The dream came to him again, as it did so many nights in the past. He strode down a great hall, high ceilinged and lined with braziers, golden flamed and burning a foot from the sconce that held it. The floor was carpet, crimson with gold lace on the side, embroidered to display the Komin over and over in a never ending pattern that stretched to the end of the wide hall where twin doors of lacquered oak waited for him. The doors were shaped straight toward the bottom, curving inward at about halfway, brass handles right in the center of their eight foot height. Marble arches draped over his head, dozens of feet out of reach, cool and smooth and slightly shadowed against the brazier light. Behind him he saw the entrance to this grand place. A vague light that was daylight flooded the front of the hall, obscuring all other detail about, only white was there, like the gates of heaven lay behind him. He wondered then, what was on the other side of the doors at the end of this hall. But he knew already the answer to that question. He had been in this dream many times and it seemed that every time he was her the dream took on more detail and clarity. He left the light of day farther behind him, treading down the hall to the doors ahead of him. He grabbed the knobs, one in either hand, and pushed inward. The doors opened for him, him and no other, letting him into the room beyond the hall. The room was a circle with a large pit of flame in the middle. A tiled walk surrounded the fire and pillars stood around the edge of the room, holding the stained glass that was the ceiling aloft. The glass depicted a scene of the One God spreading out his hands in the heavens, parting the clouds with a gesture and making the sun shine on the land. The face of the One God was not there, so grand that it couldn't be caught even in the greatest of pictures, but he knew that it was the One. The One God was holding out his hands, beckoning him to take his place here, in this place that belonged to him.
He stepped down a pair of stone stairs that led him to the lower floor of the room and he dared to reach close to the flame. There was no heat, of course. It was just a dream, after all. Another door was at the opposite side of the room. A single door with brass hinges and ornamented with the Komin. It was smaller than the twin doors that he just passed up, but had much more significance to it. That was the door he sought. Skirting around the pit of flame he reached for the door but recoiled when a man appeared before him.
A man older then he, with salt and pepper hair; a goatee adorning his chiseled chin. he wore clothes of deep red etched with black, loose slacks draping to soft leather boots that rode up to his knees. A cloak trailed over his back, nearly touching the floor and on a finger sat a ring, embroidered with the insignia of the blazing sword. There stood Carridon Stonethrow, king of Southcross. It was this man that now blocked his path to the High Throne. It was this man that he must remove before he could achieve that which he sought. That which the High Father promised in his dreams, only to deny him in his waking reality.
"Are you going to allow this man to stand between you and the glory that awaits you, Darius Steelbreeze?" came a grating, low pitched voice from behind him. Darius spun around to face the man that spoke to him. There stood the High Father. He was bald, with a grey beard that trailed down most of his chest, stopping just before his waist line. He wore plain white robes with sandals adorning his feet. Still, there was a presence about the man, something that made Darius feel inferior when he stood near him. It was a feeling that the king was not accustomed to and never would be.
The High Father had been a normal man once, from a normal house somewhere on Umbriel. Before he had received his call from the One God the man had a name as others had names, but when the call came he abandoned that name, leaving it behind to merge closer with his God. Rumors spoke of this High Father being over one hundred years old. Other people put him at nearly one hundred and twenty. Even if that were so there hadn't been a High Father called that hadn't lived to an age nearing one hundred fifty. Still the man looked no older than he were just a year or two over the age of sixty.
Truly, Darius Steelbreeze marveled, the One God granted favor to those who stood in his good graces. Darius meant to reach that place, the good graces of the One God, no matter the path that he had to take. He turned back to the smaller door with the brass latches and grimaced. Carridon Stonethrow stood there, this time with banner waving over his head in wind that wasn't present. The banner was crimson in color with the emblem of a sword that was engulfed in fire. The blazing sword.
The king was smiling at him. He knew what the smile meant, the banner that waved so proudly over his head. The proclamation of war. Carridon meant to stand in his way, no matter that it meant Darius would launch his entire army at him.
"What is your answer, Darius Steelbreeze?" the High Father questioned, stepping closer to Carridon Stonethrow. His eyes were clear, piercing, taking in the detail that the room had to offer and more. Darius backed away from the man, for just a moment thinking that he should give the High Father an open path to walk, then decided to stand his ground. If he was meant for the High Throne why had he need to move away? Surely Darius was as great a man as the elderly priest, even greater in some respects. Darius stood his place proudly and the High Father smiled at him, seeming to appreciate what the man had been thinking. Darius frowned, wondering how it was that the man could know what he was thinking, then it occurred to him that it was, after all, only a dream and that was all the answer he needed.
"I allow no man to stand in the path I intend to take, High Father," Darius explained evenly, "Be it king, knight or priest, there should be none that bar the path of a man meeting his destiny when it comes for him."
"And is this your destiny, then? To wage open war in southern Umbriel while the Eagle battles the wrath of the ageless in the north? Do you think that you can overcome the might of the Blazingsword?"
"Why ask these questions of me, High Father? You came to me in the dreams, told me long ago that the throne was mine. The One God has chosen me. Then you send me back the letter of inquiry and visit me in my dreams no more," Darius became disgusted with the priest, stalking away, blood pounding in his temples. He still felt the sting of rejection. There was nothing he would like more then to put the High Father in his place for acting in such a manner to the king of Dagoth, soon to be king of all the land.
"Why did you spurn me, High Father? The dreams you came to me in assured me that I was the next, after so long, to take the High Throne. Then you reject me; cast me aside with no more thought than the fact that I am unfit. Unfit?" the king growled at the elderly priest, his fists clenching, "I am Darius Steelbreeze! I am the grandson of Haundor! None are better than I!"
"Calm yourself, child," the High Father told him, his tone reprimanding, "There are reasons that I had to publicly deny you."
"Such as?"
"Such as, if I were to name you the successor to the High Throne to all the country, what do you think would have happened?"
"I would have accepted and came to Dynasty. Southcross wouldn't have dared to stand against me, then, not if you had openly declared me the next successor. War could have been averted."
"Think you so?" the priest asked him quizzically. Darius gave him a strange glance, catching the tone in his voice, "More the like that jealousy would burn hot in the breast of your peers when they found that Darius Steelbreeze was greater than they, was ascending to the throne after three hundred years. The mighty Eagle of the north would never allow you to take the throne. The hollow boast that he would stand against you when I denied you publicly would have been open war with you had I called you to Dynasty."
"Never! The Eagle would not abandon the northern border to the savagery of the ageless! Better to let the demorn storm the land and pillage the villages! I cannot believe that the Eagle would do that! He is a good man!"
"Then why did he state that he stood in line with Southcross?" the priest asked him, "Against you."
"Perhaps..." Darius let his voice trail off, pondering the question that the High Father brought up.
"The kingdoms united would assault you, of this I have no doubt, for fear that they would lose control of the lands and their people they would do this. Armies would march to proud Dagoth and wage war at the foot of your cliffs. The bloodshed would be that of your men, the people who dwell in your lands. Would you have wanted this? Do you think you could repel both of Southcross and Avalon should the kingdoms raise arms against you?"
"Then the rejection was only false, a public display to placate the Eagle and allow me time to waste the first of my foes," Darius turned his brilliant green eyes on the king of Southcross, still standing in the door frame. The banner of the kingdom dropped in the air now, seemed to have lost its will to fly in the light of truth. Darius snickered. He knew suddenly, that the High Father was right. It had been too long since a man had been named to the High Throne. There would be strife from the other kingdoms, and rebellion. He knew that he was gaining allies, though, even after it was clear that he had been refused by Dynasty.
The Baron of Twin Port, Avernus Cromley, was among the best of his newest allies. The man was older then Darius and had enough time and wealth to amass an army for his tower that was large enough to be the deciding factor if it were to join with the armies of Dagoth. He ordered Emeron Jaist to send more emissaries there after his first meeting with the baron weeks ago, working on an agreement that was mutually beneficial for both of them. He thought that he struck on one. The baron would help him win his war with Southcross and would be rewarded with the land east of the Torvana Mountains. The land of Dagoth.
"Darius," the High Father broke his train of thought, making him come back to the room in the great castle of Dynasty. The High Father stood close to him and the king felt heat from him, strong and unnatural. The High Father smiled at him, warm and friendly, putting a hand on the man's shoulder to settle him.
"I know you think you great thoughts, Darius, but I would take care to make allies most carefully. There are those in the position to help you that could cause you grievous harm. And then there are those as well that seem to be helpless at the time present but would rise to challenge you for all that you have achieved."
"Who do you speak of?" Darius demanded, not liking the sound of the priest's cryptic message, "Who would dare betray me, their king? Who would attack me? A single man? I fear not any man that crosses paths with me. Emeron and the Honor Guard protect me, act as my shield. There is nothing to worry about."
The High Father never shifted from where he stood, stared at him.
"Emeron? Emeron Jaist? The Honor Guard? Preposterous! I trust each and every man that serves on the Honor Guard with my life!" He had barely finished that sentence when the thought of his chief advisor, Raza, making moves for the king behind his back. In his best interests, the advisor told him. He wondered who else had been making secret moves in his best interest.
"There are things to be done in the waking world, Darius Steelbreeze. Things that cannot be done here. Be wary of your enemies, hidden and open, and know that I am on your side in these matters. Go with the grace of the One, your highness."
The scene left, images melting away into nothing, leaving only a blur of color that assaulted his eyes, blinding him, and he spun about, nothing to anchor him, keep him bonded to the ground, for there was none. Then he opened his eyes again and he was in his bed, sweat soaked and breathing heavily. The dream receded into his mind but the words of the High Father remained.
Know my enemies, Darius thought as he pushed his blankets away and stood to pace his room, dressed only in the off white bed robes that he favored. The air was mercifully cool on his sweat soaked face. He had no idea how long he paced his room in the dark, scrutinizing every word that the High Father spoke to him. In the dark Darius Steelbreeze smiled.
"The man is gone, your majesty."
The voice in the night made him start but he was quick to regain his composure. He knew the voice well, one that was only allowed to come to him in the dark of night and tell him of the things that he has seen. A wizard, one of the saevant.
The wizard stepped from the shadows of the corner nearest the door, the dark seeming to cling to him, hold the black robes that the man favored, keeping him a part of them. The sleeves of the robes flowed over the man's thin, gold arms, keeping them out of sight, but never out of mind for any who knew to be wary of the race that he dealt with. The hood of robe was over his face, as it usually was, making the face obscure, eyes gleaming in what little light they could, twin orbs of fire burning in the dark.
"Moondark," Darius called the wizard's name, "You come when I don't call for you and decide to ignore my call when I say I have need for you."
"My comings and goings are mine to know alone, your highness, and no others. Do you want to know what I came here to tell you or not?"
"Think to take such a tongue with me?" Darius growled at him, "It would take a simple word from me to alert the Honor Guard to the presence of a wizard in the castle. A saevant nonetheless. You know that wizards are frowned on, ever since that war claiming most of your kin." Darius referred to the Magi Slayer Wars. Over a century gone, the war was waged when men feared that the saevant and the humans that studies under them in the spheres, the saevant’s native home, were growing too powerful to be allowed to wander free. The war decimated the ranks of the wizards, the saevant were hunted down in their spheres, be they in forests or lake or plain, and slain without mercy.
The wizard failed to look impressed, if it was even possible for one such as him. Instead a chilling laugh broke from his lips and filled the room, seeming to drop the temperature some degrees. Darius shivered from the effect, refusing to take his eyes from the wizard who stood before him.
"Oh? And what would the good people in your castle say to the fact that you harbor one of the hated saevant amongst them, near woman and child, where he can work his hated magic at his leisure? I perceive that as bad as it may be for me, the revelation would be worse for you. I can see you ousted, before the week passing. Replaced by one of your bastard children, perhaps?"
"I have no children!" Darius screamed at the wizard, rage boiling in his blood. He stepped closer to the wizard then forced himself to stop, not for the fact that he feared the wizard would hurt him, but for the fact that he knew he couldn't hurt the wizard, no matter what he tried to do.
"Do you want to hear my news or not?" Moondark asked. His tone was one of impatience.
"What is it that you would bother me in the middle of the night?"
"You prisoner has escaped."
"What?" the king was taken off guard, eyes widened at the words, "Prisoner? Which one?" He considered it, and then asked, "Raza?"
"Try again," the wizard taunted, his lips peeling back into a smile.
"Don't mock me, Moondark. Who...," he found the revelation of the escaped prisoner down heartening, "The leader of the insurrection?"
"I knew you could guess, in time that is. As in too late. The man fled into the night earlier tonight. None of your precious Honor Guard knows how he made his escape. It seemed that he was spirited away."
Darius spun around on his heel, catching the tone in the wizard's voice. Had Moondark freed him? He knew the wizard acted as he wanted with little regard for the king but refused to believe that the wizard would steal him away. The words of the High Father came to him. Choose my allies, Darius thought, mulling it over.
"Why did you not stop him?"
"I am not the keeper of the dungeons. Besides, had I interfered with my power your guardsmen would grow suspicious. I doubt that you would have wanted that. You know what happened to the Krestin line after the Magi Slayer Wars, your highness."
"You need not remind me, Moondark. I make it my business to be well aware of the land." The king strode over to his dresser and reached to a shelf built into the stone work. He pulled a bottle of meldian spirits from that shelf, uncorking the amber liquid and pouring it in a goblet. He scooped up the goblet and held it before him, nursing it. The wizard simply watched this, no expression crossing his face. His thoughts were his own; the council he gave to the king had little to do with what lingered there.
"Does this man mean something of import to you? A beggar man that led peasants in revolt? The village repents, your highness, and the people refuse to acknowledge that they ever knew the man." The wizard stepped closer, seeming to be more intent on watching the goblet of spirits than the king's expression. Such were the ways of wizards, the king knew.
"Do you think that he will return to Vourge, Moondark?" Darius took a large gulp of the meldian spirits. The liquid was soothing fire in his throat, warming his belly on the way down.
"Who's to say? The whelp may think he would be safe at Vourge. I know that as a fact the peasants would surrender him again, if you desired it so. Why would they risk the wrath of Dagoth's army?"
"Even if that same army were occupied with the Blazingsword of Southcross?"
"Your highness, I believe you worry too much about matters of state. The prisoner is gone and there is nothing to do about it now. Sleep for the night. Captain Jaist has led your armies to the border of Southcross's castle. In the day next there will be war. Think no more of this urchin that escaped you and sleep."
"You are right, Moondark, as always," the king set the goblet on the dresser near his balcony and crossed back to his bed, the alcohol flowing in his veins. He lay down, letting his eyes sink shut. The saevant went to stand over him, silent in his motions, and waved a hand over the still form of his king.
"Ne' est sce malc seev'," Moondark muttered. By the time he had finished waving his hand over Darius's face the king was deep in dreamless slumber. Saying no more, the wizard went over to the corner where he first appeared and stepped into the shadow, merging with it. It enveloped him and he welcomed it, lowering to the floor without bending down. Then he sank away completely, vanishing from sight, leaving nothing to mark that he had ever been.
The sky split asunder with forks of lightning, accompanied by booms of thunder to make the ground tremble at its passing. Benmont Grimnight wandered in this rainstorm, walking steadily north, his goal to reach Southcross burning strong as the night he found his mother killed at the hands of thieves. That had been nearly two weeks ago. Since that time he had wandered from his home in Banthas and trailed in the forest that filled the land to the north along the west side of the Torvana Mountains. His trail bread was gone, and he hadn't eaten, nothing more then some berries that he prayed were edible, for two days. Water wasn't too hard to come across. There were fresh water streams running from the mountains all about the forest, but Benmont knew that it meant running the risk of coming across the animals that made the deep forest their home. He only had the short sword with him, and no knowledge on how to use it, save for the fact that he could swing the blade and chop down smaller trees to make fires when the night air chilled him. The summer heat was less considerable near the mountains.
He cared little of the storm he wandered in, though. Or the animals that he crossed, not really. He had been lost in black depression ever since he saw his mother dead. Delia Grimnight, who had done no wrongs to any, cut down for reasons beyond the youth. Only the driving desire to learn the truth about matters was what kept Benmont going. He stopped late that night, when tired legs refused to carry him any longer into the night. He slumped over, huffing with breath that he shouldn't have expended walking as he did.
"Getting sick," Benmont muttered. He felt his head. Slick as it was with rainfall he could feel fever burning on him. The beginnings of it, anyhow. He knelt against the base of a larger tree he was close to, trying to use the boughs to keep some of the rain off of him. He wouldn't allow the sickness to stop him, not until he had the answers that he wanted to know. There was nothing that would stop him from reaching Southcross, from avenging his mother.
Pulling his wet travel coat closer to him he drifted off to restless sleep. It wasn't long before that sleep was bothered by sounds from the wood line. He was surprised by how hard it was to rouse from where he lay. Aching muscles protested the act of moving and he thought the fever had become worse. Despite that he stood up, pulling himself along the trunk of the tree, taking the short sword with him.
Holding out the sword he strained his eyes to pierce the dark. Rain streamed in his eyes and blurred his vision and he swiped an arm over his face, clearing the beads away. He winced at the heat along his arm when it touched his forearm. Grimacing, he stepped away from the tree, not allowing himself to falter when his legs wobbled under him. He wasn't about to look weak in the face of whatever it was that roused him.
Bushes moved, rustling before him. He thought at first the wind touched them, but then realized that the rain fell straight from the sky, untouched by the wind. The rustle came again, this time it was closer to him. It seemed like whatever was out there was warning him that it was coming closer.
"Who's there?" Benmont asked, trying to sound threatening. His voice cracked at the end though, weak from lack of food. The rustle became clearer, more defined. Then something emerged from the bushes in front of him. Benmont gasped at the sight that hovered in front of his eyes, thinking that his fever was far worse than he first thought. His mother stood before him; gaunt and surrounded by a faint glow around her frame. He could see through her, to the trees behind her and the rain that passed through her without making contact. She had a sad smile on her face, a look of regret that was plain. Benmont stumbled and fell to the ground, dropping the sword in the process.
"My son," Delia said, her voice as thin as her body appeared to be. It floated on the air, soothing Benmont. She spoke the words without moving her lips. She floated closer, her bare feet not touching the ground, hair flowing out behind her. The image of light illuminating her trailed after, brightening a portion of the forest. Benmont yelped, scrambling backward until his back struck the tree he had been sleeping against. He cowered there, watching the apparition with wide eyes. Delia stopped before she reached him, her smile becoming a frown.
"Don't fear me, Benmont. I'm not here to harm you. I came here to help you," again she spoke without moving her lips. Benmont watched her, pulling himself up, fear lending him strength. She reached out a hand, her smile coming again, this time hopeful. Benmont hesitated, and then realized that this was his mother he was staring at. He stepped closer, holding his own hand out, reaching for her. His hand passed through nothing, not even a chill marked the fact that she was there. He gasped, leapt backward and fell over, sprawling in a puddle beside the tree. He pulled himself out, shaking from the chill that damped his fever and brushed loose bangs from his forehead.
"You have nothing to fear, Benmont. As you can see I am merely a spirit. And spirits can't harm the living, not directly. I have come here to help you, Benmont."
"Mother?" Benmont asked, kneeling where he fell, "Help me do what? Avenge your death? Do you know who the men were that killed you? Why did they come to our home?"
"There is no time for that. More men are after you. They have been tracking you for the last five days, following the path that you left along the wood line. You must take more care to hide the camps you leave. You must also take care to make trails you make less visible."
"Camp? Trails?" There are men tracking me? Mother, help me! I don't know what to do! I'm no woodsman! Why are they after me?"
"There is no time for that, my son. Stand from where you are and I will guide you to a place that you may sleep where you will be dry and warmer. Take the sword." The spirit of his mother leading him, Benmont followed her through the woods, going deeper to the mountains. He could see in the dark so long as the light of his mother was there to guide him along. She floated deeper into the thick of a pine grove, moving right through trees as if they presented no obstacle to her. He guessed that they really didn't present an obstacle to one who has lost their flesh.
Hoisting his sword at his side, Benmont pushed brush aside with an outstretched hand and plowed deeper into the forest. He splashed through a six foot wide stream that ran from his left to his right, pausing only to lap up some of the flowing water in his mouth before continuing on his path. A streak of lightning made the woods around him glow silver for a moment, then there was only the glow of his mother again, beckoning him to follow.
Benmont realized somewhere in his mind how insane it was to be doing this. He was trailing after his dead mother in a rainstorm while fever and hunger ravaged his body. He thought that perhaps he was following nothing, that in his sleep fever had claimed him and he was trailing only hallucinations that his tortured mind offered him. He gathered that he was willing to take that chance, if it meant the slightest chance of this really being his mother.
Seeing that he was falling behind her, he hastened his pace, darting back and forth between trees while she passed through them. At last she came to stop in front of a large rock passage that broke up from the grass covered ground. Slick slivers of rock stood better than nine feet in height, coming together at the pinnacle of their height to form the entrance to a cavern. The mouth was wide and hollow, with inky blackness inside.
"There is your refuge," his mother told him, pointing into the black, "and the stream you passed will make the hunters believe that you may have tread downstream to hide your tracks. It will buy you time to sleep and recover some lost strength. In the morning," she waved a glowing arm to the side of the cave, outside the pine grove, "you may collect wild berries in a thicket. They are edible." She turned to leave him and Benmont reached out for her, ready to call her back.
"And Benmont?" she called from over her shoulder.
"Yes, mother?"
"Don't use the sword for chopping trees. Forage for brush when you must. You will need the blade's edge should the men find you and force you to fight. I am sure that you will overcome them when you have fought off this sickness. Take care of yourself, my son. Know that I am watching over you."
"Mother!" Benmont cried out when he saw that she was dissolving in front of him, becoming a part of the night with each passing second, "Don't leave me here alone! Mother!" But then she was gone, as if she never was and Benmont found himself alone again. It was starting to be his least favorite place to be.
He wept in the passage of the cavern, his knees tucked to his chest, sword lying at his side. That was how he fell asleep, tears streaking his face, fever making his cheeks bright red in the shadow of the cave. It was a fitful sleep.
In the morning he woke to light shining in from the cavern entrance, falling on him. He was hot all over. The fever had spread in the night, he guessed. Benmont forced himself to rise from where he lay. There was a shade of damp on the cavern stones from under him, sweat that escaped his body while he slept. Muscles screaming from sickness he forced his body to bend down, scoop up the blade on the ground. It was cold to the touch, almost too cold for him to keep hold of. Shivering all of a sudden, he left the cavern near the stream and made his way to the thicket that his mother had pointed out. Kneeling down near a thorny patch of the green vines and split leaves he felt around them for wild berries. One by one he plucked them off the vine he found them on, low to the ground and half submerged in the soil that the plant grew in. His lips soon turned red from the gummy berries, as were his hands as he half-crushed most of them before he got them to his mouth.
When he knew that he had his gill of the wild berries he picked himself up from the ground, wincing at the pain that raced in his legs. He cast his gaze about the terrain, scarcely recalling how it was that he came here. Had it really been the form of his mother that brought him here, or was it the fever claiming him fully, making him see things where there were not. He lumbered to the stream and dropped in front of it, taking handfuls of the cold clear water and splashing them over his burning face. He sat there for a time, the motivation to move elsewhere fleeing him as surely as his strength was. He pulled off his shirt as he stood, revealing a body that was lined with muscle, a testament to the work that had been his life in Banthas. Corded muscles stretched along his arms as he bundled up his shirt and used it to pad off his sweating face and neck. He drenched the shirt in the stream and slipped it back on, gasping at the cold touch of wetness on him.
Further off from the south he heard voices drifting along. Gathering his courage he went to investigate. He splashed through the stream and along the bank south, his feet sinking in the muck that lined the stream's edge. He paused behind a small tree, kneeling down to avoid detection from the riders he now saw coming closer. A trio of men rode the main path of the forest from the south, taking their horses along at a trot. They were wearing dark clothes with cloaks that draped down their backs, blotting out the back of the horse almost. None of the men were very old, not much older than Benmont was, he guessed. Clean shaven and trim hair were their trade mark. To Benmont they looked a lot like the men that had come into his home in the night. They were like the men that made him flee when he should have stayed there, with his mother. His dead mother.
Benmont growled, anger making the fever feel like a summer's breeze in comparison. These men were the ones that his mother told him of. He was being followed. There were men following him, meaning to kill him, he knew. It wasn't his mother that they were after. It was him. The thought made him swoon, and he sat down hard along the stream's edge. None of the riders seemed to notice the noise, were more content on riding off to the north, sweeping the roads for the travelling youth.
The thought passed Benmont's mind that they could be the garrison from Banthas, searching for him, wanting answers to the questions that they surely found in his house. He stood again. This time the men were past him, their backs to him on a steady pace away. Something held him from calling to them, ending the game. There were no marks on the collar or breast of those men. They weren't the law of Banthas. He turned cold all over. Sinking back down into the hiding place that he found he waited with baited breath until the men were gone, too far up the road for them to notice him move.
He took up his sword and ran along the stream's edge, following the bending trail for as long as he could go, until searing muscles begged him to stop. Exhausted, he sank to the ground in the late afternoon; stomach cramped with hunger again, and tucked his legs to his chest. Hot tears rolled from his eyes that night, as they had done on every night previous since he fled the village of his birth. He vowed that he would reach Southcross, avenge the death of his mother, no matter the cost to him. He would make it there, for her if nothing else. He didn't sleep for a long time that night.
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