Chapter 14: Loss

         Darkness invaded Cloey’s mind for many days. The last thing she remembered before the light of day vanished from her eyes was the visage of the dark elf woman staring down at her with a cold, uncaring gaze. Fear seized control of her body, and her hand fumbled for the black dagger secured in her boot. The dark elf observed Cloey’s feeble attempt and sent the blade spinning out of her grasp with a swift kick to her forearm. Cloey fell backward and clambered backward as the dark elf woman stalked ever closer. Cloey remembered the wicked grin of gleaming teeth baring down closer as she leaned forward for the kill. That’s when the darkness overtook her, enveloping her like a choking cloud. From that moment forth, she knew only the darkness that veiled her eyes and kept away the shine of light.

         Cloey felt something strange surround her–something foreign that pervaded her skin and chilled her bones. Panic choked her. Fear stole the breath from her lungs. No matter where she looked, she saw only bleak shadows; no matter how hard she flailed, her limbs met only open space. She wanted to cry, but her face froze in a numbing stupor.

         A warm touch brushed against her cheek, and a rush of air filled her lungs. The gloom lifted like the clouds of a passing storm, and feeling returned to her paralyzed and lifeless body. Gathering her strength, she managed to open her eyes, squinting against the blinding flash of bright lights that invaded her vision. A new fear crept its way into her heart again. She expected to find herself in some dungeon or cell under the close watch of an army of dark elves or something even worse. Her sense of hearing returned, and she perceived the rustling of something near her. She wrenched her eyes closed out of terror and said a silent prayer to Mouse, Goddess of Thievery.

         “Cloey, are you awake? Cloey?”

         Cloey opened her eyes again to see a face floating above her. As things came into focus, she realized that she was not in a dungeon of any sort. The flickering light of a candle danced beside the face of an elf, illuminating one half and leaving the other concealed in shadow. She discerned that the elf leaning over her was elderly, which she could see from his wrinkled and aged skin. She tried to sit up but couldn’t gather the energy to do so.

         “Welcome back, dear child. Your friends have been worried about you. They had to endure quite an ordeal to save you. They must really care a lot about you,” the old elf said, his words soft and soothing music to her ears.

         However calming his voice, his words puzzled her. Did the others really save her from the enclosing darkness? Why would they even bother? Maybe it was for the amulet–the amulet! Cloey’s trembling hand groped at her side and found the pouch missing. Ivalice, the kind elder elf, solemnly shook his head at her. Fear once again took hold. What had happened to the amulet? Was she the cause of it falling into the hands of the dark elves? The painful pressure of guilt found its way alongside her feelings of fear.

         “You are still very weak. With the aid of magic, I have managed to heal your physical wounds on the inside and out; however, the magic will not restore all of your strength at once. You need to rest in order to regain your former vitality,” Ivalice said to her, taking her hand in his and giving it a soft squeeze.

         “Where are the others?” Cloey finally managed to whisper when her fear subsided. She barely recognized the sound of her own voice, which came out dry and raspy. Violent coughing shook and wracked her entire body, causing her to double over on her side in pain. Ivalice removed his hand from hers and brushed his fingers through her hair.

         “They are within this holy temple, young Cloey. I will call for them shortly,” Ivalice said, standing up and taking a step back.

         “Where am I?” Cloey asked at length when she had once again caught her breath. Her eyes darted about at the unfamiliar surroundings.

         “You are in the town of Anon at the Temple of Helena. I am one of The Five Elders that guard and govern this city. You lay and rest, and I’ll be back in a moment,” Ivalice said to her, bowing his head before walking to the door just out of her line of sight. She heard the thud of the shutting door behind her, and she rested there in dead silence.

         She tried to sit up once again but still could not find enough energy. She woke from the darkness to a world of shaded confusion. She rested in her bed and wondered how she ended up back in Anon, recovering atop a set of satin sheets. How did she end up swept into this quest to stop evil? She was merely a thief, and a bad one at that. Images of the dark elf woman appeared in her mind again. The dark elf defeated her with ease, and that knowledge caused the blood in her veins to boil over with anger. Cloey despised being called a “little girl,” but it seemed that everyone around her was convinced that’s all she was.

         Cloey closed her eyes and pushed away the uncertainties plaguing her mind, but as she did, she left her mind open for disparate thoughts. A memory, an image of a quaint village, emerged from the deep recesses of her mind. Unlike the busy kingdoms of Oneria or Anon, this village consisted of only a small handful of old farmhouses separated by acres of fresh farmland. She could envision the sun rising high in the sky and illuminating its people, who toiled amongst their crowded fields, with an embrace of security and warmth. Situated away from these verdant fields of green was a beaten-down shack with a thatch roof in poor condition. The front door was old and worn, barely secured on two rusted metal hinges. The windows at the front and side of the domicile were pulled open to provide relief from the scalding summer weather. Everything about the house seemed to be of a smaller scale than the other farmhouses–doors, windows, and even the house itself shrank into the background. Cloey could hear the sounds of children crying from within, a familiar noise to the passing workers and townsfolk. A tired and starving pony dragged a broken-up plow along the back of the house. A halfling man stood nearby, tightening the harnesses on the pony and whispering encouraging words to the animal in hopes of finishing an honest day’s labor. The sun pummeled the poor soul, who wiped at his brow with dirt-covered hands that left muddy smears across his already unclean face. Cloey knew that his work would be in vain, for it was the same scene every day; the man would strap the poor, unfed beast to the plow and follow behind with a bag of seed. The animal dragged the plow through the dry, cracked ground, but after tearing a few rows the beast would collapse in exhaustion. The halfling threw the seeds into the grooves, but little grew in the terribly dry weather.

         Cloey saw herself standing in a small, filthy kitchen; however, her eyes reflected a more far more gentle and innocent glare. She wore tattered clothing with different colored patches that resembled cut-up material from an assortment of discarded linens. She remained in the doorway out of the way of the bustle of the room.

         A baby mouse scuttled across the floor after crumbs of bread, which was much more of a meal than what adorned the rickety table. A woman with dirty, light-colored hair hurried back and forth between a black metal stove and the table surrounded by broken chairs. Sweat poured down her face as she slaved over a large, boiling pot. She reached up into a small cupboard with no doors covering them and pulled down a stack of wooden bowls. She lifted the ladle from the pot and poured a thick gray slime into the first bowl before moving across the room and setting it in front of the first chair.

         “Sit down and eat before it gets cold,” the woman scolded, turning back and filling another bowl.

         Cloey sat, albeit with hesitation. The chair beneath her groaned at the slightest pressure, breaking through the quiet of the room. The woman turned and placed another bowl down beside her. Cloey lifted the wooden spoon set out for her and dipped it into the gruel, raising it up and letting the contents drip down and splash in small drops onto the table.

         “Don’t you dare waste that food! You need your energy for the trip tomorrow,” the woman said. She moved away from the stove and knelt down in front of Cloey, reaching out and touching both of her shoulders. “You’re going to get a real job in the city and bring us lots of money. You won’t be like your older brother and get yourself into all kinds of trouble. Please tell me that you are going to work hard and bring us something, anything at all. Your father isn’t growing any crops, and without that we can’t even afford to eat. It’s like this damn land is cursed!”

         “Mama,” Cloey said, offering her a warm smile, “You don’t have to worry about me. I promise that I will make you and Papa proud.”

         Cloey’s mother threw her arms around her and clutched her tightly, not daring to loosen her grasp. A single tear rolled down Cloey’s cheek, for she knew that tomorrow everything she understood about life would turn upside down.

         “I’m so proud of you, Cloey,” her mother whispered through quiet sobs.

         “Cloey, are you awake?”

         Cloey pried open her eyes and discovered the farm and her mother both gone, taken away in a cruel twist of fate. Instead she was back in the small bedroom staring up at Grom. Part of her wanted to cry out with joy at seeing him, but another part of her yearned to return to the farm with her family.

         “I came as soon as I heard you were awake. How are you feeling?” Grom asked. She noticed right away that something was not right about him. They had been through a lot as of late, but she never remembered Grom’s voice to be so sullen. The shine in his eyes had faded away to some dark place, hidden alongside her vivid dreams of home.

         “I’m a little weak, but I’ll be ok,” Cloey reassured him. The news didn’t bring much change to Grom’s aggrieved face; not even a smile of happiness or a shimmer of light emerged in his dark eyes. “We lost the amulet, didn’t we? The dark elf stole it and it’s all my fault. Am I right?”

         Grom nodded.

         “I knew it,” Cloey said. Her heart began to sink, but she forced it back up. “Then we get it back! As soon as I can travel again, we can hunt it down! Prescott can track just about anything, and with you and that smelly half-orc we can take down anything. Oh, and of course Isac can do something, even if it’s just cry and whine about everything. We’ll all leave together and bring back the amulet!”

         She knew her words would rouse Grom’s spirit; he always ate up big, encouraging speeches. When Grom failed to respond, Cloey’s hopeful expression dissipated. Grom’s shoulders fell, and he sank down onto the end of the bed just out of the reach of her toes. His eyes dropped toward the floor, and Cloey knew something was not right.

         “What’s the matter, Grom? What’s going on? Is there something wrong? Tell me what’s wrong!” Cloey urged, but he did not respond. Grom continued to stare as if his very soul had been ripped away from him. Cloey’s heart once again sank.

*                    *                    *

         The funeral ceremony came and went, and the people of Anon returned to their business as usual. An eerie silence fell over the garden, and all was still save for the one lone figure that knelt down in front of a freshly dug mound of dirt. A stone slab with the chiseled words “Isac Izula, R.I.P.” sat at the head of the mound as a reminder of the life he once lived. Prescott did not find comfort in reading those few words over and over again. Dark clouds moved across the sky, and a shadow passed over the two brothers. Prescott’s stretched out a trembling hand, fingers tracing each letter of his brother’s name. Fresh tears came back to his eyes, and he let them flow down the sides of his face and onto the cold pile of earth.

         “Prescott,” came a voice from behind him. Prescott knew that it was his father, the elder priest Vander Izula. “I somehow knew that I would find you still out here. It looks like it might rain at any moment, so please come inside before you catch cold.”

         Prescott wiped his wet face and drew in a shaky breath. “I need some more time alone, Father. I will come in when I am ready.”

         There was a moment of silence. Prescott hoped deep down that his father would turn and leave, but he remained rooted like a tree behind him.

         “My heart is injured at the death of your brother, too,” Vander said after some length, “However, he wouldn’t want you to sit out here in the cold and mourn for him like this.”

         “What makes you think you know what Isac would want?” Prescott fired back in a tone foreign to his normal demeanor. He refused to move from his spot in front of his brother’s grave no matter what his father wished.

         “He is my son,” Vander replied. He stood his own ground as a distant rolling of thunder drifted toward them. “That’s why I know.”

         “How can you say that with an honest face? You were the man who disowned his own son, sending him away from your care and out into the world with nothing. You turned your back on him, just because he did not want to follow your every whim and ideal,” Prescott said in a bitter tone, one that his father had never heard.

         “That was a very long time ago, Prescott. He had wild dreams of living his life as some reckless adventurer when he should have been studying books to ready himself for advising a great lord or king,” Vander said, raising his voice in defense. Sensing the increasing hostility in the air, Vander took in a deep breath and sighed softly. “Can you not see where his wild ambitions have gotten him? His lifestyle has given him a new resting place below the very soil that you praise and love like a deity.”

         Prescott tried to block out his father’s harsh, uncaring words, but the sight of his brother’s grave pushed him over the edge. He stood and turned to face his father. He took a step forward, standing right in front of him. His eyes stared forth with purpose, piercing his father like daggers. Vander’s eyes jolted with surprise at the sudden display of defiance toward him, but he refused to step down in any way.

         “You can hold a grudge against Isac for the decisions that he made throughout his life. I won’t lie to you and say that he lived the kind of life that you had envisioned for him. He may have been a drunk and a lecher, but there was a side to Isac that you did not open yourself up to. Like yourself, I always had a jaded view of my brother. However, this journey has allowed me to witness the real Isac Izula. My brother was one of the kindest people to ever live in all of creation. He sacrificed everything that he had in order to save the ones he cared about, including his own family. Isac jumped in the way of the dagger that would have pierced into my own chest. If it were not for his noble sacrifice, I would be the one lying in the ground right now.”

         Prescott did not move. Vander felt as though his son’s eyes were passing judgement upon his spirit and very existence. Unable to bare the look any longer, Vander lowered his eyes and turned away.

         “Isac’s life was meant for more than this grave,” Vander said.

         “You are right, father. He should have had more in his living days, like the love and support of his father,” Prescott replied.

         Small drops of rain began to descend from the gray heavens, splashing Vander and his two sons. Without another word, Vander walked back toward the temple entrance and left Prescott and Isac behind. Prescott knelt down in front of the grave again and lowered his head, tears falling from both his eyes and those of the gods above.

         In the distance stood a still and silent Shenk. He watched and heard the words spoken between father and son, and they made his sadness grow even greater. He stepped through the falling rain and stopped behind Prescott. In his left hand he held Isac’s wooden staff, which he laid down across the pile of earth that concealed his first true friend forever. Prescott did not look up at him, and Shenk was thankful for that. He did not want Prescott to see the tears that streamed down his face. Turning, Shenk left the grave behind him and marched away from the garden and back toward the temple.

         “Isac,” Prescott whispered one last time before falling silent and allowing the sound of the spilling rains to congest the dead air.

*                    *                    *

         Grom leaned against the wall outside of Cloey’s room. He listened to the sounds of crying from within, muffled through the closed wooden door, and he could feel the torment and confusion that consumed her. She had taken it worse than Grom had expected. Seeing the way that the two had fought time and time again, he doubted that she would care much about Isac’s passing. The despondent cries from behind that door proved those conceptions wrong. The moment he gathered the energy to tell her the news, he watched every fiber of her being unravel. Despite his urging, she blamed herself for his death. He should have stayed and given her some sort of comfort, but he felt as though he could do no such thing and left the room without another word. His legs refused to carry him far, freezing just outside of the door.

         No matter how hard he tried to forget, he saw the same image replayed over and over in his mind. He watched the crystal floating through the air and shattering into a spray of tiny shards, each reflecting a thousand dazzling colors in the light. He heard the dark elf cry out in disbelief, and before he could even blink, the dagger flew right in front of his eyes. He saw Isac dart across the room and shove his brother aside, and he watched the dagger puncture its way into Isac’s chest. He remembered the numbing feeling of shock as Isac’s body fell to the ground, head bouncing off of the cold rocks. It all seemed too familiar to him, like he were watching the death of King Gregory Delencor of Oneria right before his eyes once again. In a single moment of blind heroism, another life was lost.

         The return journey carried on in silence. During those grueling weeks, it did not matter whether the dark elves possessed the amulet. Grom thought only of Isac’s covered body that rested in the cart. The walk was slow and hard for them all. Shenk insisted that he carry Cloey the entire trip back, which Grom knew would help keep his mind from the dark events encompassing them. Prescott led in front of the horses, and he never turned back or spoke with Grom the entire way. As soon as they had arrived, he took the cart straight to the front doors of the temple and carried his fallen brother inside, bidding that the others stay and wait for him to return.

         Prescott eventually emerged without his brother, and that was the last thing Grom could remember until the funeral.

         The sobbing rose and invaded his mind again, breaking his thoughts. An overwhelming feeling of foreboding pounded at his soul as he heard Cloey’s heartfelt cries. Before he left the room, he placed the obsidian dagger at the bedside. He did not mean for it to be a reminder to her, but she asked for it back when he broke the news.

         Grom slid down the side of the wall and brought his knees up against his chest. He did not know how much more death and misfortune he could withstand. He wanted this all to be done with and to return to Oneria once again and see the face of Princess Anne. He wanted nothing more than to just see the radiant smile on her face. Through all the hardships, he began to lose faith that he would see her ever again. Even if he were to stop this tragic web that the dark elves were weaving like ravenous spiders, he did not know if he could ever speak to her. She was the ruler of a kingdom, whereas he was nothing more than a distant admirer.

         Grom’s twisting thoughts made little sense in his mind. Dark elves, orc raids, black islands, evil artifacts–it all went round his head in spinning confusion. Grom fought back the tears that lingered and cried to be released for such a long time. He did his best to stay afloat through the sea of torment.

         The skies wept and the winds cried out in pain as the dark clouds floated above them all, covering any sight of hope’s shining light.

ID: 941664   (Rated: 13+) Chapter 15: The Man in Black  A man in black armor is sighted heading toward the volcanic mountains... by The Lemon