3RD OF SAUN, ARC 720
“You are dying, Herald.”
Herald, they spat at him over and over. The incessant mockery of worshippers long dead echoed in his ears, rattling his aching skull as a child might pull a bell’s rope to hear it chime. To hear himself called Herald had been a dream, an aspiration he had strived towards for longer than even he could recall – since his prepubescent trials, when he would listen to the Heralds speak and pray above their congregations, and nearly trip over his feet to appease them. How simple his life had been when he was but a child, an orphan striving to gain the respect of his masters; how little he himself had changed in the arcs that had passed since then.
A child tripping over himself to fulfil the will of others.
“Did you hear me, Herald? Have you lost your hearing along with your blood?”
“I have not,” scratched forth from the dry throat of Vito Rossau, his voice as rough from its lack of use as the stone floor beneath his limbs. There was not a part of his body that did not ache with a soreness that was strange and unfamiliar to him, one that went beyond the fatigues and aches of ordinary overexertion. It was foreign.
The room – if it was a room at all, for there was too little light within for him to make out any part of it – would have been silent then, had it not been for the low groan of… people, perhaps, all around him, their pains reduced to mere background noise, but the voice from before was silent for a handful of trills. His spark bristled at the palpable emotions in the air even so; the strength of an anxious energy that centered somewhere before him. It, too, was strange and unlike the tangles he had encountered before, if it was even a tangle to start with.
“I said that you are dying, do you not care?” came the voice again, and by this time Vito had awoken enough to listen closer. It sounded vaguely female, vaguely familiar, vague in every sense of the word – for even when he tried, he could not identify any other distinguishing characteristics of it.
When his hands moved to push against the floor, it was not stone he felt beneath him, but flesh and tattered cloth. With but a trill of hesitation, he pressed against the cold, unmoving form below and pushed himself to his knees, where he stayed. His head spun in the darkness, and he was glad for the fact that he could not see the room around him spinning. Each breath pulled into his lungs was slow and labored, made worse for the fetid stench of old blood and flesh and stone permeated the humid air around him.
“Where are we?”
“You have ignored me yet again,” said the woman lost in the darkness, irritated by his disrespect.
Vito wiped a wetness away from his eyes that felt too thick to be tears and too thin to be anything but blood. It covered his face and matted in his hair, and when he coughed, more of it spat into his hand. Yet the taste on his tongue was old, and not the sharp, metallic taste of fresh blood.
“Are you near? Have you any source of light?” Vito asked, as he chose to ignore the voice’s irritations in favor of trying to make sense of his own situation. When she did not respond, he attempted to push himself to his feet, and instead found himself falling against another unmoving mound of flesh below.
A low hiss escaped from the cracks between his gritted teeth. His body was weakened, hurting, hungry. Never before had he experienced a hunger of such magnitude, even as a child living in Shanty that missed more meals than he found. It was almost enough to make him sick, if the smell of bodies all around him did not sicken him first. He swallowed the taste of old blood, squeezed his hands into fists, and pushed himself up again, successfully this time.
“Are you still there, woman?” he called into the shadows, but was once again met with pointed silence.
So he moved, his legs shaking with each step, threatening to collapse beneath him. His limbs moved as if each miniscule movement was a battle, a motion they struggled to gain control over; if only he could see himself, he would see the awkwardness of a body that had gone far too long without moving of its own will. The ground was uneven below, littered with more lifeless forms than he cared to count as he stepped over them. He walked until he felt something loom up ahead, and reached out a hand to touch cold stone.
“Herald?”
A different voice echoed this time off the stone walls, small and oh so afraid. In his disorientation, Vito braced himself against the wall and tried to peer out into the darkness.
“H-Herald Rossau?”
Herald, he repeated scornfully again in his head, as if he could beat meaning into the word.
“Yes, my child, I hear you,” answered Vito, scraping together what he still could of his voice to carry across the space. “Go to the wall if you can. Follow it until you reach me.”
Above the resounding groans, a shuffling sound reached his ears as someone fought their own way out from the downed bodies and to the wall. The trills stretched on forever as he listened to the shuffling grow closer and closer, inch by inch, until finally he felt something brush against his side. It – they – jumped away in initial surprise, but just as quickly latched small hands onto the sleeve of his robes and clung as tightly to the biqaj as they could.
“Did you banish her, Herald?” the child – a young boy, he thought – asked quickly, his voice half-muffled in Vito’s robes. “The hungry lady-ghost?”
“Lady–” he began with a start. “Come, child. We haven’t the time for this. We need to find a way out of here, unless you would prefer to lie down and rot with the rest. How long have you been awake, child? Have you any idea which direction Captain Morandi and the others went?”
“Captain Morandi…?”
Herald, they spat at him over and over. The incessant mockery of worshippers long dead echoed in his ears, rattling his aching skull as a child might pull a bell’s rope to hear it chime. To hear himself called Herald had been a dream, an aspiration he had strived towards for longer than even he could recall – since his prepubescent trials, when he would listen to the Heralds speak and pray above their congregations, and nearly trip over his feet to appease them. How simple his life had been when he was but a child, an orphan striving to gain the respect of his masters; how little he himself had changed in the arcs that had passed since then.
A child tripping over himself to fulfil the will of others.
“Did you hear me, Herald? Have you lost your hearing along with your blood?”
“I have not,” scratched forth from the dry throat of Vito Rossau, his voice as rough from its lack of use as the stone floor beneath his limbs. There was not a part of his body that did not ache with a soreness that was strange and unfamiliar to him, one that went beyond the fatigues and aches of ordinary overexertion. It was foreign.
The room – if it was a room at all, for there was too little light within for him to make out any part of it – would have been silent then, had it not been for the low groan of… people, perhaps, all around him, their pains reduced to mere background noise, but the voice from before was silent for a handful of trills. His spark bristled at the palpable emotions in the air even so; the strength of an anxious energy that centered somewhere before him. It, too, was strange and unlike the tangles he had encountered before, if it was even a tangle to start with.
“I said that you are dying, do you not care?” came the voice again, and by this time Vito had awoken enough to listen closer. It sounded vaguely female, vaguely familiar, vague in every sense of the word – for even when he tried, he could not identify any other distinguishing characteristics of it.
When his hands moved to push against the floor, it was not stone he felt beneath him, but flesh and tattered cloth. With but a trill of hesitation, he pressed against the cold, unmoving form below and pushed himself to his knees, where he stayed. His head spun in the darkness, and he was glad for the fact that he could not see the room around him spinning. Each breath pulled into his lungs was slow and labored, made worse for the fetid stench of old blood and flesh and stone permeated the humid air around him.
“Where are we?”
“You have ignored me yet again,” said the woman lost in the darkness, irritated by his disrespect.
Vito wiped a wetness away from his eyes that felt too thick to be tears and too thin to be anything but blood. It covered his face and matted in his hair, and when he coughed, more of it spat into his hand. Yet the taste on his tongue was old, and not the sharp, metallic taste of fresh blood.
“Are you near? Have you any source of light?” Vito asked, as he chose to ignore the voice’s irritations in favor of trying to make sense of his own situation. When she did not respond, he attempted to push himself to his feet, and instead found himself falling against another unmoving mound of flesh below.
A low hiss escaped from the cracks between his gritted teeth. His body was weakened, hurting, hungry. Never before had he experienced a hunger of such magnitude, even as a child living in Shanty that missed more meals than he found. It was almost enough to make him sick, if the smell of bodies all around him did not sicken him first. He swallowed the taste of old blood, squeezed his hands into fists, and pushed himself up again, successfully this time.
“Are you still there, woman?” he called into the shadows, but was once again met with pointed silence.
So he moved, his legs shaking with each step, threatening to collapse beneath him. His limbs moved as if each miniscule movement was a battle, a motion they struggled to gain control over; if only he could see himself, he would see the awkwardness of a body that had gone far too long without moving of its own will. The ground was uneven below, littered with more lifeless forms than he cared to count as he stepped over them. He walked until he felt something loom up ahead, and reached out a hand to touch cold stone.
“Herald?”
A different voice echoed this time off the stone walls, small and oh so afraid. In his disorientation, Vito braced himself against the wall and tried to peer out into the darkness.
“H-Herald Rossau?”
Herald, he repeated scornfully again in his head, as if he could beat meaning into the word.
“Yes, my child, I hear you,” answered Vito, scraping together what he still could of his voice to carry across the space. “Go to the wall if you can. Follow it until you reach me.”
Above the resounding groans, a shuffling sound reached his ears as someone fought their own way out from the downed bodies and to the wall. The trills stretched on forever as he listened to the shuffling grow closer and closer, inch by inch, until finally he felt something brush against his side. It – they – jumped away in initial surprise, but just as quickly latched small hands onto the sleeve of his robes and clung as tightly to the biqaj as they could.
“Did you banish her, Herald?” the child – a young boy, he thought – asked quickly, his voice half-muffled in Vito’s robes. “The hungry lady-ghost?”
“Lady–” he began with a start. “Come, child. We haven’t the time for this. We need to find a way out of here, unless you would prefer to lie down and rot with the rest. How long have you been awake, child? Have you any idea which direction Captain Morandi and the others went?”
“Captain Morandi…?”
