The Reaper Realm: Threads of Compassion

by K. A. Lentz

  Thistle suddenly felt the silence between them pressing in on her. Trying to avoid the sight of freshly removed bird innards, she stared resolutely at Miach’s face and said through a hint of nausea, “So what’s the giant bird from nightmares called? And…” Pausing for a moment, Thistle realized something and continued her questioning in an entirely new direction, “Wait, how can you understand me… and me you? How can you speak my language? I can’t believe I never made note of that till now… how are we even able to converse? The thick accent you had in the shop is gone, why?”

  Not pausing in his task, Miach said matter-of-factly, “We all speak the same language here, since long ago. It was not always this way I am told, but that is how it is today. We are speaking a language the reapers created special for this realm; the common slave dialect, as they refer to it. There are exceptions to this rule, but very few are words of power capable of invoking magic.”

  Thistle’s first reaction was one of disbelief, yet her logical mind couldn’t refute the idea and so she mused aloud, “I’m speaking an entirely different language? Ahahaha! Wouldn’t my foreign language teachers be proud? So everyone in this world speaks it? Why would the reapers do that?”

  Miach loosed a heavy sigh and replied, “It is a long story to tell. I cannot give you a simple answer to that question. A lot goes into the history of those living here and the laws Reapers established to govern them.”

  Flashing an enthusiastic smile, Thistle countered, “Well, I would have to say… any story worth telling has more than a simple answer. Besides what more is there to do passing time beside a campfire?”

  Finished with the meat prep, Miach set the newly filled bowl among his pile of insect parts and straightened as he stated with a smile, “Let me get our meal cooking and then I shall begin the story of why we all speak the same language.” Without warning he quickly closed the space between them. His voice turning soft, Miach asked more than told, “Now, I would like for you to wait in a tree while I leave to gather firewood.”

  Looking at him with an eyebrow raised, she gave a nervous laugh and said, “What for? It appears as though everything in the area can climb trees with ease. Can I just come with you and help?”

  Shaking his head he answered, “It will be much faster if I do it alone.”

  Thistle loosed a sigh as she moved tight to his side. Translating her movement to mean acceptance, Miach grabbed her about the waist and hopped onto the broadest branch in the tallest tree. Deftly he swirled off his cloak and draped it gently over her shoulders just before dropping back to the ground. Cradling her head idly in one hand, Thistle dangled a foot from either side of the branch and scanned the horizon fading into the ever thickening fog. From her high perch she could easily see over the tall grass lining each side of the fertile riverbank and up to another bend just a short distance downstream. Immediately before the watery river-joint, a felled willow dragged its giant crown like a net filtering solids from the stream. One of the exarch’s remaining legs had become snagged on a stout branch within the tree’s snare, threatening to pull it down the rushing highway.

  Watching the dead insect tug and bob on its hook, Thistle pondered the nature of such a creature and its possible relatives. She was deep in thought when another unfamiliar animal entered the camp. Looking down at the creature from above, the beast appeared to be some sort of scavenger hound. Years ago, casually searching the internet for factoids about wild animals, she had come across a few old pictures of an extinct marsupial from Australia. This animal looked to be a relative or possible descendant, right down to its long, rigid tail.

  She observed un-noticed as the hound sniffed from one place to the next. First it visited the spot the bug had occupied, capturing each faint scent hiding there. Giving up on the muddy crater, the dog-like beast moseyed off toward another mouthwatering aroma drawing it to their camp. Next along its course was the pile of bug bits crowned by a bowl overflowing with tasty poultry meat. Fearing her meal lost, Thistle was shocked when the bewildering creature surprisingly passed them by. The strange animal’s obsidian nose worked overtime as it followed a scent-trail leading to its final destination alongside the butchered bird marinating in mucky riverbank. Circling the carcass a few times, the canine considered its meal for a moment before digging in… literally.

  Feeling the urgent need to change position, Thistle sat up hoping to relieve a cramp forming in her dangling limbs. Taking notice of her for the first time, the hound interrupted its easy meal to glare at its possible rival with uncertainty. Its body quickly followed the direction of its head as the beast warily sniffed the passing breeze. Abruptly the animal shifted focus back to the lifeless bird and, with renewed vigor, resumed its lucky feast. Thistle sat transfixed as she witnessed the horrifying new turn of events and wondered what had caused the animal’s sudden desperation.

  Startling her with an explosion of sound, Miach’s voice rang out from the edge of the tree line. The frightened beast took a few reckless chomps at the sweet meats it had hastily dug into before retreating back to the forest. Strolling into full view, Miach heaved a tower of firewood to the ground and said, “Scare off that animal should you see one; they are relentless scavengers. We are going to have to move camp because of it.”

  Sparing a moment to retrieve Thistle, Miach returned to his wood pile with the stride of determination and began silently inspecting every timber. Tugging a piece free now and then, he scrutinized each find for a moment before discarding the unwanted log back atop the pile. He repeated this process a few more times until his search finally yielded several lengths of wood possessing the proper strength. Laying them aside, Miach briefly surveyed the surrounding landscape for his next material. His eyes danced with light-hearted mischief as his gaze came to rest on an island in the middle of the river just past their bend.

  Inhaling a deep breath, the visible runes upon his body began to crackle and glow with unprecedented intensity. Closing his eyes with the hint of a smile playing along the fringe of his lips, Miach conjured a child-sized tornado hovering not far off the ground. Lifting his lids, the storm-slave shocked Thistle again by giving the littlest tornado instructions, “We need some tall grass from the small island nestled in the river; right down to the roots if you please. Once finished, I ask that you place the collected heap on the ground beside these logs.”

  Knowing what was going to happen next, yet still amazed it obeyed, Thistle watched on as the twister did as requested. Like an impish dust-devil, the small column of air speedily made its way to the slim bar of mud and grass stubbornly—but briefly—splitting the river in two. Zooming around like an excited puppy attacking the tall stalks, the little tornado became a flurry of turf and reed in no time. Doing as instructed, Miach’s wind-thrall returned to the requested location and disappeared with speed to match its creation. Thistle couldn’t hold her tongue any longer, “What the… was that thing alive? That was amazing!”

  Another shy but satisfied smile appeared along the edge of his mouth as he answered, “In a manner… yes and in a way no. It is a bit of both, and very hard to explain. They require a lot of energy to create. It was fun… showing it off to someone.”

  Eager to reward his show and tell, Thistle excitedly stated, “Well it was certainly fun to see! That was incredible, not to mention incredibly handy too I bet?”

  “I suppose it could be, but I rarely find a need for it…” Miach trailed off into silence as he bent down and gathered the scattered mound of grass and reed into an impromptu bale. Standing tall, he assessed his supplies before using each gathered material to craft a transport suitable for their load of goods. Watching his mood switch so quickly, Thistle decided to leave him to his task and talk later over their forthcoming meal.

  Finishing his chore and hauling the freshly loaded pull-behind into motion, Miach nodded toward the trees as he set off for their next destination somewhere in the darkening, late afternoon forest. Looking around in wonder as they traveled, Thistle once ag
ain observed a change in the forest. Waging a silent war, the river’s giant cotton-ball trees stood their ground against an invading legion of towering conifers gaining a foothold with a smattering of budding saplings. Taller than any tree she had ever seen by far, Thistle stopped to gauge their staggering height from beneath a thin crowd of scraggly, lower branches. Miach had taken note of her lack of forward momentum and halted his own progress to see what the hold-up could be. Turning around he found her fixatedly staring up at his favorite forest. Sighing at the inconvenience of needing to keep her moving, he walked over and insistently tugged her into motion again. Thistle gazed into his eyes with questions hovering on her lips. He couldn’t help giving in to the overwhelming impulse to answer her strangely unspoken queries, “They are the mightiest of all the trees in this realm. I visit these woods often; it is the most peaceful forest around. I have no doubt the reason for this is because of an elvish city not far off. We are very close to one of their borders. They maintain…”

  Thistle stopped again. With the stamp of indignation set upon his features, Miach turned once more to get her walking yet was stopped short when he caught her expression. Thistle was in a state of pure, enraptured awe. Her tongue tripped fast over words as she stammered, “N-Near the elves? We are near an actual and real elvish city? I… I mean do you think… c-can we go?”

  Thistle was getting increasingly excited the longer she talked. Clapping her hands in front of her, she bounced a little on the spot while enthusiastically hoping for a yes. Miach was not accustomed to such displays. Slightly entranced, he held his tongue and watched as she became all the more worked up over the idea. His mind automatically cuing to the tone of another question Miach quickly snapped from his happy daze, unaware what her question had been. Staring into his eyes as though his answer had the ability to make or break her, Thistle continued eagerly awaiting his response. Unable to give in to the pressures of expectation he rushed out, “We cannot visit the elves, my apologies for such news, but I am unwelcome in their presence.”

  As he had feared she deflated before his eyes. Staring intently at the ground Thistle stood with a general droop to her posture and her lips remained as silent as the trees around them. Miach ached for the happiness and excitement to return. It had literally been centuries since he was anything more than a spectator to such cheerfulness; he was after all… a slave. Mournful waves washed over Miach as he took Thistle by the hand and silently towed her into motion. Unceremoniously loosing his grip, he picked up the handles of his tow-behind and soon outpaced his charge with long, somber strides. A bit startled by his actions, she labored to catch up and maintain his leading step. Feeling guilty over her disappointment, she rushed to comfort him, “It’s okay… really! I probably wouldn’t fit in very well with a crowd of refined elves anyway. I have no stories or deeds I think they’d find interesting.”

  His reply was monotone and lifeless, “I can imagine the elves would find you of great interest.”

  The end of Miach’s cold response rang with notes alluding to the state of his distant mind. Thistle took his hint and dropped the conversation. It was nearly an hour’s walk before they stopped yet again. Still feeling unwelcome to speak, Thistle remained largely silent as she watched him set up camp. Twice she offered to help and twice he replied in the same monotone voice, “I need none… thank you.”

  After her second attempt to assist him, Thistle decided she wasn’t going to give up on the conversation—which one could argue didn’t exist—and turn it in another direction, hopefully along with his mood. With a curious tone she asked, “So what all can you do? I’d say… run at extraordinary speeds, teleport to other world—err realms—yell extremely loud, create tornados, um… regenerate impressively fast, and quite strong too. That’s just as a starting list, but you tell me… did I miss anything?”

  Lacking even the slightest hint of change in his demeanor, Miach replied, “No, I cannot teleport to other worlds, or other realms, or dimensions as a point of fact; that’s an ability my master imparted to a realm-stone.”

  Her curiosity acquiring notes of excitement, Thistle pressed on, “Oh! Do you mean the one you had at the bookshop? May I see it? It did look very interesting.”

  Pausing in his task of fire construction, Miach dug through a small pouch on his hip before holding the unique pebble up for display. Thistle didn’t hesitate to dash over for a closer look. The realm-stone seemed to be in a semi-state of flux. Along with oceans and continents she didn’t recognize, there were also foreign mountain ranges spider-webbing across the land and fascinating areas of blackness threaded with peculiar mercurial swirls. It was like nothing she had ever seen. Without thinking she reached out and touched the unusual pebble, as her fingertip pressed onto its silken surface a strange sound rang out causing her ears to pop. Miach snatched his hand back and stared at her in utter disbelief. Apologizing for her hasty actions Thistle rushed out, “I am so sorry! Did I do something to harm it? I am terribly sorry.”

  Still shocked, he turned his gaze to the stone and scrutinized its dimming surface. Confusion and caution were deeply threaded into his words as he stated, “No… you did nothing wrong. I am unsure what just happened.”

  Springing into action with newfound energy, Miach quickly returned the realm-stone to his pouch and started working on meal preparations with epic speed. In the space of a few minutes three, stout bonfires blazed in the small clearing as if second suns sizzling with chunks of chicken on spits and sections of bug-legs placed within their flames. He didn’t stop there. Grabbing her without warning he jumped to the lowest branch in sight, quickly deposited her, and then ran off into the woods. Thistle could do nothing but sit where she had been put, frustrated and stunned. Muttering to a lonely campsite she said, “Thanks for telling me what’s going on…”

  He wasn’t gone long, but to Thistle—mentally pressed under the weight of anxiousness and uncertainty—it felt like forever. It was around the time her old friend panic threatened to settle in for a stay when Miach sped back into camp laden with an armful of grass and reed. Seeming to sense her discomfort over the situation, he swiftly rescued her from his enforced sanctuary and hurriedly settled down to another amazing task beside a campfire. Fast enough to make an electric loom jealous, he wove a simple grass backpack complete with braided straps and a wooden frame. Unable to quell the sting of his non-disclosure, Thistle failed to be more than mildly impressed by his feat. No longer tolerating his silence, she asked, “What’s the matter? Please tell me, this is just freaking me out.”

  Whirring from fire to fire as he tended their meal, Miach answered, “Something feels… uncomfortable.”

  Worry replacing frustration, Thistle inquired, “What do you mean? Like you feel physically uncomfortable?”

  Finally he stopped and explained, “The sound the stone made, it unsettles me. I feel it would be better if we ate soon and pressed on to another campsite for tonight. We must move again; I do apologize.”

  “Darn… and I was so looking forward to this spot.” She baited as humor rose like a shield to protect her worrying mind.

  He shot her a knowing scowl and resumed his work. Fidgeting incessantly with each fire, Miach’s unsettled state further infected Thistle’s already anxious mind. Hoping to change the topic and calm them both in the process, Thistle re-asked her question, “So you never did say; what else are you capable of?”

  A dry, paltry laugh erupted from his throat before asserting, “I do not wish to discuss what I am capable of… it is horrific and shaming. You ask for a list of skills to which I am unable to complete.” He paused, exhaled a conceding sigh, and then answered, “I have the ability to harness the power of storms. Storms are under the domain of air, but they are unique in their use of other elements. I am sorry, but for now, that which you have witnessed is all I have to offer.”

  Feeling stung by his curt response, Thistle moved to sit beside a different fire and retorted, “Why didn’t you just say… I don’t wan
t to tell you and ended there? It would have been less vague.”

  An expression of boyish defense crossed his face while countering her jibe, “I do apologize, yet it is the truth. To name everything this body has the ability to do would be laborious and well… uncomfortable.”

  Feeling guilty for having gotten agitated, she sighed and validated his defense, “Alright then, that’s fair enough. Well, can you tell me more about this place you’ve brought me to? I believe you did say that you’d explain more on the laws of this realm.”

  With a mildly mischievous look, Miach stated with amusement, “You do ask a lot of questions, but I suppose you would. I felt that way once, briefly, a long time ago.” After a moment’s pause to gather his thoughts, he continued, “Well, I guess… let me begin. When this realm was created the reapers had complete access to all levels of our planet. They could not only take energy from it, but they could also bring flesh through to their newly created existence. Some of the current occupants residing within this realm were brought during that time, but most living here now are their descendants; like this elven body. A rare handful of beings calling this nightmarish place home were created by the reapers long ago—to resemble something from true existence—but each creation fails to follow the same laws or principles as the original. All the higher life our overlords produce is flawed… in one way or another; twisted, inaccurate, or sometimes too reckless even for them. Realizing this, yet unable to prevent these flaws, they found it easier to snatch beings from other realms.”

  “There was an age, long ago, in seventh-realm history that speaks of whole villages missing children; born and unborn. The gnomes of the eighth-realm began to notice around this time and took action at once by attempting to rally allies for the fight. Each elven race learned from where their grief stemmed and a war was instigated on all sides of three gates. Not long and two more realms entered the fight—even ours’—via their guardian races.…”