    ¡°Non, bene rusticus!¡± The Knight promptly cuts the fisherman off with a slight raising of their free hand. ¡°We will handle this. Go, to your family. We shall act as bait!¡±


    ¡°¡­Are you sure?¡±


    ¡°Wounds are best put to use, non? No matter, we have been through worse. You are needed elsewhere. Urgently, perhaps.¡±


    ¡°Right.¡± The man nods, though a tinge of hesitation remained in his expression.


    Still, he could not find it in him to waste the chance that he had been given, not when his benefactors had already paid the price for it. They were right, in a sense; There was more use to pain than suffering.


    And so did the fisherman ran, turning his attention back to the burning remains of his home, where against all odds, the door remained steadfast amongst the flames. Immutable, and utterly unassailable. Precisely how a door should be, except of course in the precise predicament that he now finds himself in.


    He reaches for the old iron handle¡ªan evidently bad move on his part in no small part to the searing heat that now branded itself unto his hands with a scalding hiss. He pays it no mind, however, instead opting to push the door open with forceful shove, only to meet resistance.


    ¡°Ines!¡± The fisherman hoarsely calls out¡ªAnxious. Desperate. ¡°Are you there, Ines!? It¡¯s me! Open the door!¡±


    There¡¯s no response, save¡ªhowever, for the incessant crackling of fire. A chill quickly comes crawling up the man¡¯s spine, and with renewed vigor, he repeatedly slams his fist against the unmoving door.


    ¡°Lif! Is your mother alright!?¡± Once again, no answer.


    The man pushes himself off the door, quite literally tearing the molten, seared skin of his hands off the old iron handle without paying the pain any mind. Whether or not he did not notice, or simply didn¡¯t care, was besides the point.


    All that mattered to him at the moment was that he get this blasted, infernal door out of his God damned way.


    And so he tries again, and again, and again, and again, with each lackluster attempt accompanied by the hissed curse beneath his laborious breaths.


    He felt helpless, and yet at the same time so utterly consumed by the fires of determination and desperation; Both made inseparable and intangible within the intermingling screams of instincts that howled out from within the hollowed confines of his worthless head.


    He was useless, that much he knew. He had always been useless, but even still¡ªshe chose him. Amongst all others, she chose a stranger who could not even care for himself, let alone others. He was loved¡ªand that love had saved him in all the ways that he found so difficult to put to words. It was all that mattered in the world.


    He hadn¡¯t thanked her nearly enough, for staying by his side through the darkest of hours. He hadn¡¯t cherished her dearly enough, for finding him when he was lost, time and time again. And most of all, he had not loved her deeply enough, for all the love that he been given, which had given him more hope and warmth than he could¡¯ve ever hoped to know in his long lived life as an irredeemable dullard of no significant worth.


    He would not let it end here, he couldn¡¯t¡ªHe would never forgive himself if he did.


    At long last, the door gives way to his relentless barrage with a thunderous crack that he alone could¡¯ve known. Fissures form along the surface of the old, withering wood and he knew, at this point that the door would not hold for long before came asunder, as long as he held fast in his attempts to bash it down with his shoulder.


    Finally, the fisherman releases the handle, though perhaps it would¡¯ve been more apt to say that he tore his hand free from the burning scrap of metal that had molten and singed the skin of his palm. He could barely feel the pain, apparently drowned out by the ceaseless ringing that droned incessantly into his ears, only accompanied by the frantic, pulsing rhythm of his pounding chest and whatever ruckus there was going on behind him.


    He takes a deep breath, takes a step backwards to earn himself a little more momentum, and then¡ª


    =HA!=


    He yells, mustering every bit of force he could within the cramped confines of his battered old shell once more before slamming his numb, aching shoulder against the door¡ªwhich now gives way to his advance with an explosion of dust, debris, and splinters.


    Only to be met with darkness and silence.

 The Tower III

    Come early evening, an uncanny silence came to settle over the scorched remains of the village. The Knight stood in the midst of the desolate plaza, panting, as they leaned much of their weight and heft against their stone Cross. Tired, yes, but certainly victorious.


    The wolves had left. Most of them, anyway. Those that couldn¡¯t, might as well have been dead; bones battered and shattered by the weight of the blows that the Knight had so handily dealt. They ought to finish them off later, grant these beast¡¯s the Lord¡¯s mercy¡­ at their earliest convenience. Perhaps right after they take a moment to catch their own breath.


    Thiago, for the most part, had laid himself down by the side of what seemed to be the old village well with his chin rested flatly on the rough cold floor just beside a half-filled bucket of water. Likely more empty than full, by the time the old toro had been done with it. Frankly, it was more surprising how the bucket still had some water, with how busy the pair had been in this blazing heat. He was unharmed for the most part, though he will not be wandering about any time soon. Well, he could¡ªbut it was best not to tempt fate when it comes to the temperament¡¯s of bull. God knows they had been pushing it enough as is.


    The old boy had been through a lot today, The Knight couldn¡¯t help but admit. Perhaps it would¡¯ve been a better choice to leave the old beast back at the monastery to live off its last few months in peace, but alas, the horses quite loathed the Knight with such visceral vitriol, that had he gotten any closer than a few feet, their helm would¡¯ve been caved in along with fractured remains of their face.


    Certainly, not the most graceful end a knight could hope for. But alas, such was the nature of death. So often ugly and disgraceful, coming at the most inopportune times. They were once more reminded the dearly beloved, now departed Vetus Pater Francis Federico del Florido Viento¡ªGod bless his soul¡ªwho had slipped away into the outhouse in the darkest covers of the deepest nights to heed the call which no man nor woman e¡¯er had the hopes of rejecting;


    The call of nature. A number two, if you will¡ªas a most studied scholar of the Arxiva had once put it.


    Most unfortunately, the late Pater did not return from the aforementioned call and rendezvous, and that morning the monks were soon awakened by the horrified screams of an initiate, likely beckoned over to the outhouse by calls of (likely) similar nature, only to be greeted by the collapsed form of Pater Federico as he¡­


    Perhaps some things are left unsaid. In the name of grace, dignity, and respect. All things that a man ought to have in life¡­ and in death. Oh, and women too. Humanity, then. But just them? Are we all not brothers and sisters, cousins and neighbors, sharing the same earth, land, and breath? What of the heathens?


    What heathens? Were they not people as well? Should we not treat our enemies with deference and respect? Violence is sometimes necessary, yes, but is civility truly out of the question?


    Fairness, the Knight believed, was a universal vision that all of humanity shared and strove to uphold! T''was the basis of order, and that which brings rebellion to slumber! After all, t''was only right for the people to rise to when they have been wronged, for t''was their right to put to fire those who would dare fan the flames of injustice!


    Speaking of flames, weren¡¯t they forgetting something¡­?


    ¡°Ah.¡± The peasant man. From Ascalon. Was he¡­ from Ascalon? They didn¡¯t get that much of a good look, considering the situation, but he did have black hair, yes? Not exactly the most uncommon when it comes to the features of various peoples across the surrounding lands.


    Perhaps letting the man run off on his was not amongst the wisest of options. But what else was there to do? Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on the original website.


    Urgency. Life was a matter of urgency and consequence. ¡®Tis the nature of man to folly, and it was in one¡¯s best interest to hope and strive for the best, as little hope of rightness there can be in one¡¯s life.


    And speaking¡ªonce more¡ªof urgency, they really do ought to get to it.


    And so, with a heavy sigh and a passing nod to poor Thiago as the weary beast lay there resting, the Knight pushes themself of their staff and begins walking. There were not that many houses to search through, and surely, they would stumble unto the man eventually.


    ===


    It did not take a while for just that to happen. The search took less effort than the Knight had initially thought, as they had mostly skipped through the homes that seemed somewhat beyond salvation: Crumpled thatch roofing, collapsed windows and doorways, and buildings that seemed to have nothing but walls left standing. And while they were at it, they fulfilled their self-assumed duty of putting crippled beasts out of their misery (sans Thiago, of course. The old toro was wounded, not crippled. He¡¯ll heal it off, just as he always has.)


    It was most unfortunate, that they did not find much in the way of survivors, but what was there to do, really? They had arrived late enough as is; T¡¯was only due to the smoke that they had found this burning seaside hamlet in the first place. T¡¯was only the nature of Iberii settlements to spontaneously appear and disappear as the Iberii gather and scatter to there and wherever.


    Perhaps had the Knight spent less time leisurely wandering about to hither and dither upon old Thiago¡¯s back, they would¡¯ve saved a greater number of lives than a measly one, but that would¡¯ve required running the old bull ragged. He still had it in him, yes, but t¡¯was not by much. Besides, t¡¯was not as if their time spent traveling was spent idly. There was much to be seen and faced in the countryside, especially now after the armistice, after the Militia Iberii was decommissioned by those short-sighted serpentine aristocracy of the Capitol.


    Time was a terrible thing; There was only either too little or too much. Perhaps it was a sign that the Knight simply spent theirs poorly, but who was to say, really? God only made the world in seven days, and had he taken more time, surely the world could¡¯ve been a kinder, just-er place. But he did not, and so It, in turn was not. T''was up to His children to pick up the slack, though of course, children were children. And so often did children leave places and things a bit worse for wear in their wake.


    One day. The Knight idly thinks to themselves. One day, I pray, that even sights like these may completely disappear. Even if only for their peace of mind.


    That was the only thing that really came to mind as he stepped rough stone threshold of the old scorched house. The thatching was barely intact, with scorched, rotten pillars of wood collapsed down to the floor from here to there, breaking the floorboards just beneath it. It was the far corners of the interior that took the brunt of the damage; Rubble, debris, detritus¡­ and hands, poking out of the ashen clump in the corner. Singed black by its base, with fingers frozen stiff as they jutted out in tense, grasping hooks into the open air. One of them; A left hand, fairly slender in shape¡ªthough it was hard to tell as the fires had likely sloughed off most of the flesh, and the other, a right hand, notably smaller, and placed closer to the floor than the one from before.


    And before it all was the slumped figure of a man, kneeling motionlessly on the floor with his hands lying limply by his side.


    The Knight stands by the entrance, signing a cross with their right hand, while they setting their Cross to their left with their left just by the doorframe, before then entering the room fully. The wooden floorboards creak and moan heavily beneath their weighty steps, but the man does not stir. The shadows of the broken roofing and the fading light of the day did not obscure much, but it was more than enough to obscure the man¡¯s complexion. For a moment, The Knight wonders if the man was still alive¡ªperhaps his spirit had left him in much the same way the late Pater Federico¡ªGod bless his soul¡ªhad met his untimely demise, but the hushed sounds of weak but steady breathing eases their concern somewhat.


    Instead, they pat the man by his shoulder before making their way past him, heading straight for the hands that jutted out from the rubble. Wordlessly, then, they reach for the heaviest piece of debris, and begins the laborious process of heaving it and fellows up, one by one.


    The man watches motionlessly, his mind still reeling. But by the time the Knight had set aside the 9th scrap of rubble, the man had already risen to his feet, and just like then, he wordlessly joined the Knight as they picked up the pieces of what was supposed to be their responsibility to begin with.

 Tower IV

    ¡°Might I ask you a question, good man?¡± The Knight quietly asks, their voice echoing slightly from within the confines of their helm as the sea breeze did its best to drown their voice out. Not that it did.


    ¡°Hm. Whatever happened to rusticus?¡± The fisherman then promptly fired back a question of his own. His hands were busy as he shuffled about back and forth, busily tending to the ropes that bound the leather covers of an apparently loaded boat. The summer air was warm thick with the swirling, mixing stenches of staleness, cooked meat, and the wet, mossy brines of the sea. He could almost chew it, and the thought alone almost made his stomach turn inside out.


    ¡°I¡­ thought better of it.¡± They admit, albeit with some hesitation.


    ¡°That so?¡±


    It had been a busy evening. The sun had set quite a while ago, fading along the vast horizon to the west. Just further in land, over the forests where fresher winds seemed keen to go. The night, however, seemed to tarry on. To the east, from atop the towering grayed ranges of The Great Divide burned another sun, just barely out of view. A smoldering red line lined the edges of the eastern sky. Its boiling red hues seeming to spill overhead as it painting the night with a thick gradient of purples that ought to only be seen in the looming of dusk and the blooming of dawn. Somewhere up there, was the moon, looming with a barely visible, almost tactless grin. The stars were nowhere to be found.


    The pair stood by the shoreline, just a few paces away from the waters. The tides were anything but calm, but it was not as if they were tumultuous either. It hissed, and crashed, and crawled up the shore, tickling the fisherman¡¯s feet while the Knight stood further in land¡ªThe salt and water was bad for the armor, see? And it was not as if their gloved hands were dexterous enough to properly tie knots, if they even knew how. Surely, they would¡¯ve served better doing something else.


    And so, they stood there, with their weapon¡ªthe stone cross, leaning slightly against their shoulders as they kept watch. It was a sizable, intimidating thing. Slightly taller than the Knight¡¯s height, with the length of its arms about as broad as their shoulders, pauldrons and all. Though perhaps that was not saying much, considering that odd discovery that the Knight was, in fact, not at all that tall.


    From behind them, trails of blood lay along the sands, tracing long lines of pale fleshy red stains all the way from the village to the shore, where they then stop abruptly about a step away from the skiff that the fisherman had been tending to. Running in parallel to that, were a trail of similarly red lines, though much older and faded. Instead of a fleshy pink, the sands along that path was tinted with a rusty hue, where it then led to a large splotch of rotted colors splayed across the sands just a few paces away from the crawling tides. The fisherman didn''t seem to pay it any mind, and so the Knight did not either. There were more... pressing matters that required their presence of mind.


    There were skiffs. Three of them, in fact. Only the three of them had made it through the fires relatively in tact. One, notably empty. Another, packed full, and admittedly rather crammed. And the last, which the fisherman had been tending to was occupied, yes, but there was enough space to be considered comfortable.


    ¡°Well, ¡®suppose there¡¯s not much else to it.¡± The fisherman sighs, pulling his hands back from the ropes before then straightening his back. He groans, wearily. His breath had came clawing its way out of his throat after his lungs had proverbially kicked it out the door, even while his exhausted body ached from the apparent exertion. The lower right reaches of his spine, most notably, seemed to take the brunt of it all. ¡°Shoot.¡±


    ¡°¡­What happened?¡±


    ¡°Bird.¡± The answer came quicker than the man had intended. Not quite as clear either. ¡°And by that, I meant, Raven.¡±


    ¡°A¡­ what¡¯s the word¡­ big one, nonne?¡±


    ¡°Huh.¡±The man slips the Knight a questioning glance, to which the Knight brings a gauntleted fist up to where there mouth should have been and then promptly clears their throat.


    ¡°There has been¡­ Rumors, see?¡±


    ¡°¡­Hm.¡± He nods. He looked more exhausted than curious, but nonetheless, he waves a tired hand for them to continue.


    ¡°Vero, more of a complaint, really.¡± They elaborated, raising a hand to their shoulders with a slight shrug. ¡°There was this band of refugees that came along the monastery I was staying in.¡±


    ¡°Priest?¡±


    ¡°No, they were just villagers. Rusti¡ª¡±


    ¡°I was asking about you.¡±


    The Knight pauses, taken aback, even if only slightly.


    ¡°¡­I am¡­ something close to that, yes.¡±


    ¡°And that something is¡­?¡±


    ¡°Consider me a pilgrim, of sorts.¡±


    ¡°¡­You sure don¡¯t look it.¡± Certainly, the armor does say otherwise. ¡°Inquisitor?¡±


    ¡°Vah!¡± The Knight suddenly barks out, ¡°Ne me illis porcis barbaris assimiles!¡±


    ¡°¡­Didn¡¯t quite catch that.¡± But it could''ve been an insult.


    They pause once again, taking a moment to take in a deep breath. Their armor creaks as their shoulders swell, though it could''ve just been their fingers as they tightened their grip around their cross. They wouldn''t hit him, right?


    ¡°Forgive my outburst. I am¡­¡± Another pause. Their head tilts lightly to the side, and the man was sure that if he could see their eyes, they would''ve been lilting to the side. ¡°A wanderer, for the most part.¡±


    ¡°Mm-hm.¡±The man nods again, but it was obvious that he didn¡¯t quite buy it. Still, he stops his line of questioning and returns back to tending to the burlap covers of the skiffs.


    ¡°Well, you did help me out.¡± He sighs, planting a foot against the base of a knot by the side of the boat, before winding the loose length rope around the base of his wrist to secure his grip. ¡°At the very least, you don¡¯t seem like a bad egg.¡± He then pulls, causing the rope to creak as it was pulled taut with a slight bouncy twang as the knot settles down.


    ¡°But I am." The Knight says with an audible smile as they brought up a hand to their shoulders, pinching their armored fingers together with a slight, metallic click. "Paulum modo. Just a little bit."


    ¡°Ha." The fisherman huffs. "Aren''t we all?"


    At that, the pair shared a quick chuckle. Well, more of a brief huff through their noses but it was some much needed levity.


    ¡°You were saying, by the way?¡±


    ¡°Ah, yes. The Raven.¡± At that, the Knight stood at attention and cleared their throat. They then continue, with a slightly deeper tone that seemed just a touch bit ostentatious. But then again, Iberian. A ¡®Pilgrim¡¯, at that. ¡°There has been a¡­ steady increase in the passing refugees these past few weeks. They looked¡­ worse for wear, and said that they were heading further in land.¡±


    Sounds familiar. A brief thought brushes the surface of the man¡¯s mind, back to that long trek through the wilderness all those years ago. Back when he was still a child. He remembered that odd sense of wander as he stared up at the leaves, wondering if the world had always been this green, and if the air had always been this sweet. It was only much later in his life that he''d come to know the breath of the sea.


    ¡°Just Iberians?¡±


    ¡°Mostly Iberian.¡± The Knight nods. ¡°Most of the¡­ locals, shall we say, elected to stay in their homes, or so I¡¯ve been told.¡±


    ¡°Stubborn lot.¡± He breathes out of his nose, but some part of him had understood. It''s always hard, leaving home. ¡°Anyway, what¡¯s this got to do with the bird?¡±


    ¡°I have¡­ conversed with several groups on separate occasions.¡± They continue, lowering their voice into a low, conspiratorial whisper as they looked over their shoulders for any would be eavesdroppers, as unlikely as it was. ¡°Almost all of them seem to recount the same thing;" A dramatic pause, one that the fisherman filled with a fairly non-dramatic finisher.


    "A big black bird."


    "An ill omen." The Knight says, ignoring the man. Though whether that was intentional or not, was up for debate. They did seem fairly absorbed in their... thing. They lowered their voice, adapting an ominous affect; It seemed rather forced, however, somehow ill-fitting of what the fisherman had seen so far. "A great feathered beast, casting its shadow upon the land as it flew overhead with a loud, echoing shriek. Some thought it to be a harbinger of doom, and perhaps they were right, judging by the stories."


    "...Just a harbinger?" They weren''t attacked?


    "Ati." Another nod, before they continued. "For the most part, the refugees claim that they were attacked by something else; Wolves are amongst the most common threats that I have been informed of. There are some other animals as well. Bears, boars, and sometimes even stampedes of cattle, trampling poor shepherds and village folk alike to gruesome, pulping deaths." The fisherman shuddered at the thought. He''d seen it before; A man crushed flat, his features flattened beyond recognition while his insides lay... besides him, sharing much of the same fate. The Knight continues, however, apparently unaware of the image their words have brought up. "Though some have claimed to bear witness to... shades. Undead and the like."


    The man remains quiet, a nervous tremor coursing through his hands as they hovered a yet untied knot. His palm burns, causing a quiet, irate hiss to come snaking its way in between his teeth.If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.


    ¡°Oh.¡± The Knight seems to freeze, apparently having come to an unfortunate but otherwise obvious conclusion in hindsight. ¡°I¡­ Do forgive my indescre¡ª¡±


    ¡°No, no. It¡¯s¡­ fine.¡± The fisherman says simply, bringing up his other palm up to the air as he shook his head. He looks down at the boat before him, its contents¡­ and sighs. Undead. ¡°¡­I just... need to take a seat.¡± He says, walking over to the nearest stack of crates, likely still filled with either bait or tools. He couldn''t have cared less, as it was unlikely he''d be going fishing any time soon.


    The pair elect to remain in silence for quite some time. It was just easier that way. Instead, they turn their attention out towards the sea, where blackened waves rolled over the horizon.


    ¡°¡­Might I ask¡­¡± The Knight, their curiosity outweighing their decency begins another question, only to come droning off halfway as they had caught themselves in the midst of indulging themselves, like they already had so many times before. Thankfully, however, the man didn''t seem to take offense to that.


    ¡°¡­We had a catch this morning.¡± The man starts. ¡°Well, saying catch is a bit much. Something washed up on shore just over there.¡± He then gestures towards the faded, brown splotch just a few ways off from them. ¡°Pez dama, I think the village folk called it.¡±


    ¡°Ballena?¡±


    ¡°A whale, aye.¡± He nods, wiping the sweat of his chin with the back of his arm. ¡°We see it every now and again. Comes up to the boats, sometimes it steals some of our catches, but most of the time, it just lets us be. So we let it be. Docile little¡­ Well, not little, but he¡¯s a nice fella. Nice to the touch.¡± A smile finds itself wistfully creeping up to the corners of his lips. ¡°Wish my boy could¡¯ve gone and seen it, before¡­ Before everything, really.¡±


    ¡°¡­Was it alone?¡±


    ¡°Aye. Some of the fishermen always wondered where the rest of the family was but... Well, they say it''s been there for a few years at most."


    ¡°¡­I see...?¡±


    ¡°Anyway, it was a massive thing. ¡®Bout the size and length of nine skiffs, funnily enough. Either bundled up side by side, or lined up in a row.¡± He continues, spreading his arms around as if to prove his point. He quickly comes to a stop, however, the wonder in his voice dimming again somewhat. ¡°We found it laying dead just right over there first thing in the morning. Looked a bit roughed up, bruises and tears on its skin here and there.¡±


    ¡°It was attacked?¡±


    ¡°Don¡¯t know.¡± The man shrugs. ¡°Heard it¡¯s a pretty common thing; Big fishes tend to come apart once you take¡¯em off deeper waters. They don¡¯t do well in land, apparently¡ªthey¡¯re just¡­ too heavy out here. All that meat just crushes their insides, and¡­ well, they don¡¯t die pretty, that¡¯s for sure.¡±


    ¡°Hm? Truly¡± The Knight asked curiously, to which the man nods. Shamefully, they weren¡¯t all too versed in matters of the sea. They¡¯ve heard of accounts of whales in tomes, but reliable records were hard to find. Too many are blowhards, all too willing to feign a few strokes of history, and too many are scribes and historians who were simply all too human. ¡°So, what did you do with it?"


    ¡°Free meat." The man says simply. "Feels bad, but it would¡¯ve kept the village kept for a week.¡±


    ¡°Mm." They nod. "I have heard that whale meat was a delicacy.¡±


    ¡°We don¡¯t hunt them, if that¡¯s what you¡¯re thinking. Bad luck. Too much meat. Pulls in all sorts of¡­ well.¡±


    ¡°I see.¡± Sounds reasonable enough, The Knight nods to themself once more, though many whalers would likely disagree with such a stance. ¡°I believe I have a better¡­ picture of the situation.¡±


    ¡°¡­Sure you do.¡± So the man says. Were he in better shape, he would''ve rolled his eyes at the statement entirely, but alas, even something so simple seemed beyond him.


    ¡°So, where is it then?"


    "Where''s what?"


    "Ballena. The whale. Surely, you would have bones left?"


    "Ah, couldn''t even get a few good cuts in."


    "Quid?"


    "The meat was tough. Took us a whole night just to tear out a half-rotten chunk." The man sighs once again, pensive as he hunched forward from his seat and rested his elbows against his knees. "Haven''t even had breakfast before... that thing, came along."


    "The Raven? Quid fecit?"


    ¡°¡­It took it.¡±


    ¡°¡­What took it?¡±


    ¡°The bird.¡±


    ¡°The whole whale?¡±


    At that, the man could only nod.


    ¡°¡­Deo volente¡­¡± The Knight staggers backwards, letting out breath that reeked of as much exasperation as it did dismay. They caught themselves, however, leaning much of their weight against their Cross as a makeshift staff. A moment passes, then another, before they could gather whatever wit they had left right before it slithered away. ¡°¡­It could not have flown far.¡±


    ¡°That, it didn¡¯t.¡±


    The man then points to¡­ the east, just left of the sea to the south. Right before the Great Divide, at the feet of that great pale wall of towering stone, where the smoldering lights of false dawn could not quite reach, where an old crumbling cliff faced the sea.


    There was an old lighthouse in the distance, rotten and crooked. Like a tree, struck by lightning and singed from its insides. It was a tall, misshapen shadow of a tower, from which a baleful, pale blue eye seemed to glow at its peak. It stares back at them in with an uncanny stillness, and it would¡¯ve been easy to mistake some form of intent.


    ¡°It lives there, I think.¡± The man quietly says. ¡°We¡¯ve seen it a few times before. It flew around rather often, snatching this and that. Deer, cows, sheep, hell, even bears too, now that I think of it. Maybe it even fished," He chuckles, bitterly.


    ¡°¡­Do birds even eat that much?¡±


    ¡°Well, it¡¯s a very big bird.¡±


    ¡°¡­But a whale?¡±


    ¡°¡­It might be feeding something.¡± The man admits with a rather harsh scoff. ¡°Hell of a family man, if that¡¯s the case.¡±


    ¡°Aha¡­¡± The Knight laughs, the sound feeling strained and awkward as it left exited their throat and echoed hollowly within the confines of their helm.


    The pair grow into an uneasy silence as they continued to stare out into the pale light to the distant east. There was a gaze, they couldn¡¯t help but think. Something cold, and heavy, and wanting. Their ears seemed to ring, drowning out the faint hissing of the waves as it foamed and touched the tip of the fisherman¡¯s feet. And then the light dimmed, and their nerves seemed to settle somewhat. As though something had looked away.


    ¡°¡­Is it always like that?¡± The Knight asks, knuckles creaking as they tightened their grip around their Cross, limbs tensing as they could practically smell something strange afoot.


    "I... I don''t think so, no." The fisherman answers hesitantly. "I don''t think I''ve ever seen it lit up like that."


    "How long, exacte, have you been living here?"


    "...About sixteen by now, if I remember correctly." Lif was only twelve. Born just four years after he had met Ines. Has it really been that long?


    Silence, once again comes creeping into the conversation. Its presence loomed over the two, as though some stranger had just marched into the room with a meal in hand and sat themselves down on the proverbial dinner table, chewing loudly with each bite, and pointedly staring them in the eye as it did so. A quiet sigh echoes from within the Knight''s helm. It was not the sort of conversational lull that one should sit down and endure.


    ¡°¡­I know I should not hold this against you in your time of grief, but you are making it very hard, friend.¡± Tact, however, was not one amongst their many specialties.


    ¡°Eh.¡± The man shrugs. ¡°Never really paid much attention. The neighbors never really talked about that place."


    ¡°Does that not sound odd to you?¡±


    ¡°Mm.¡± He nods. ¡°But I¡¯ve been around to here and there, so I know a thing or two about fitting in. If people aren¡¯t talking about something; don¡¯t. It¡¯s just not worth the effort.¡±


    ¡°¡­Ah.¡± The head in the sand approach, I see. ¡°A true Iberus you are, if I do say so myself!¡±


    ¡°Hah.¡± The man scoffs, a slight chuckle rumbling in his throat. ¡°That I am, that I am. The only thing I¡¯m missing is better Iberian.¡±


    ¡°Vana, you are not missing much, amicus!¡± The Knight says with a dismissive scoff. ¡°Iberi is not good for speaking! Too many forms! Too many rules! Why, Frater Maxim used to beat me senseless for making the slightest of mistakes or speaking out in provincial tongues!¡±


    ¡°¡­Sounds rough.¡±


    ¡°It is!" They barked out, their voice roughening somewhat as a tinge of irritation found its way seeping into their voice. "Immesericors! Ille nefarius est!¡±


    ¡°You speak it just fine though.¡± Not that he knew.


    ¡°¡­I had no choice in the matter.¡± It almost seemed like they were pouting.


    A small smile finds its way back to the corners of the fisherman''s lips. Not exactly out of mirth, but the amusement did dispel the gloom that hung over his head, however slight the change might''ve been.


    Still¡ªhe could smell a tangent and a rant from a mile away, having acquired much experience in the countless nights he had spent drinking in the company of others. The most notable amongst them were his neighbor, who could not bear to let the chances for a ''witty'' remark pass him by, and the man''s father-in-law, who had just passed away the year prior. The old man had no shortage of complaints about life in the countryside, but the fisherman thought that it was just the old man just trusted him enough to air such grievances. And perhaps in a way, they had become something akin to family, even for just a short while.


    "¡­So, you¡¯re from a province?" The fisherman then asked. The nostalgia must be getting to him.


    ¡°Hm? Ati, back when I was still a child.¡±


    ¡°Huh." He blinks, a little wide-eyed. "Thought you were highborn.¡±


    ¡°Nugae.¡± They shake their head, their helm rattling slightly along with the motion. ¡°I was a peasant girl, born to a family of farmers. With many brothers, might I add. Twelve of them, in fact, and I was the youngest¡ª¡± They¡ªshe(?) went on just a bit more a bit more while the fisherman turns his head to face her(?).


    ¡°Come again?¡±


    ¡°¡­and one day, a cohors wandered into town in search of Nata Morti¡ªHm? Quid?¡± The Knight pauses, right in the middle of a long winded story that the fisherman had just so happened to miss much of. ¡°Is something the matter?¡±


    ¡°¡­You were a woman?¡± Their voice might''ve been a little high, but it wasn''t that high. Even now, it had a boyish roughness and cadence that... well, they did say they had a lot of brothers, now that he thinks of it.


    ¡°Were? I am a woman¡­?¡± She trails off, just about as shocked with the man¡¯s reaction. ¡°Was it not obvious?¡±


    ¡°I can¡¯t exactly¡­see your¡­¡± He raised his arms, and they uneasily hover in the air right by his shoulders as he attempted to fight the urge to gesticulate. Ines would¡¯ve slapped him if he said it out loud. His neighbor, however, would¡¯ve cheered him on, only to be slapped his own wife. Probably beaten a bit more, but that was then and there.


    ¡°My face?¡±


    ¡°¡­Aye. Sure. That.¡± Three cheers for naivete, he supposed.


    ¡°I am afraid I cannot show." She(?) says firmly "¡®Tis improper.¡±


    ¡°I¡­ didn¡¯t ask.¡± Not that he wasn¡¯t curious.


    ¡°Oh¡­¡± She seems to deflate at that, feeling somewhat slighted by the apparent disinterest. ¡°But would you like to see?¡±


    ¡°¡­Maybe¡­?¡± He tarries, just a little bit wary. ¡°If you insist¡­?¡±


    ¡°¡­Then, I shall not.¡± Needless to say, the man¡¯s coyness was not appreciated, and was thusly, only answered in kind. ¡°But I will have you know that I am a lovely young woman of mentionable repute.¡±


    ¡°¡­Sure you are.¡± He nods along. He very much doubted a lovely young woman would call themselves lovely, but at the same time, she was not entirely unpleasant.


    The conversation seemed to die off after that. Rather hard to make up for that blunder, but then again, he was a married man. It was in poor taste, to be off getting along with some other woman so quickly after¡­ Well, Ines was still here. And so was Lif. And so was everything else.


    The tides fill the silence, its foamy, icy grasp lapping away at the fisherman¡¯s heel. He hears the creaking of wood, causing his eyes to flit away from the Knight and back to the skiff, which stirs lightly in part with the swelling tide. It slides forwards as the tide recedes, and the man immediately bolts forward to claw the loose length of rope just slithering along the damp sands. Thankfully, the skiff had barely moved more than a steps before it came to a stop before he could even pull. He sighs, relieved, and it was only then that he turned his attention to the other¡­ occupied skiff, just behind the one that belonged to his family. Thankfully, they have not budged an inch, still lodged firmly into the sands.


    ¡°¡­Are we seeing them off tonight?¡± The Knight asks, having stepped up just a bit to help with securing the boat. Her boots splash against into the shallow waters, and the freezing liquid quickly floods and drenches the insides of her footwear. The sensation was sudden and harsh enough, that she had to actively suppress a shudder, which she forcefully pushes back as she then focused much of her attention to the matter at hand.


    ¡°¡­No, ¡®course not.¡± The man says with a grunt and a sigh as the armored woman hooked the arm of her cross into the skiff¡¯s side to hold in it place. The pair pause, wordless but somehow in sync as they then dragged the boat backwards further up the shore. ¡°¡­It¡¯s¡­ dark, and it¡¯s cold out there. I wouldn¡¯t want them to get lost.¡±


    ¡°¡­It is not safe to keep them here, amicus.¡± Slowly, they meet more and more resistance as they inch away from the waters.


    ¡°I know, I know.¡± The man nods, a grim look settling upon his brow as they came to a stop. ¡°¡­I just¡­ I need a little more time.¡±