Timothy's chest burned as he sprinted through the forest. Trees and foliage blurred as he ducked and dodged arrows cast from the bandits in pursuit of him. Moving from muscle memory, he knew every rock and root to step on to keep them at a safe distance. Finding a familiar bend in the rutted path, he turned and sprinted up the hill toward a thin spire of white smoke drifting up from a clearing.
"Help! Help!" He shouted as he burst through into the open area.
A lone warrior with a thick mass of black hair and bearded
face, dressed in scuffed leather armor, stood, drawing his longsword from his
scabbard. His eyes darted from Timothy to the woods as the bandits burst forth.
The man raised his sword, preparing for battle.
"Help me, and I'll make sure you get paid well," Timothy shouted as he ran to the man.
"You? Pay well?" The man grunted. "I highly doubt it, but this should be fun, regardless." He raised his sword and rushed headlong into the oncoming bandits.
Timothy watched in awe as the warrior routed his opponents with parries and strikes with the broad side of his blade. He toyed with the bandits until he disarmed them all, forcing them to retreat into the woods.
"And tell your leader to stay away from now on!" He shouted at their retreating backs.
"I will never grow tired of seeing that," Timothy said.
"Oh, you often see a pack of wild bandits turned away by a sellsword?" Before Timothy could answer, the man removed his leather glove and extended his hand, "My name is Patrick. Welcome to my camp."
"Timothy. I'm Timothy but my friends call me Tim." He shook Patrick's hand enthusiastically.
"Tim. That's a good name, boy. Come sit. You look tired." He gestured at the fire and motioned for Timothy to sit.
As he took a place on a log across the fire from Patrick, he
took in the camp in full. Between them, hanging on a ramshackle tripod, a small
pot bubbled with a thick brown liquid of broth, vegetables, and questionable
meat. A pitch-black horse grazed nearby, unfazed at the recent battle, simply
munching on nearby sweetgrass.
"What brings a boy like you into these woods? It's dangerous here, as I'm sure you've come to realize." Patrick stirred the pot.
"I'm seeking to restore my family name."
"Oh really," Patrick raised his eyebrow, "and what name is that?"
"Can I trust you?" Timothy asked in a monotone voice.
"I think those running bandits should be evidence enough that you can trust me, lad," Patrick said, producing two wooden bowls and large crude metal spoons.
"True enough," Timothy said, taking a steaming bowl of the stew and a spoon, "My full name is Timothy Swiftwater."
"Of the Houndholde Swiftwaters?" Patrick whistled. "Impressive. It'd be more impressive if any of them were still alive."
"I am the last son of Harold Swiftwater," Timothy
looked deep into the fire as he spoke, "I am on a quest to avenge my
father's death and reclaim my rightful place at the head of the Council of
Houndholde."
"Ahhh. A boy on a grand adventure, then?" Patrick sipped at his stew with the bowl raised to his lips, forgoing the use of the spoon. As he brought the bowl down, flecks of meat and soup remained in his thick beard.
Timothy brought a spoonful of the stew to his mouth and chewed slowly on the meat that was more gristle than actual meat. It was warm and bland, but quite filling. "It feels like that sometimes, but what I do is more of a necessity than anything else," he replied.
"Here, have some more." Patrick dumped another ladle full into Timothy's bowl.
"Thanks." Timothy took another bite. "You don't seem like a sellsword."
"What makes you say that?"
"Well, you have a nice horse that looks to have cost a nice sum and a camp that looks like it's been lived in for a while. You don't strike me as the mercenary type."
"That's true. I'm a freeholder, actually. As a matter of fact, I knew your father and your grandfather." Patrick slurped more of the food into his mouth as the bowl disappeared into his beard. He chewed for a moment before continuing, "When your father took over, I swore allegiance to him. As far as I'm concerned, Harold was a fair lord, even if his father was a scoundrel."
"And here I thought that my Swiftwater ancestors had conquered everyone that they ruled." Timothy said, taking another bite of the stew.
"Your grandfather was the conqueror. Your father, on the other hand, was a man of honor." He paused, wiping wet soup and bits of meat from his beard, "This land aches in his absence."
"I am the only one that can restore it to its former glory."
"That's a tall order for a boy of your age." Patrick said, "Not that I don't believe you. I have a few questions though."
"Fire away."
"How old are you, Tim?"
"I'm fifteen, but I've been training with the blade since I was a young boy."
"I see." Patrick nodded, "And how do you plan on taking back your birthright?"
"By presenting myself to the Outland clans. They once supported my father before cutting ties with the rest of the civilized world."
"And you believe they'll back your claim?"
"I plan to appeal to them on the vows they once made to my family- to my father- and return to Houndholde with an army."
"That's a tall order for a bunch of warrior clans living on the edge of civilization. Do you know why they abandoned the known world and set out for the edge of what's known?"
"I've heard tales that their seers foresaw the fall of magic and the abandonment of the old ways."
"I've heard much the same. There have also been tales of great heroes that have recently turned to the worship of the old gods. I suspect that they're the same, but who knows?" He finished his bowl of stew and set it aside, "Still, that's quite a plan you've got there. I hope you succeed."
"I don't want to be seen as a beggar," Timothy said with a quiver to his voice, "but I would appreciate it if you would accompany me on my journey. I will pay well for your services. Join me on my quest."
"Sorry, my lad, I can't take you to the Outlands. I can only take you as far as the edge of the Burning Wilds, but no further." Patrick stood and looked at the sun low above the treetops, "It's a long journey to the edge. We should light out soon to get a good start. We'll want to make camp well before nightfall. The Wilds do not like trespassers."
"Really?" He couldn't hide his excitement. "Do you think you could escort me the entire journey? I can pay well. I still have access to much of my family's wealth, and more so when I retake my throne."
"Unfortunately, I can't escort you, lad. A few days from here is the border of where I can go. I am vowbound to these lands. I can't go beyond, or else the magic will burn me from the inside out."
"I see. I'm sorry." Timothy bowed his head in disappointment.
"Don't be sorry, Tim. I'm sorry I can't take you the entire way." Patrick nodded and turned to attend to the horses.
"Thank you for everything." Timothy said, standing and opening his pack to retrieve a small pouch of gold. He tossed the pouch to Patrick who caught it deftly in one hand. "I hope this will be enough to repay you for your hospitality and service."
"It's more than enough, lad. Much more than you should pay me." He looked toward the woods. "Come, Tim, let's take flight before the sun gets much higher."
Timothy nodded and took a deep breath. This was the first step in his journey. He strapped his things to the horse and looked to the woods. In the distance he could see the faint outline of the far edge of the woods, outlined by billows of sickly gray fog. He took another deep breath, shouldered his pack, climbed onto the horse behind Patrick.
They traveled quickly and aggressively, pushing the horse faster than Timothy thought one would normally travel, but Patrick did not seem concerned. Timothy found it difficult to keep track of the woods as trees and brush flew past, but he was always eager for what came next as he held tight to Patrick as they flew through the woods accompanied only by the echo of the hard gallop.
The sun's light began to fade as the two made to the Burning Wilds. The trees thinned as they approached the edge of the wood, and Patrick picked up the pace. As they broke through the tree line a bleak landscape of barren waste rose to greet them. Patrick halted their progress at the line where the green of the forest stopped at the red and black sand of the land before them.
The Burning Wilds.
Scorched Earth.
"Behold, lad, a testament to the fickle nature of the gods. Legend says Nimther blighted this land after the first men betrayed the old gods in favor of Nimther's children. He cast his own daughter, Dydia, down from the Sky Forge and cursed her corpse to corrupt this land."
"Skip, please," Timothy said dryly.
Patrick paused a blank expression on his face briefly before he dismounted and gestured for Timothy to do the same.
"In case you're wondering, we're sending my horse back home, she'll find her way fine, but she's too much weight for the sands of the Wilds. You and I can make it fine, but a beast of her stature would not do well with the terrain."
Timothy nodded as he slid down the side of the mare.
"If we push through the night, we'll make safe ground by dawn." He gazed at the sun, low on the horizon, "If you're wondering why we're making this trek at night, it's because during the dark, we'll have warning before the ground belches flames at us. It's much safer. There might be more creatures out at night, but we won't be caught off guard at a surprise pillar of fire." He removed a satchel from the bags on his horse and patted her on her haunches. Walking to her head he touched his forehead to her nose and said, "You go safe and swift. I'll be home soon."
At those words, the mare turned and sprinted back through
the woods, galloping toward Patrick's camp.
"Do we have to set out now? Can we wait a bit before entering the Wilds?" Timothy asked, looking up at Patrick.
"No, lad, we must go now. We can't tarry."
"So much for choice," Timothy mumbled.
"If you want to wait, you can choose to do the Wilds without my help. I'm not bonded to help you. You're free to go."
"No. No. I don't want to do it alone." Timothy shook his head and continued, "Let's do this."
Patrick nodded and shouldered his satchel, "Stay close. We'll stay in the cover of the rocks as long as we can, but as the terrain changes, we'll need to leave that cover and make a fast run to cover before any ground catches fire. We don't want to be caught in any of the plumes."
Timothy followed Patrick's lead into the Burning Wilds. They traveled for what felt like ages, but Timothy knew it was only about an hour until they reached the first edge of the mountains. The ground was rocky and uneven, forcing the pair to slow their pace as they walked along the base of rocky outcroppings from the blackened ground.
A dull red glow appeared around the edges of the boulder they crept around.
"That's not good." Patrick hissed.
"Time to climb," Timothy said.
"Right," Patrick raised and eyebrow at his companion, "Climb. Up on this stone. Fast." He laced his fingers and nodded to the boy, "Here, I'll boost you up." Timothy planted his foot on Patrick's hands, and Patrick tossed him up in once swift motion.
As Timothy landed, he splayed his arms and legs out, gripping hard at pits in the top of the boulder to keep from slipping to the side. Within a moment, Patrick joined him atop the stone and sat beside him, as Timothy settled and rolled to his back, looking up at the smoke obscured sky, only the brightest of stars peeking through the perpetual haze of the Wilds.
The glow surrounding the boulder grew brighter and brighter, until the earth parted only a few steps from where they had once stood and spewed forth a pillar of black smoke and red flames. Tim felt the heat on his face and hands and closed his eyes against the brightness. The plume lasted only a moment before subsiding, but as it stopped another spot nearby repeated the same pattern.
Glow.
Burst.
Smoke.
Flame.
Stop.
As it ended, another repeated.
"Rinse, wash, repeat," Timothy muttered.
"This'll last the better part of an hour. Once the fires move further away, we can continue, but for now, just enjoy the show."
They both laid back on the stone, staring at the sky, where only the brightest stars peaked through the haze.
"See that star?" Patrick pointed to a white dot to
their left.
"Yes," Timothy said with a hitch in his voice.
"That is Abris, the Old Storyteller."
"Your god," Timothy said as his eyes welled up.
"Why, yes. Yes. I do serve Abris. She has served me well in my years of life. Do you know much about the stars?"
"My father and I used to sit in the fields, looking at the constellations. He would tell me their stories and I'd listen to him for hours."
"He was a good man, and I'm sure he'd be proud of the man you are becoming."
"Thanks," Timothy said as tears fell down his cheeks. He quickly wiped his face and sat up, watching the bursts of fire flicker in the distance.
"One thing," Patrick sat up as well, "I've learned in my years of devotion to Abris is-"
"I'm not up for hearing this now," Timothy closed his eyes tight.
"Well, I think you need it," Patrick reached a hand to the boy's shoulder, "so listen up. "I learned from Abris that there is always a choice. No matter the situation, no matter how trapped you feel, you always have a choice. Even now, you have a choice as to how you react to this experience. It's a bit cliché, but you can become the flame or the ember."
Timothy opened his eyes, not ready to listen but unable to look away.
"You can pour yourself into this, this… this event and make it a defining moment of your life, the point at which your life ended. Or-"
"Or, I can just let it be an experience. One experience. I can take it and use it to grow, to move on."
"Right," Patrick paused and cocked his head to the side before continuing, "I suppose. You don't have to believe me, but I'm telling it how I see it. I've lived a long time, longer than you could possibly imagine. I've lived through so much, seen so much. I have seen countless men, women, and children die, so many that I couldn't possibly count them all." He paused for a moment and shook his head. "I've seen so much, but I've seen only one thing as common as life. I've seen hope. I've seen death and despair but I've seen hope as well. I've seen it on the faces of men as they mounted their horses against impossible odds and won. I've seen it in the eyes of a mother as she cradled the body of her child, taken from her by plague. I've seen it on the lips of lovers, who have given everything to each other, even as the scythe came for them." He laughed gruffly. "The scythe always comes for us, my friend."
"Then what? What do we do when we have nothing left? All the hopes and dreams are gone, snatched away. What do we do?"
"We keep hope. We keep hope in our hearts that we haven't seen our last sunset, that there is always something more. In my life, I've kept hope, and I do so still. I hope that one day I'll see peace come to our lands. I hope that one day I'll taste bread, or a sweet, or beer, or anything made with love, made with care. I hope that I see my friends and lovers again, even the ones I killed. And, boy, I hope that I see you again."
Timothy bowed his head at those words.
"And, I hope that you become the crest of the wave. I hope that you become that spark that will burn your way through the darkest of times. I hope that you become that ember that grows, that glows, that burns bright and sets others aflame. I hope you have a good long life."
"Thanks," Timothy said, and turned away to look back up at the smoky sky. "It's time to go," he whispered.
Patrick peered over the edge of the boulder, surveying the charred land as Timothy knelt beside him. He clapped a hand on Timothy's back.
"Right you are, boy. How'd you know that?"
"Just a lucky guess," he stood and stretched his
back. Patrick raised his hand, and Timothy took it, gripping it tight as they
slid down the side of the rock.
The ground was charred black, and the underlying rock
underneath jutted forth in the spots that were spared the fire's wrath. The
acrid air stung Timothy's nose and welled tears in his eyes. Patrick pulled two
strips of fabric from a pouch, wet them from his canteen and tied one around
his face, handing the other to Timothy. Without instruction, he tied it loose
around his face.
"There's not much time, let's get moving," Patrick said as he turned back to Timothy and wrapped an arm around his shoulder.
As they walked, Timothy kept his eyes on the ground, watching where he placed his feet, but he paid attention to the world around him. He watched the tendrils of smoke rise into the air and dissipate, only to be replaced by more. He listened to the calls of birds, the croaking of toads and the scurrying of animals in the underbrush, each trying to find shelter from the flames. He breathed in the air through his makeshift mask and felt his head clear. His stomach and throat calmed, and he no longer felt like he might vomit at the slightest hint of a smell.
The pair walked at a slow pace, and made good time, unimpeded by the flames. After only a short while, the mountains loomed before them, the bones of the earth, girders holding the sky aloft. As they approached the rock, the smoke and fire in the distance thinned and then disappeared amongst the trees and boulders. The pair jogged, Timothy matching Patrick's long strides. The edge of the Wilds drew quickly upon them.
At the edge, Patrick stopped. His feet stuck on the black basalt stone stopping abruptly at the edge of the green beyond the Wild. Timothy continued past for a few feet before stopping to look back, tears streaming down his face. He walked back to Patrick, standing on the green before Patrick, then crossed over and held him.
"Please. Come with me. Come with me this time," Tim begged.
Patrick separated the two of them, pushing Tim, easing the
boy toward the edge. Timothy crossed again outside the Wilds. The grass beneath
his feet green and lush, the breeze cool and gentle, scented with the sweetness
of summer. The sun shone above, sending its warming rays down onto him, bathing
him in the light. Timothy lifted his face to the sky and closed his eyes, tears
flowing freely down his face. He felt Patrick lean in close to whisper in his
ear.
"I'll stay here until you're out of sight. You have a duty. You have a purpose, and I need to know that you'll do it. Will you?"
"But, Patrick, you don't understand-"
"You good lad, just know I'll be waiting for your return. When you come back to claim your birthright, I'll be waiting for you, and by Abris, I'll escort you into the Great Hall of your ancestors myself." He beamed with pride at the young boy.
"But, you don't understand. That's not what
happens," Timothy tugged at Patrick's shirt, "If you stay, or if I go
back with you, bad things happen. By the time I return, you're dead. They kill
you to motivate me to finish everything. You're just a pawn."
"Are you a seer, boy?" Patrick laughed. "No one but the gods can know the fates-"
"Would you just shut up!" Timothy yelled. He shook with rage as sobs wracked his small frame. "It's not fair. It's just not fair. You look just like him, and it's just not fair."
"Lad, what in Abris' name are you going on about?"
Timothy fell to his knees, unable to keep his composure and sobbed as loud wails rent from his lips, echoing into both the woods and the Wilds. He crawled forward, back to Patrick.
"I'm so sorry, I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry," Timothy chanted over and over again. He held tight to Patrick's legs, looking up into his face, "Please stay. Please don't go. I don't want you to go. I can't say goodbye again."
"I'm sorry, boy," Patrick said as he pulled Timothy up and hugged him tight, "but I can't stay."
"Please, Patrick, don't leave me. Please."
Timothy's sobbing wracked his body as he clung to Patrick tight, like a child to its mother. He continued to cry, tears falling and soaking the shirt of the sellsword. Patrick held the boy tight and whispered into his ear, "I'll always be here. You are the crest of the wave, now, Tim. You are that spark that will burn your way through the darkest of times. You will always be here with me." He squeezed the boy, holding him tight.
"Don't leave me, dad. I can't do this without you."
"Timothy," Patrick looked him in the eye, "I'm not your father, but I know he would be proud of you. There's no doubt in my mind of that. You bring him honor and honor to your family."
"I can't do this. I can't lose you again."
"This is where we have to part, or if you're not ready, you can return with me. The choice is yours, Timothy."
"No," Timothy's voice dropped as he spoke, a flat monotone expression, "No. I never had a choice, and neither do you. It's so unfair that you look like my dad. I miss him so much." Before Patrick could respond, Tim stood, tapping his ring finger three times against his thumb on his right hand.
Suddenly, the world slowed to a stop. Frozen in time. No sound echoed across either the lush woods or barren Wilds. The black smoke frozen in a thousand fractals as it spiraled into the red sky. Timothy looked skyward and wiped the tears from his face.
"Menu," he spoke into the emptiness. In front of
his eyeline, a glowing green word appeared, hovering over the ground.
He waited as it cascaded into wall of green text, then lifted his right hand and hovered over the word Save. The floating text cascaded into a list of files. Tim pointed at the text reading New Save. A chime echoed in his ears.
"Game saved," a crystal-clear woman's voice said from the sky as the floating text scrolled page after page of save games until it reached the end.
Tim's hand hovered over the option reading Load Previous Save.
"I miss you, Dad," he whispered as Patrick, the Wilds, and the lush wood dissolved into a pixelated jumble, fading into black before reforming into the hill leading to Patrick's camp. Tim stood at the bottom, wiping the tears from his face with his sleeves. Frozen behind him like a museum display were the bandits in various still poses with axes raised and swords drawn.
A blue transparent ball flickered before Tim chiming a low bell tone, cacophonous in the silence. Tim swiped his hand through it and the tone ceased.
"Tim," his mother's voice wafted gently from the glowing orb, "Tim, it's Mom. The school called. I guess you didn't make it in today. Baby, I miss him too, but you can't bury yourself in that game. It won't... It can't replace him. I'm on my way home. Maybe we can talk a bit when I get there, just know I love you, baby." With a chime the blue orb disappeared, leaving Tim alone in the frozen silence. He puffed his chest and inhaled deep.
"Okay, let's do this again," he said as he tapped his finger and thumb three times unpausing his game.
Timothy's chest burned as he sprinted through the forest. Trees and foliage blurred as he ducked and dodged arrows cast from the bandits in pursuit of him. He smiled as he knew he would find Patrick exactly where he should be as he rushed toward the camp.
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