by J. C. Fiske
“Who are you?” Gisbo asked.
“The answers you seek, lie atop this hill, but for you to reach such hallowed ground, you need to be whole again. You’re wounded, and for a wound such as yours to heal, it cannot be pushed down, it cannot be ignored like the wound of the flesh. No, yours, it is a wound of the heart. Your heart is swollen, heavy, bruised. You know what you must do. You must drain it, you must delve into the wound, reopen it, face it, and let the tears come . . .” The voice said.
“I’ve, I’ve tried, for so long . . . I can’t, everything’s just, so numb. I just, I just can’t!” Gisbo said.
“Can’t, is a word, I don’t believe I’ve ever heard from you. You cannot proceed, because you are not whole.” The voice said.
“Then help me! Help me to be whole! Please! I’ll, I’ll do anything to go back to the way I once was! PLEASE!” Gisbo pleaded.
The voice was silent.
“Please, I don’t know who you are, but you’ve always been there, you’ve always been there when I needed you most. Please, help me!” Gisbo pleaded
“It seems your soul still requires guidance. Fine. I believe it’s time I release her back to you. You need her, as much as she needs you,” The voice said.
“What?” Gisbo asked, when suddenly at the crest of the hill, a silhouette on all fours appeared. Gisbo’s heart skipped in his chest, and all breath left him, and for the first time in years, he felt gooseflesh rip across his body.
“F-Fao?” Gisbo said, his lip trembling.
Upon hearing her name, the loyal white wolf came running down the hill toward her boy, and leapt. Gisbo caught her, and bent down to one knee, digging his face into her furry chest, and felt his eyes get moist. It wasn’t crying yet, but it was a start, and the pressure in his chest, began to give way with a crack, like a house settling.
“Oh, Fao, FAO!” Gisbo said, rubbing her head as she nuzzled, and lapped him all over, bouncing and quivering with excitement.
“Gisbo Falcon, well, maybe not yet, but closer than ever. Do you wish to be called such a name again?” The voice asked.
“I . . . yes, more than anything. I’ll do anything!” Gisbo said.
“You will prove that statement. Before you, lie three energy fluxes. You must pass through all of them to reach the top of the hill and see what lies here, but I warn you. As you rise, the power of the Phoenix will attempt to heal you, and to do that, it will re-open your wounds, it will make you face things, see things, feel things that will be . . . quite painful. But, before you do that, you must know who you are. You must search within yourself. Without resolve, without will, without finding a new dream, this process will surely kill you. Push onward. Face the hard truths. Fight through the pain, and receive the rewards,” The voice said.
“Are you the Phoenix? Are you . . . was Drakearon lying? Have you been alive? This whole time?” Gisbo asked.
There was no answer.
Gisbo suddenly heard whimpering, but it wasn’t from Fao. He turned around to see the black monsters, quivering, and those who had tails, had them firmly placed between their legs. They were suddenly very much afraid. Whether it was from Fao, or the voice, he didn’t know, and he did not care. Now, he had a clear cut mission again and with Fao back at his side, he was ready for anything.
“Here goes nothing . . .” Gisbo said. He clapped his hands together, and took a step forward into the brighter part of the aura, and immediately felt his skin go hot all over. He couldn’t help it, he jumped back, breathing hard and cursing. Fao whined and looked up at him with a face as if saying, “You’re doing it wrong.”
“You’re right, girl. No, not here goes nothing . . . here goes, EVERYTHING!” Gisbo said. Fao barked with approval, and this time, he bent down like a track runner waiting for the firing blast, and leapt forward into a sprint, throwing himself into the middle of the aura.
Once inside, Gisbo felt as if he had just fallen into a pool of lemon juice after surviving a wolverine attack. His countless scars and still healing wounds, suddenly popped back open and black Drakeness poured out of them. Worse, was the seemingly clear as day images that surfaced to the forefront of Gisbo’s mind. Unable to take it anymore, Gisbo retreated back out, and fell to his knees, tightening his fists, and letting out a gut-wrenching scream before falling onto his back to catch his breath.
Fao lapped his face as Gisbo looked up into the permanent blackness of the sky, only to see things quite differently through the blue white aura. Gisbo gasped, unbelieving what he was seeing. Through the blue, Drakearon’s deception was gone, and for the first time in years, Gisbo saw how the night sky should look.
The moon, the stars, and all of the heavenly hosts danced before his eyes, and caused his body shudder all over.
“All this time, I’ve been so selfish, thinking, I’ve been the only victim. No, this, this is what that bastard took. He took away nature, beauty, light, all of it, from everyone! Just so he could put his stupid face in its place to be worshipped . . .” Gisbo said. He rose to his feet now, something rising in his chest, and something, falling down his cheek, a single tear. He wiped it away with a forearm.
Gisbo readied himself. This time, he would not retreat. He would remember his training, if forced training, from Vice. He would take the pain, make it his, grasp it, own it, and keep telling himself that no matter what, pain was always temporary . . .
With a newfound resolve, Gisbo grabbed a thick broken branch, snapped it, propped the smaller bit between his teeth, bit down on it, and leapt back into the blue aura in another charge.
It was hell.
One foot in front of the other, he pushed on, taking the pain, refusing to give in, and before long, he had made it farther than the last time, and it showed. The corners of his eyes, his nostrils, his earlobes, every opening, every orifice that the Drakeness could leak out of, did.
Gisbo bit down on the branch and felt it crumpling, and a moment later, it shattered in his mouth. He spit it out and fell to his knees, crying out. He was soaked in dripping, stinking, oily blackness now, pouring out of not only his cuts and orifices, but his pores. His body screamed at him to stop, to quit, to go no further, to return back, but Gisbo fought it, fought it at every turn. Rather than himself, he thought of all the people, all of his friends, all of his family that Drakearon had hurt, and it was their cries, their ended lives, that allowed him to crawl forward one inch at a time.
But only for so long.
Soon, their voices were snuffed out and replaced with other, darker ones. Gisbo tried to keep the voices back, but they only grew louder.
You’re the reason for his return. You’re the reason why they suffer.
“No . . .” Gisbo muttered, shaking his head, putting one hand in front of the other.
Stop this foolishness, Drakearon had nothing to do with your friend’s death, or the destruction of your home, you did that. You, YOU, YOU!
“SHUTUP!” Gisbo screamed.
You. Can’t. Win.
“I can’t win,” Gisbo stammered.
“You’ve failed.
“I, I’ve failed . . .” Gisbo muttered.
Leave this place, return to the bottle. Return to peace . . .
Chapter Four: Nature vs. Nurture
Chieftain Lamik sat with his innermost circle, a circle that was once contrived of seven of his closest friends, and greatest warriors, only to now look across the table, and see not seven, but two. The Strife Chieftain ran a hand through his long, now completely gray hair, and rubbed at his one remaining eye that was bruised and swelled around the edges.
“Might as well get this meeting underway,” Lamik said. He turned to the man to his right first. “Manon, you’ve been my childhood friend from the beginning. From our Renegade training, to our break from them, you’ve been at my side from the start.”
Manon, a slender Nazarite nodded with a hoarse cough as he puffed away at a rolled cigarette, then, inhaled the last half-inch deeply until it disappeared. With habit, h
e tossed the butt aside, but not before falling into a coughing fit. When he had his fill, with red, blood shot eyes, he looked up at his chieftain.
“Until my lungs give way, you’ll have my service, always, old friend. Too late now to go back anyway,” Manon said with a grating, smoker’s voice, as he lit another. Lamik smiled, then turned to his left.
“Bosto, if Manon has been my brains, you have been my brawn. Never has a man, or brother, been as fortunate as I to have you by my side.” Lamik said. Bosto grunted in reply.
“Too late to find a new brother,” Bosto said, smiling. Manon coughed hoarsely, blowing out a thick plume of smoke. Bosto waved it away.
“Damn, it, Manon. Just because you’ve let yourself go, doesn’t mean we’ve followed in suit. I’m old, but still young enough to tear the head off a Spike Slither if need be. I don’t even think you could run ten feet to the cleansing room should your bowels call for an emergency,” Bosto said.
“Only one way to find out,” Manon said, getting up, then, sitting back down. “I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,”
“It’s no secret what we’ve become. Our inner circle, either dead from our failed tournament, or, caught in the crossfire of Drakelings as we made our escape from Heaven’s Shelter,” Lamik said, pausing.
“Hard to believe, isn’t it? That it’s all gone. That they, are all gone,” Bosto said.
“Victory, by any means necessary. That is what we agreed to, and we got it, but not by our own hand. Never, never could I have imagined it would end like that. Never could I have imagined we would be where we are right now, hiding, picking up the pieces of our former glory.
He’s back. Drakearon, he’s really back, and now, more than ever, I wish we never partook in that tournament. The Renegades may have varied in opinion from us, but despite it all, we both agreed that Drakearon needed to be stopped, put down permanently.” Lamik said.
“And then we ran, like cowards.” Bosto said, slamming his large, weathered fist upon the table.
“No, we regrouped. That wasn’t the end, it was only the start of our retaliation.” Lamik said.
“Nonsense. We fled, left the Renegades to slaughter.” Bosto said.
“Would you have had us stay, and face the same fate?” Manon asked.
“The Strifes will rise again, and become the saviors this world needs. That being said, our numbers are crushed, our morale is low.” Lamik said.
“Yes, we know. It’s been three years. Three years, of hiding,” Bosto said.
“Of planning! Of preparing!” Manon said.
“Call it what you will, it’s still cowardice!” Bosto snapped, but Manon ignored him.
“Any word from Malik?” Manon asked. With a grave face, Lamik took a few moments to answer.
“My son is gone. He’s his own man now with his own path to follow whatever that may be. I cannot leash him anymore.” Lamik said. There was quiet among them. Lamik rubbed at his black eye, a gift from his departed son.
“But, this is no time for dwelling on what was. It’s time to dwell on what is. Drakearon is back. His forces are crippled from that mysterious explosion, but more forces flock to him and his city everyday, and before long, he will be back at full strength. Rumor has it that even the Soarians, not the mountain ones, are descending from the sky. They sense the oncoming change in the world.” Lamik said.
“Those Soarians? The neutrals? The ones nobody has heard from since, well, forever?” Bosto asked.
“So say the rumors,” Lamik said.
“What could they want?” Manon pondered aloud.
“None of that matters. What matters now is what we do, and how we handle this opportunity. We’re all that’s left to stand against Drakearon and his forces. We need to rebuild the Strife’s from the ground up. We need new ideas from this new generation. We need new blood, young blood, hence why I have called you all here, you, our last remaining elders of a time past.” Lamik started.
“Please, don’t call us elders. May as well call as elderly,” Manon said, inhaling a smoke, then, coughing hoarsely.
“Speak for yourself,” Bosto said.
“Boys, come on in,” Lamik said.
Upon command, the door to their meeting place was open and in walked four boys, all of them Flarian. Quil Albright lead the way, throwing back his long hair as Stave Dasto, Randy Rasgard, and Cyrus Carson followed behind.
“Come this way boys, stand in a line and,” Lamik started.
“Is it true? Has Malik gone?” Stave asked. Lamik breathed out a heavy sigh, looked back at his brother and friend, then turned to face the young Strife.
“What you have heard is true. Malik has left and from what I gathered, he is not coming back,” Lamik said, his arms folded across his chest.
“It’s because of him, isn’t it?” Quil asked.
“Vengeance has invaded his mind. He is lost to us. Fixated on killing someone who, by all accounts and reports, is dead already. Do not dwell on him. Do not think about him. He has abandoned us in our darkest hour, set his personal insecurities above the needs of the world as a whole, and that, that is not what a Strife does. He has chosen disorder over order, chaos over righteousness, and,” Lamik stopped, not wanting to go further. “Now, why don’t we . . .”
“Hearing you talk about righteousness is like hearing a pig speak of cleanliness,” A deep, haughty voice suddenly spoke.
“Who goes there?” Bosto demanded, trying to determine the location of the voice, when out of nowhere, there was a burst of black.
Ranto Narroway appeared before them at the opposite end of the table as his father.
In an instant, all weapons were drawn and ignited, and an instant later, black tendrils shot out from all directions, and everyone but Ranto was on the floor, writhing in their own guilt, their own pain, helpless to amount a counter attack.
“Now that we got that out of the way, I have something to say to all of you, but first, I have something to say to your Chieftain,” Ranto said. He moved his way across the room, his weight making the floorboards whine under every step. He hovered over Lamik, then, bent down on one knee.
“I don’t know what you want, but you need to . . .” Lamik started, until a giant palm flew forward and covered his mouth and face.
“No. It’s time for you to be silent, and listen. I have but two words to share with you . . .” Ranto said, leaning close and getting his lips right up against Lamik’s ear. The Strife Chieftain felt Ranto’s breath prickle his ear hairs as he said the two words, two words, that he had feared hearing his whole life . . .
“I remember . . .” Ranto said.
Lamik’s eyes went wide as the Drakeness charged through his system, and a memory, long repressed, was freed and he was helpless to stop it.
“Thank you for coming, Chieftain. Please, sit down. We must talk, and this, this will go no further than this room. I promise you.” Mrs. Dodard said, but Lamik remained standing, eying her cautiously.
“What is this all about, Mrs. Dodard? Your message sounded, urgent, as if it was life or death, and yet, I see no danger. I have much to attend to, and would rather you . . .” Lamik started.
“It’s about your son,” Mrs. Dodard said.
“What about him?” Lamik asked.
“Sir, Chieftain, I don’t mean to pry, but, compared to the other children, mainly the boys, he’s been, acting . . . rather strange . . .”
“Strange, how?” Lamik asked, not liking her tone.
“Well, most boys around four, when their motor skills are more under control, decide it’s time to start testing them, and playing with other boys. The boys in their free time, hit each other, wrestle one another, and test one another’s strengths as boys are want to do, while the girls, like the good little girls they are, do arts and crafts, play with dolls, play house, pick flowers, and do each other’s hair . . . preparing for their role as women, so they may one day, submit to their husbands, and run the home. Roles between men and women are important
. We both know and believe this, my Chieftain.” Mrs. Dodard said.
“Mrs. Dodard. I have very little time to spare in my position, please, tell me what this is all about.” Lamik said, sighing and folding his arms.
“Fine, yes, yes of course.” Mrs. Dodard said. Before continuing, she took a deep sigh and prepared her next words carefully. “I don’t know quite how to say this, but I worry for you son. He’s, he’s quite unlike the other boys and well, I worry for his future . . . sexuality.”
“His, sexuality? What madness is this? What are you . . .” Lamik started.
“Ever since he arrived here, your son, he does not want to play with the other boys. Rather, he plays with the girls. He does their hair, plays with their dolls, focuses on their studies, draws rather amazing pictures for his age, and . . .” Mrs. Dodard started.
“Where is my son?” Lamik asked.
“Why, just out back. It’s the children’s recess, he’s, my, my Chieftain? Where are you going?” Mrs. Dodard asked.
The Strife Chieftain ignored her and rounded the corner of the small red schoolhouse. There he saw a group of a twenty or something children playing and just as the teacher described, everything was present. Some girls were in a circle, playing duck, duck, goose, some were picking flowers, and others were forming dolls out of bales of hay while the boys were doing what boys do given a little freedom. They were yelling, screaming, running about, slamming into one another, and tumbling across the ground, fighting, wrestling, and giving hell to their clothes, clothes their mother’s would have no pleasure in washing later.
Lamik’s eyes scanned the area for his son, when suddenly, he found him, or rather, his son found him.
“Dad! Daddy! Over here! Look, Karen, that’s my dad! My dad’s chief of this whole place! Come here, daddy! Come here!” The boy said. Lamik walked over and was horrified by what he saw. There he was, Ranto, his son, his own blood, not growing in strength with the other boys, but rather, growing daisies out of his head.
