Chapter 6: To Dust Man Shall Return
2nd of Benathus, 414 EC of the Fourth Rekindling
12:59
Nothing rotted in this frozen hellscape. Corpses were the cold’s grim reminder of what a person once was, devoid of all humanity and potential. Everyone was taught of the cold’s greed and insidiousness, second only to death itself. The dead could not be buried, instead set down a burrow and cremated, sent to the great beyond with their family’s trinkets and eulogies. Supposedly, it served to replace a similar tradition back when the world was not nearly as desecrated. The validity of that claim mattered little, as the rite was efficient, sensible, and for the people of this frozen land, that was enough. And it was certainly enough for the two men and a giant machine.
To their surprise, digging was the easy part. The machine was very handy and far more intelligent than its slumbering, quiet form let on. It understood Willem’s request for a hole to fit old Hubbs in, so it dug and only stopped when it was ordered to stop. It acted gently, like it understood the gravity of the situation, and understood death.
On the other hand, the duo scavenged Hubbs’ hut for every stray piece of wood. They took down pillars, tore apart furniture and the straw mattress, chopped them up with ice picks and knives. They placed the fuel in the hole, covering the bottom of it completely.
Willem turned to Hubbs one last time, and saw Wyatt was already working on it. He slung the old mage’s arm over his shoulder, struggled on his injured leg yet completely content with performing the labor himself. Willem could hardly fathom the insurmountable will that his friend was exerting, his legs frozen in place. To be truthful, he was afraid, as one would touching the lifeless body of someone they just talked to.
“You don’t have to be here if you don’t want to.”
Wyatt’s words snapped him back to the presence. Willem nodded, determined, and grabbed Hubbs’ legs. Wordlessly, they carried the old mage, fearing that even a single comment would set them back immensely. They set the body onto the bed of kindling, and Wyatt fumbled for his fire starter. Ever since he waited for days for someone whose face he had forgotten to pick him up, he always had a fire starter to fight against the cold. He was alone then, and he was alone now, so what difference did this tragedy make? Yet, it was painful all the same.
Willem reached into his coat as well, pulling out the thurible. Poetic. Without its magic, it was reduced to a bronze ball suspended on chains, devoid of potential, like its owner now laying down the hole. He tossed it down next to Hubbs; the old man looked at peace, he probably waited for this rest for a long time now.
“Wyatt. It’s ready.”
“…I’m on it.”
Clack.
Wyatt knelt and struck the pieces of flint at the edge of the hole, surprisingly his limbs didn’t shake this time. Despite the crude and unreliable look, sparks flew from the tool, caught on the kindling and the inferno consumed the hole. The smoke and heat carried old Hubbs away forever this time, leaving the two men to watch and ponder. They assured themselves wordlessly.
Consuming. Fleeting. Liberating.
Indeed, fire was one of the few good things left in this world. Even without Sol, one could still forge tools, make food, and ward off the hellish cold with fire. It was the fuel of life, what made life worth living and what sent away the departed. It cleansed the body and soul; one turned to ash while the other freed to roam.
Wyatt had opinions on a lot of things – Water being true magic was but one of them. He had his biases about fire and its function, seeing it as comfort, a sign of a world that was once better. He conceded that he ultimately was a creature of warmer times, and he naturally gravitated towards the thing that reminded some primal part of him of when the world was not so dark or frigid. Sometimes he imagined what it would be like to live in a world without water, without ice, or without both. Those questions melted all away now, as he watched the pyre burning.
In the similar way that fire soothed Wyatt in some primal sense, it also terrified him. The way it devoured old Hubbs, even to lay him to rest, still made him uneasy. He wondered if it was even worth it for the purpose of liberation. He had brushed with death today, his injured leg being the testament of such encounters. The agony was not something he was ready to face again. He couldn’t even begin to imagine how painful being burnt was; fire was a cruel, cruel thing.
After a few minutes, old Hubbs was released from this mortal coil, leaving only the unburnt sash. Willem turned to Wyatt, his voice strangely steady.
“We should start filling the hole back…” He paused, seeing his friend frozen in place. “Wyatt?”
…Wyatt winced for a second as the pain in his leg came back. He grabbed his thigh and sat down, prompting Willem to approach.
“Are you fine?”
“…Sure. I’m fine.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Wyatt didn’t face his friend, instead stared at the fire starter, tapping it with his finger. Such power, to reduce a man to nothing at all, all contained within two mere pieces of rock. Wyatt pocketed the tool and stood up.
2nd of Benathus, 414 EC of the Fourth Rekindling
13:03
Those restless seconds watching the machine filled in the hole with its thin legs felt painfully slow. Mounds of dirt fell on the smoldering pyre with a sickeningly loud thud, blanketing the cloud of ash and smoke. Every movement, and every conceivable little action that happened in-between were edged into the two men’s minds, shallow breaths and shaky legs included. They shivered under their thick coats, getting chills down their spine more vivid than any wind. There it was before them, the final visible moment of someone’s life, extinguished and returned to where it once came from, the ample time gave them a moment to process all that had happened without the veil of adrenaline or confusion. Not a cry, a moan, or a defiant shout. Instead, the village’s last survivors mourned by singing an eulogy of a quiet terror.
“Now what?“
Neither of the men said those words, or did they try to. It was simply a question they had clawing at their sides since their return. There was always this inkling that everything had gone wrong, and that by pure coincidence, these two would be the last survivors of a tragedy they never saw themselves. But in the aftermath, after having everything they had stolen from them without even a chance to do something about it, what were they ever supposed to do?
They could not mourn. They could not stop. Stopping meant they would join the dead. Stopping meant having to confront the fact that they should be dead.
Wyatt stayed still for a second, before he felt a hand tugging lightly on his shoulder. He was surprised to see it, the fire behind Willem’s goggled eyes. Something Wyatt could not muster up at this moment.
“Wyatt,” Willem started, pausing, then swallowed hard before continuing, “Let’s go back to the library.”
Wyatt stared and squinted. This conversation was going to happen sooner or later, he imagined, and he already had the answer for it.
“No.”
The air seemed to pause at that moment. Willem’s heart spiked with some painful emotion.
“Wyatt–”
“I meant what I said.”
Wyatt stood up. He couldn’t bear to look at Willem, so instead he leered at the four-legged machine that ferried them here. That thing, and the library, and then this… All in one day. He could only blink, letting his eyebrows droop. Finally, he gathered his strength, gulped and turned to his companion.
“Willem, let’s go to the rail town and tell them about the library.”
The taller man stepped forward, his eyes turning to see Wyatt’s, but settled for the side of Wyatt’s face that he could see. He hissed with an uneven voice.
“No. We can’t do that.”
Wyatt raised his eyebrow to that answer. It wasn’t offensive, he wouldn’t be peeved by it normally, but it was certainly odd in their current predicament.
“We can, and we will.” He asserted, turning to face Willem completely, his mouth breathing heavily behind face cover, “What else can we do? Stay there? Is there even food there, or water? And we don’t even know if that thing–”
“Wyatt!”
“What?”
“What’s with the distrust? They’ve helped us when we could offer nothing in return. And we still have nothing! We don’t even have a stipend to survive out there ourselves. What happens if we just freeze to…”
“We don’t need to.” Wyatt objected, pointing at the four-legged construct, “And do you see all this? This obviously isn’t normal! We’ll probably get a reward if we tell them. Then, we can–”
“You don’t know that! And how could you even say that? What if they hurt it!?”
In a split second, Wyatt’s hand ends up on Willem’s and pushes it away roughly. The taller man’s eyes widened, looking shocked at the force put behind that effort. Wyatt trudged up and leered.
“And what are we going to do there? Because let’s face it. We have no idea what we’re doing right now! All we’re throwing are “what-ifs” and “maybes”, and personally, I’d like to get out of here, as far away as I can!”
Wyatt huffed, looking between himself and Willem. Before he could bore a hole through the other’s face with his gaze, he turned away.
“What can we even do? It’s a library. It’s not an armory or a stash we can salvage; it’s a library. We can barely read and write, what do you suggest we do at a Soldamned library?”
Willem backed off by a pace and then two, looking at Wyatt with the clearest look of conflict he could give behind his goggles. He breathed in slightly, shakily, before stepping one more pace.
“We can’t just… Leave it to die.”
Wyatt walked off, limping down the road.
“It’s us or it. Come on.”
For a moment, Wyatt trudged forward without looking back, almost as if he was assured Willem was going to follow him. His argument made sense, it had cadence and the benefit of the doubt in mind. In a perfect world, Willem would see through just how stupid the idea of managing out here with just the two of them was and would get on his feet and follow him to newer horizons. Best case scenario, nothing got hurt. Worst case scenario, they were at least getting out of here with new lives. That should make sense!
And yet as he turned back, suspicious of the silence and the general feeling of uneasiness, Willem stood there without budging.
“Come on…” Wyatt thought and sighed mentally, turning around completely to face his companion, “Willem?”
Willem looked static from a distance, his balled fists raising slightly. He took a step closer, his mouth trembled under his mask.
“I’m not following.”
Wyatt’s eyes tensed, his leg unconsciously bringing him towards Willem. The pain was a mere suggestion now, no louder than that suggestion of stopping and rethinking this ordeal in his mind – a dull thud in a room of screams.
“You’ve got to be… What’s wrong with you?” He huffed, clearly frustrated. “Lots of things have happened and I don’t need this right now! Is it about your family!?”
Wyatt’s voice was harsh, his tone that of a critic. He just couldn’t believe what was happening right now. Of all times to be rebellious, Willem just had to choose now, when their futures were on the line. It infuriated him, reminding him of an all too familiar helplessness, and he panicked. Yes, he was not calm in the slightest despite what he tried to be. His brush with death today scared him to the bone, yet when it was time to act, the one person he found himself alive with was objecting his plea to be better? This must’ve been a joke! He limped over, fingers near Willem’s throat.
“I’m not here to wait until you pull yourself together! So you better–!”
“Don’t.”
Willem swiped away his hand, and he retracted it slowly, eyes wide at his friend. Willem should have been standing there straight, with his mind resolute – at least, that was what Wyatt assumed. This should have been a willful objection to his perfectly reasonable plan, and it should have been born out of a misguided sense of familiarity with something they barely knew. For him, that was the best case, something he could reason with and negotiate. A calm Willem. But soon, he reprimanded himself for getting his hopes up. It wasn’t merely uninformed, it was naive
Willem’s goggles were tinted with a shade of grey. Something behind them made clear it wanted to get out, and it punished him by masking his vision with unwelcomed steam. The taller man shook, subtly, but ever so rhythmically, his hand clenched into a fist. Behind his mask, his teeth were clamped together, his lips biting. There was something in his throat that refused to leave, and its presence constantly pounding his head with anxiety. Something, maybe everything, was wrong. Today was not supposed to happen. Today was supposed to be like any other. Him and his family in a simple house; it was quaint, it was good. Quaintness allowed for dreams and aspirations. It was supposed to be a quaint, quiet life that he would spend the rest of his days dreaming of changing, and he would have been fine with that. And now when the push for his dream was at its strongest, Willem found himself yearning for something else – to make yesterday happen, and today not.
Weak in his knee, arms and numb in his head, he knew he was close – very close – to doing something he did not want to do. He could listen to his emotions and kneel, and stay there for hours, processing everything but the issue. He could listen to his bleeding heart and take the wound, tear it asunder from there, marking himself forever with this tragedy, maybe even forgetting himself. He could do all that, and then some, wallowing in guilt and anger for not being there to offer them some protection. He could go even further, fantasizing about joining his family. Maybe despair, maybe emptiness, maybe mayhem, maybe the end.
Willem blinked out of his static demeanor, undid his goggles to wipe away the fog. He hesitated and stepped back, a lump in his throat still blocking any words. And instinctually, he decided on something he had been telling himself all this time.
“Not now.”
“…Willem–”
“I need some time. I need some time to myself.”
He trudged on towards the four-legged construct. It stood there with a slight whir, its leg spreading to cautiously let its passenger up. Its light scanned towards Willem and Wyatt, going between them with irregular patterns.
“Willem?” Wyatt called out, trudging towards him, “Are you listening to me? I–”
“I need time, Wyatt!”
Wyatt stopped in his track, his senses returned. His legs ached with pain, his breathing became shallower as the cold overtook him, and his mind stopped thinking for a moment. He looked at Willem closing his distance on the machine, and he grinded his teeth.
“You’re making a big mistake!” Wyatt shouted after him.
“Maybe I am! But I… I don’t want to regret anything anymore.”
The taller man boarded the four-legged machine. He turned back to Wyatt, narrowing his eyes expecting the other man would approach. Wyatt, on the other hand, only widened his eyes further.
“Fine! Do it your way! I’m done playing babysitter!”
Willem said not a word. The sole of his boots tapped on the construct’s head, and it raised itself, slowly plucking its way out of the village. The lights on its face scoured the landscape as if doing Wyatt a final service by ensuring his safety. After it was done prowling, it made its way out, to an ambiguous direction neither of them really cared to measure. In a few seconds, it was gone. Wyatt shook and grabbed his face. He was left there in that abandoned dirt road, near a freshly dug grave, alone with his mind, and the things he saw.
Alone.
Orphaned, again.
