Erot:


    My routine has been pretty consistent for the past few years. Wake up at the crack of dawn to the cawing of some rooster and bawling of spirit whales passing high above my fields. Take to the horses and brush them, feed the livestock, tend the crops, do a weekly-field check, then update the logbook. Its not as glamorous as my… previous life was. Yet, it works. Its enough.


    It''s been enough for twenty-five years. Honestly, I wonder at times why I haven’t gone mad. Then, Dandy or Ferot or lil Jack comes and falls on their face in the mud, or kicks a chicken and sets the whole flock hounding after them and that makes me smile. Its always the children that have pulled me back. Yet, they are getting older. As am I.


    I am growing weaker.


    I hate that.


    My bones creak and crack like the bent-up wood shed at the outskirts of our farm. Sometimes, when I bend down to rip out a crop, my leg buckles and I crumble to the dirt, panting like a mut. It''s humiliating. I am glad none of the children see me like this.


    Once, however, someone does see me in that vulnerable state.


    As I bend down to grasp the soft hair of a blossom-berry, my leg rumbles something fierce and I yelp in pain. A hand steadies from falling.


    “You alright Erot?” the voice asks. I sigh, thanking the heavens that its not the little ones.


    “Raiten– I’m fine, just give me a second,” I say, steadying myself by flapping my arms about. However, instead of letting me be, Raiten hooks his arms under my pits and hoists me up. I grunt, shooing him off and dusting the dirt off my loins. “You’re too kind for yer own good.”


    Raiten chuckles at this. “I think this is the first time anyone has described me as, ‘too kind.’”


    I raise an eyebrow at the lad. He has a strong look about him now; some muscle on those bones of his and his hair is no longer wild and wiley, but cut clean and sharp, kept long but manageable. He looks more the part of a warrior than a farmer. I knew who he was the moment I saw him — the type of man he was at least. I could see it in his eyes.


    Those hungry, haunted irises.


    “You sure you alright Erot?” Raiten asks, waving a hand in front of my face. I snap out of my trance and stand to my full height, stretching out.


    “Ye, don’t mind me lad. Just lost in my thoughts, is all.”


    “Hmm. I see. Well, I’ll be off now — if I’m late, your Dandy will sick her lizard on me.” He spins on his heels to head off, hopping on Redtail. Right. No wonder he found me. I let him take riding duties today. When did I become so forgetful? I hold my head, as if doing that would preserve whatever memories yet remain in this useless noggin.


    Before Raiten can canter off I call out to him: “Raiten!”


    He turns back to me, patiently awaiting my answer. But, I have lost my train of thought once more. It was on the tip of my tongue too… something important. I struggle to stammer out the words before, giving him a grunt and just saying, “Yer a good lad Raiten. That’s all I wanted to tell you.” Though it wasn’t what I originally meant to say, I truly do mean it. He has been a tremendous help on the farm for the past few weeks and he has been a good friend of the children. The only thing I dislike about the young man are his nightly visits to good old mayor Sorina. Crazy witch.


    Raiten looks mildly shocked by my words. However, once he seems to process them, he gives me a little bow and rides off into the fields.


    …


    Dandy:


    The sun hangs low when Raiten finally arrives. I blow my tongue at him out of spite. Lizzy has gotten too attached to him over the past few days. Without Raiten, the shepherd lizard refuses to do its job. That’s what I get for tending to the lizard for the past five years, all on my own. As soon as he sees someone new, Lizzy clings to him like a spurned lover from one of Mama’s novels. It''s so annoying! Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.


    “Sorry Dandy, sorry. I get held up by Hansel and Ferot,” he says, but I won’t hear any of it. I give him a loud and sufficiently dramatic HMPH! Before turning my back to him. Who does he think he is, keeping me waiting? “I can see that you’re angry with me. But…”


    Something flashes in front of me, a glint of metal catching the golden sunlight. Raiten dangles a flower blade — I squeal in excitement.


    “Give me!” I say, jumping up to grasp it. I nearly snatch the dagger by the blade itself before Raiten expertly pulls it away. I whimper. “Come on Raiten! You know how much I’ve wanted this thing.”


    He strolls in front of me and bends down to my level first. Then, with a wicked smile, Raiten grabs the flower-wreathed handle of the blade and holds it even higher.


    “A few ground rules Dandy: don’t point it at anyone you like, don’t play with it too recklessly, and for the love of all the Clans and their wretched elders, do not grab the dagger by the blade!”


    “All right, all right!” I hold my hands out placatingly. “Sorry.”


    He sighs. Then, he hands the blade over to me. The metal is slick, the petals are soft and red and blue and oh so beautiful. And the spine of the blade hums with a deep, ethereal energy. Mama used to read me tales about flower blades and their power. I always wanted to buy one from the market, yet Erot wouldn’t let me.


    And now I hold one in the palm of my hands.


    “Teach me!” I ask Raiten, bending low and bowing like they do in those books.


    Raiten chuckles. “You don’t want me as a teacher Dandy. That would be the blind leading the blind. Seriously. I’ll try and find you a teacher. For now, just learn how to handle the blade carefully. And… safely.”


    With a grin, I hold the blade out to Raiten. He backs up, grimacing.


    “What’s rule number one Dandy?”


    “You said don’t point it at people you like! I hate you right now Raiten!”


    “But, I just got you the dagger and everything –”


    “You were late!” I yell, giving my best warcry. And so, rather than herding the sheep back into their pens, I spend the evening chasing Raiten with a dagger and yelling, all while his laugh bubbled throughout the fields.


    …


    The Boy:


    Walk — walk — walk — walk, walking through the streets. Mother dead, gone, destroyed, rotting in the gloom. Father alive — alive — alive — then dead, scarlet line across his throat, hand clutching a dagger.


    Foot — foot — foot — foot, blistered and boiling, black and bubbling. Puss and blood leaking.


    Break break break break break again once more.


    They — they — they watch and they watch and they wander and wonder who I am but they do not know.


    Not yet.


    Run — run — run — run — run I tell them, run! Yet my mouth does not move. Meadow, dead zone, warlord, hero — disparate thoughts race and plague.


    March march march march marching up and down again.


    There’s no cure for the sick.


    Blood slick, fog head, eye falls out, socket pusses and bleeds, they look and watch and see me now, understand me now, and I smile at them for they have finally understood the marching and the walking, the running the dead the fields of bodies I have seen oh I have seen it all, twelve years of bliss and one year of ultimate beautiful pain.


    And now they shall know it too.


    After all, there’s no cure.


    …


    The Girl:


    I am trying to juggle oranges when I see the boy. His clothes are brown, ratty, and torn. His hair is a mat of grease and dirt, blood and dried sweat. I sniff the air and close my nose with my hands, backing away, taking cover from the assaulting scent behind my stall.


    “Hey! Go away!” I yell, tossing an orange at him. It hits him in the shoulder, and, to my surprise, completely knocks him over. Damn! I get up and over my stall, running to the boy. Mother and father will kill me for this. They have gone to talk with the other stall owners in Takemeadow, as they always do on early mornings like these.


    “Sorry! Sorry, you alright?” I ask as I approach. Then, when I stand over him, I can’t help but cover my mouth.


    His body is wrought with black sores, bumps and puss leaking from his arms. Yellow boils on his face. One particularly obtrusive boil has colonized his left eye socket.


    I back away, breath quickening.


    But he clutches my leg. Tripping, I let out a scream.


    His mouth moves.


    I can barely hear him.


    Then, he too begins to yell: “March! March! March! Mad mad mad mad I am not mad for I have seen it and so shall you!” His grip tightens and he points with his other finger. “And so shall you!”