by Daryl Banner
Dog is about a head shorter than Tide, but similar in age, give or take a year. Despite being shorter, his slender, lanky form gives him a long shape. His soft, round face is punctuated by two brown button eyes and framed by short brown hair, messy at the front where a tuft of it flips up. He always looks scared of something, his eyes wide and watery and rarely blinking, and every smile he makes is a nervous one, like he’s afraid his kindness might offend someone.
And to all that kindness and sweetness of Dog, Tide only gives one cold glance at the table, then another at the stew that sits on the counter with a serving ladle resting within it. He swings past the table, grabs a knob of bread from the plate so carelessly he disturbs the other remaining pieces—one rolling onto the table—and then he plops down on the couch. “Fucking long day.”
Dog hurries to fill both bowls full of stew. “Some of this will do you nice, I’m sure. It’s potato and orange root, your favorite.”
Tide wrinkles his face. “No meat?”
“Oh, I-I’m sorry. There was none at the market today. A trouble in the third, from what I heard. D-Didn’t you know about it? You are Head of Crews, so you know … you know everything that goes on.” He swallows hard and blinks once. “W-With the crews.”
Tide chews on the bread so obnoxiously, crumbs dust the front of his black-and-red sweater top—another proud creation of Dog’s. Even the greyweave pants he wears were made by Dog, who takes such delight in serving Tide with every skill he has, especially in his cooking and his tireless thread-working.
Tide must have a complete wardrobe of clothes by now, thanks to this wimpy, softhearted boy.
“I’m not Head of anything,” he bites back, propping his feet up on an overturned crate that squats before the couch. “It’s been a long day. A man deserves to relax.”
“Yes, yes, you deserve it.” Dog stands there awkwardly as he watches Tide awhile, seeming uncertain of what to say or do, the dinner he prepared for them sitting, untouched.
Tide swallows his bite, then flings the rest of his uneaten bread onto the crate by his feet. “Stale.”
“I’ll get a better piece.” Dog rushes to the table, fetches another, quickly slathers it with butter, then brings it to Tide.
Tide sinks his teeth into it. As it crunches in his mouth, a warm sensation of strength mixed with a pinch of elation flows into him—thanks to Dog’s Legacy of infusing his food with emotion. Tide lets out a groan of approval, then takes another hearty bite from his buttered chunk of bread and chews it despite it barely fitting into his mouth, crumbs flitting down his chin and massive chest.
He lifts his eyes to Dog, annoyed. “You just gonna stand there?”
“Sorry.”
Dog drops to his knees and pulls off Tide’s shoes—two bleached leather, short-neck boots one and a half times the size of Dog’s face—then sets them neatly on the floor next to him. The boy then brings his hands to one of Tide’s feet and immediately gets to work massaging it, first kneading the heel with his thumbs, then slowly working his way up the sweaty, socked arch.
Tide leans back, lets out a sigh of delight, and shuts his eyes, the bite in his mouth forgotten as he stops chewing and just enjoys the pampering.
This is a daily routine he has come to expect from the one named Dag who he insists on calling Dog, the one who clearly would do anything whatsoever that’s asked of him. Tide has never had someone so readily beneath him, devoted to serving his every need without a thing given in return.
Who am I kidding? Tide muses privately. The lowly first-warder enjoys every second of this. I can tell him to wash my sweat-crusted socks by stuffing them in his mouth and sucking them dry if I wanted. For a minute, Tide considers doing just that, simply to test his theory, which inspires a wide, lopsided smirk of amusement. He can want me all he wants, dream of me out of these clothes he keeps making me, but he’ll never have a taste. Like a carrot dangled before a hooved beast.
That’s what Tide tells himself to justify the way he treats the boy whose house he lives in.
It makes perfect sense to Tide Wellport.
Maybe it’s just in some people’s nature to serve, and other’s natures to be served. Isn’t that the lesson Tide’s father taught him when he used to live at home, constantly beaten down by his old man who made him feel like shit? Isn’t that the lesson he learned over the years from wimps like Wick and Link Lesser who barely put up a fight when he took a taunt to them in the schoolyard?
After a lifetime of abuse, physical and verbal and emotional, from his own hard-voiced and unloving father, isn’t it about time for Tide to be afforded a boy beneath him to shove about for once?
“More,” Tide orders him, bits of bread fluttering out of his lips as he speaks. When Dog glances up, Tide nods toward his foot and elaborates through his mouthful. “At the toes. Work them more.”
Dog says nothing, his eyes wide and eager as he slides his hands to the top of the socked foot, working the sweaty toes. Tide enjoys another deep, invigorating wave of pleasure, whether from the foot massage itself or from the emotion-infused bread in his mouth, he cannot know.
Dog is so concentrated on massaging Tide’s big foot, his nose is nearly buried between the toes.
Tide swallows the rest of his bite, then nudges the boy’s face with his foot. “Stew.”
Dog looks up, startled by the tap. “S-Stew? You’d like your bowl now? I’ll fetch it.” He’s on his feet and to the counter in seconds. He returns with just the bowl for Tide, handing it to him carefully. “It’s hot about the edges, fair warning. And here’s a clean spoon,” he offers, handing that to him as well.
Tide brings a spoonful to his mouth. It tastes fucking perfect.
“To your liking?” asks Dog with hope.
Perfectly peppered. Not too hot, not too cold. Potatoes are crisp yet soft enough to bite. The orange root rich in color and richer in taste.
Tide shrugs. “It’ll do.”
Dog sighs with relief and smiles.
Then Tide wiggles his big, sweaty feet. “Keep on,” he tells him. “You can eat when you’re done.”
The boy drops to his knees and goes right back to massaging his feet as if he was never interrupted. Tide figures the boy wouldn’t care if he never ate his stew; he’s getting enough of a feast off of Tide’s big feet.
Just like a dog.
Tide enjoys spoonful after spoonful of the tasty stew as he leans back, enjoying his foot rub and feeling half a King already. Yeah, he decides with a smirk on his lips. This is exactly what it’ll be for all my days when the time comes. A King’s life. A King’s pleasures. My every desire fulfilled. My every pleasure entertained.
Storm King Tide, they’ll call me. King of Storms, Ruler of the Very Wind Itself.
0259 Wick
Wick has never hugged a human being tighter than he hugs Rone Tinpassage upon their reunion in the rainy woods. Even with the discovery of Gaea and all the friends he’s made among the camp, he’s never truly felt a piece of home return to his empty heart as he does when Rone comes back into his life.
Waiting on the river’s flood to ebb, the three of them sit upon the damp riverbank awhile, the worst of the rain having gone. The wind is nearly nonexistent, leaving a humid thickness in the air about them. Everything smells wet and woodsy.
“You lived in a cave for a month??” Wick exclaims.
Rone laughs, hoarse. They’re in the middle of catching up on all their various misadventures in the Oblivion. “There’s no telling how long I was down there, bro. Might’ve just been a day or two. Maybe more.” His eyes flash as he remembers. “Oh! I saw the ocean!”
Wick gapes. “Ocean?? You’re lying! There’s no such thing.”
“There is! And it is massive, my friend. You’d have to travel a very, very long distance that way to see it.” Rone points. His arm is skinnier than Wick remembers. I suppose my body is less than what it was, too. “And if you found it, you’d then pay witness to the largest spread of sand followe
d by the largest spread of crashing waters, stretching from your feet to the end of the world.”
“I don’t believe it.” Wick is astounded, shaking his head. “Rone.”
Rone smiles, his sapphire eyes dazzling. “Anwick.”
“I thought I’d never see you again.” Wick is overcome, for the ninth time since their reunion, with tears. He tries to swallow them, wiping his eyes with the back of his wrist. “Never, ever.”
Rone turns his eyes onto Dran, who has remained mostly silent. “And you. Oh, what a fucking wonder the world is. Metal Hand is a teleporter, you say? What a … What a hilarious fucking joke. All his executed, cast away to the other side of the damn Wall, still very much alive and unexecuted.” Rone coughs, clears his throat, then puts a hand to his chest. “Sorry. I’ve not talked this much in months.”
“Better rest your voice,” Wick gently suggests. “We have about a billion things to talk about when you come back to camp with us.”
“Camp? You’ve a camp?” Rone is now the one who looks as if he might cry. “A roof? Fire? Food?”
“Many roofs. Many fires. And more food than you’ll need.”
Dran clears his throat, then points a thumb bluntly at his back. “And what are we to do with that thing?”
The three glance back at the Wildercat, who sits some distance from them, a resentful look about her golden eyes as she looks off, her tail twitching. Blood from the wolves still stains her incredibly long whiskers, which rest on the ground on either side of her.
Rone is the only one who looks upon her fondly. A smile breaks over his face. “Her name is Eerie. And without her, I’d be dead.”
“Yeah, that’s lovely and all,” mumbles Dran, “but we can’t take that thing back with us.”
Rone’s smile doesn’t fade in the least. “Yes, she is a very frightful beauty, isn’t she?”
Wick lets out a nervous chuckle—with no effort made to hide his inherent fear of the Wildercat—then gives his friend a pat on the leg. “Dran, I’m afraid, has a point. The people of Gaea … they have a bad history with these Wildercats. Namely, deaths. Dismemberment. General fear and terror strikes the hearts of any who look on one.”
“Wildercats?” Rone lifts an eyebrow. “There are others?”
Dran sighs. “Well, if there’s this one, there’s obviously others. I mean, she has to have a mother and father, doesn’t she? She might even have siblings for all we know.”
Rone glances back at the creature appraisingly, who sits among the brush like a Queen on a throne. “I suppose, as obvious as it is, I never actually considered that.” Then he shakes his head suddenly. “No. She has no one. I can tell. She has no one in this world.”
Dran rolls his eyes and gives up, looking off.
Wick glances between them. Inside, he’s conflicted, because he can understand both of their points of view. He tries a different tack. “She’s a beast of the wild, Rone. You can’t possibly think you have her under control. She is, by definition, untamable.”
“Eerie won’t dare cause harm to any folk from your dwelling. She isn’t touching either of you, see?” Rone tilts his head. “Especially since you’ve been marked by the fruit, of course. She learns.”
Wick blinks, the discovery hitting him in the head all over again like another piece of fruit. “You’re the one who threw those at us?”
“She detests them. We ought to as well,” Rone explains. “The fruit makes you unconscious. I was starved for days, ate one, then dropped to the ground like a stone. Woke up half a day later.”
“You mean this Dream Tear?”
Rone and Wick turn to Dran, who has reached into Rone’s little satchel and pulled out one of the purple-red fruits.
“Dream what?” mutters Rone.
“Dream Tear.” Dran looks between the two of them, eyebrow quirked. “How have you two not heard of Dream Tears? This shit is gold to the shadow markets of the eleventh.”
“What is it, exactly?” mumbles Wick.
After Dran takes a proper moment to check whether he’s being fucked with, he lets out a small chuckle of disbelief, then starts: “It’s a hallucinogenic fruit grown in those secret black-glass facilities, tenth and eleventh shadow markets. Guardian’s been hunting the likes of such facilities and the criminals growing these fruit for well over a century since it was discovered.”
Wick wrinkles his face up. “Why is it so … forbidden?”
“Do people make poisons out of it?” asks Rone. “Weapons?”
Dran snorts. “C’mon, really?” He wiggles the fruit. “This fruit is what Chemical is made out of.”
Rone and Wick look at one another, turn back to Dran, and then the pair of them burst into laughter so suddenly, Eerie pokes up her head, alarmed.
“No fucking way!” shouts Rone through his hoarse voice and tears of laughter. “I will be a fool and believe a hundred other things before I believe that!”
Dran tosses the fruit back into the satchel. “Seriously, that stuff will fuck you up. The fruit has to be juiced, diluted, treated … there’s this whole process to it. My friend Oman from The Wrath had a dad into all that shadow market business. One of these fruits can be processed into two and a half barrels of Chemical.”
Rone’s laughter ceases and his eyes widen. “Two and a half—?”
“We’re talking tens of thousands of Lifted gold coins’ worth each, at least. And this hefty fucker?” He pokes at the fruit in Rone’s satchel. “This is grown in the wild, in its actual habitat. This fruit is twice the size of any I’d seen in Atlas.” Dran lets out a short laugh. “And you’re going around throwing them at us like water balloons.”
“Well, fuck me.” Rone stares down at his satchel in disbelief.
Wick shakes his head. He’s had too many shocking revelations in the past hour or so. He fears he can’t handle one more. “Rone, I still can’t believe I’m sitting next to you. In the flesh.”
Rone snorts. “That makes two of us. And you’re sitting next to ten Lifted bank accounts apparently, too.” He squints at Dran. “Two and a half barrels? Really? Like, I thought just one vial of it was hard enough to come by on the streets.”
Dran shakes his head. “Don’t go getting any ideas. That stuff—”
“No, no.” Rone gives his bag a pat. “I’m not knocking myself out. Not again. I’ve been six months clean from Chemical. Didn’t even realize I was carrying its grand-mommy in my bag this whole time.”
Wick sighs, his eyes grazing past Rone to observe this so-called Eerie behind him in the woods. “We really need to address the cat.”
“I told you,” Rone insists. “She’s fine. She won’t—”
“If she won’t hurt anyone, then why’d you have to dress us in Dream Tear juice to ward her away?” asks Dran, cutting him off. “You don’t trust her any more than we do, that much is clear.”
Rone’s voice turns sincere. “I trust her with my life.”
“So what’s your plan for the rest of us, then?” Dran smirks. “Dowse the whole of Gaea with this sticky, semi-poisonous goo?”
“Actually, that isn’t a bad idea.” Rone gives a nod back toward the woods. “I know a thicket of trees that bear twenty to thirty more of these. Hell, it’ll even be better with Eerie among your camp. She can prowl the outskirts, like a non-human watch guard. Keep away the pups and other nuisances. She’ll know who not to attack. We have a bond, her and I.”
“Oh? Is that so?” Dran squares his eyes on Rone challengingly. “Prove it, wild boy.”
“Dran …” warns Wick.
Rone smirks superiorly, then hops to his feet. Anwick watches, a touch of anxiety swelling in his chest. He just got his best friend back; he isn’t so sure he’s ready to lose him right away.
But Rone doesn’t look afraid in the least. He waltzes right up to his pet Wildercat. Unlike before when they all had a sudden laugh, she doesn’t so much as flinch in his presence. Her mouth closes, teeth hidden, and she inclines her head up to watch him as
he comes forth. Rone plants himself next to her, then sets a hand upon her furry, purple head. She doesn’t exactly cuddle him, but her eyes tell it all: she isn’t threatened, she isn’t angry, she isn’t irritated.
There’s something strange about her big, golden, knowing eyes. Wick cannot help but feel this regal creature of the wild is far more intelligent than she lets on.
“Yeah, sure, she won’t eat you,” Dran goes on, ever the cynic.
Rone crouches down. “Eerie, my Sweet Girl. Tell me. Will you eat these two? Or can you tell that I’m rather fond of them?”
Eerie doesn’t respond. She only turns her eyes toward Dran and Wick with a look of boredom, half-lidded, her long whiskers sleeping in the grass on either side of her.
“There will be many others just like them,” Rone tells her. “They are all my friends, even if I don’t know them. Human beings. Don’t hurt the human beings, alright? We’ll find plenty of pups for you to feed on and scare away.”
Eerie yawns, then snaps her mouth shut.
Rone smiles. “Good girl.”
Dran rolls his eyes and rises from the riverbank. “The water has receded. We’d better get back before Cagemont thinks we’re dead.”
“Chief Cagemont,” explains Wick, rising off the ground himself, then extending a hand to his buddy, who takes it. “She’s the elected ruler of Gaea. You will have to meet with her first, Rone.”
“Aye, I’ll enjoy that. And she can meet my Eerie, as well,” Rone states proudly, slapping Wick on the back.
Dran shoots him a look. “Let us not get ahead of ourselves, wild boy.”
And as the three cross the river, Wick is surprised when, with just a whistle of Rone’s lips and a wave of his hand, the Wildercat rises from her throne of grass and follows to swim through the water a few paces behind them, like death’s jaws upon their heels. Three Sister, please don’t let this giant cat behind us become another of Rone’s countless foolish decisions.
0260 Ellena
