III

The wind howled and rammed the wooden shutters against the walls, covering the trampled earth floor with a chilling shower of tears, its icy claws threatening to tear apart the mudbrick from the beams. Furious Zephyr spurred on, making the cantilevers crackle, the roof tiles tremble and take flight. The tiles were flinged and flied towards the jagged ravine at the foot of a small green hill, upon which the house stood.

You hid under a table, but couldn't help looking through the doorway, now swinging wildly open. You saw an older woman nearly halt to an arduous crawl uphill towards your house, holding onto her darkened veil as she weathered the tempest. You watched from your dusty corner as she tightly shut all the doors and windows, and then you saw her make her way to the next hill over through a small crack in the wall. The wet, cold winds burnt your eye. From that angle, you could see the sprawling storm clouds rolling in from the west. The older woman’s now far silhouette was swallowed by a small crowd, gathered around the next promontory, the largest hill overlooking your ancient village. Soon, even the sky itself would clamour death.

CLACK! The thunder raged. You didn't understand a thing, but still covered your ears and watched on, holding back tears of fright. The skies were cursing the earth, spitting their rotten bile at the sight of such a miserable gathering.

CLACK! A second one hammered down rhythmically, followed by a third. You saw the men of the village put up a raised stall of some sort. Plank by plank, the stage was set.

Soon, a handful of men walked into the platform, dragging a tussling bag of screams. Tying it with a rope, they suddenly removed the scaffolding and shoved the bag to hang, with spite. As it balanced on the rope above the cold mud, a vigorous breeze barged through the crowd and seemed to gently elevate the bag.

The entire valley was moved to silent awe as the wind carried it into the skies. The bag was blown away by the winds, and the woman who had been trapped inside appeared, as if asleep in Aeolus’ warm lap, gently floating away with a pleasant smile in her closed eyes. So it was that the raging storm parted from that wretched and vile place as suddenly as it had come. His bride in arms, the tempest showered the vicious crowd with the last of his biting tears. Icy streams flowed down the woman’s auburn hair, washing over her pale face and covering her sleeping visage with a veil of lustrous pearls; each one bearing a full resemblance of her entire pristine face in its reflection, which forever would they hold onto; and forever would they sing praise unto the world of her beauty, which belittled the divine. You could feel the streams flowing down your own face as well, but couldn’t tell if they were pouring out of your very soul or just passing through with the rain. Everything always flowed through you, didn’t it? Like springtime showers washing over solitary peaks, leaving no puddle behind in their restless race towards the open seas. These seasonal mountain rapids were all you ever knew, along with the cliffs, the ravines and the karsts that surrounded them. You took after them. Roaring torrents of life. They set you on the path of freedom.

Tall and lean Philander of Elatrios, son of Antilochus the thimble, wiped the sweat from his brow. His mud-covered forearm left a brown trail across his forehead. Wearily he raised his spade to pierce the hard, cold ground beneath his feet, glancing over his shoulder towards his companion. Young, scrawny Patches was panting loudly, meeting his brother’s gaze with a slightly frightened look. Phil knew the lad hadn’t much left in him, and they probably wouldn’t get the job done on time.

“Get on with it, scrub!” The eldest sibling chided, almost plunging the boy inside the grave with a smack of his shovel. Patches sneered and spat at Phil’s feet. His pace did not quicken in the least.

“We still have to push him inside” Phil glanced over the corpse behind him, seizing the moment to catch a quick breath. The cadaver was already bloated and covered in flies. They had misjudged how much the cold of winter would slow the rot. “We’re late already, hurry up!”

The scraping of metal against arid dirt echoed throughout the smoky clearing. As dusk slowly smothered the sky’s embers, a lonely nightingale came to perch atop the barnyard, serenading the sunlight’s passing with his chant, proudly defiling the silence that had reigned up until then.

“I’ve to be up before sunrise tomorrow, you know? So get on with it.” Phil said as he spat to one side afore striking the earth once more. A strange sense of stoic determination reached him through the echoing sound of his own words.

“I’m helping Father on his voyages from now on. We’re going to Sykamia to make some trade deals.” He added with growing solemnity.

“So you’re taking up Krotalo’s job now? ” The younger one giggled.

“Oh, shut your mouth! The only thing you’ll see me carrying around are the huge sacks of gold we’ll be bringing back.” Phil replied, and continued:

“Since I’m the eldest, it is only natural that I should go. Meanwhile you stay back here with the women, weaving and pulling weeds out.”

Patches murmured towards the ground, unable to hold back a wide grin.

“Well, maybe if you could thread a measly needle I wouldn’t have to stay back and run the shop.”

Phil stood and straightened in order to pierce the lad with a scornful look, shaking his head with a disappointed grumble as he got back to work, sighing loudly. For a moment, he wished that all that could be heard was their low panting growing with each swing of the spades. The muted rumble of hard, honest labour. But that wretched nightingale wouldn’t hush for a damned instant. He grit his teeth and spat aside once more.

Although he’d seen sixteen springs already, young Philander could not earn the respect he felt he rightfully deserved. His father was the most affluent man in the village, in whose wisdom even the elders relied on for practical matters, since he was a well-travelled gentleman. He had found, made and lost several small fortunes in various trades.

Nonetheless, it was no secret that Phil resented his father for his stern and overbearing temperament, and the old tailor resented his eldest son back for being ‘A crabby, tempestuous botcher, too stubborn to follow the simplest of instructions’.

And he was not completely off the mark. Oftentimes, Phil had concluded that every part of his body was as indifferent to his own expectations as he himself was towards those of his despot father, and the homestead the latter had built, which refused to acknowledge him on his own terms.

He would often fumble, trip and misremember his way into the most bizarre of situations. Thus he fated himself, from an early age onwards, to a life of understatement. Confusion, anger and envy soon turned into loneliness, but it was only through the refuge he found in silence and reflection that he realised: that which truly haunted his trembling hands and drifting thoughts was not his family’s contempt, nor his wayward village’s indifference. It was the burden of a restless soul, viciously resisting its entrapment.

In rare times of peaceful clarity among desolate riverbeds and caves, he would stand at the edge of the creek, close his eyes, and stare at an endless white ocean beckoning him, glistening like a murmuring sheet of moonlight. If he concentrated hard enough, he could even look down towards the gentle waves at his feet, and see a tapestry of interwoven signs in all the alphabets of the world flowing just beneath the surface; a decadent empire of cryptic waste.

Even though he could not read, he was always puzzled at the sight of his father’s scribbled handwriting, and how – with such a limited set of symbols! – he could portray vastly different meanings than what he’d heard from the local friar’s Bible.

Inside his visions, there was always some kind of vast and calm river making its way into the sea, dissolving in the waves in a hypnotic lull of pristine currents. Looking up through gaps in the sombre, sweltering branches, a luminous veil of incandescent clarity lay stretched over the skies. It always felt nostalgic, like returning home after a tiresome but pleasant journey. All of this he could visualise by merely closing his eyes in silence, first at will, but soon he started craving for it. He sought out increasingly remote and peaceful locations on which to set loose his imagination.

There was something about those daydreams that felt almost too real to be true.

Something about the way in which he could conjure them at will by just closing his eyes and tuning into the silence, but also something about their sheer otherworldly beauty. A beauty beyond what human eyes can perceive. He always came back with a feeling of incompleteness, a feeling of wonders laying in wait beneath a thin, unbreakable veil.

It was something so grand and elaborate that it transcended mere invention.

Something that had to be true, otherwise it wouldn’t ever have a reason to exist in the first place.

Often he would wander off alone, following the local stream towards its source. He became skilled in hunting, trapping and foraging to provide for himself during his frequent trips, but no matter how excellent he became in his endeavours, there was nobody else there to bear witness to his growth. And there never would be.

And so it was that the lone king of the woods would return to his birth home a beggar, time and time again. His deeds none sang, and soon he was avoided by others for his secrecy, for he knew his poaching could get him in trouble. As far as everybody knew, he spent most of his days loafing around the castle grounds with the young lord, Luchino, avoiding his duties at home for the pretend life of an ilk he’d never belong to.

Thus, the working men of the fields avoided him, always deferring to his father for any business matters. He could feel their disgruntled looks pierce his back whenever he went on about his daily tasks around the village; whenever he felt like heading out to where the stream bends to find some much needed peace and comfort.

He could handle the women pampering him and praising his boyish charm, the girls pestering him or even the kids mocking him – they were always duly chastised by the end of his trusty stick, if he could catch them – but it was the working men and the elders’ cold mistrust which hurt him the most.

To make matters worse, ever since Krotalo, the family’s workhorse, had passed away, both Phil and his brother Patches were forced upon a score of heavy physical duties that were slowly starting to take a toll. But it was only at that moment, at the third hour of shovelling, no longer able to keep putting back the lengthy task of actually burying the deceased animal, that the heavy burden of their grim fate started to weigh in on Phil’s soul. Things were not the same anymore; everything would be worse now, and that was it.

Thus were the grim prospects hanging over Phil’s life. Toil and hunger reared their heads around every corner. Cruel Fate had a hand, and the Devil’s tail dealt the cards. But still the boy faintly smiled and kept on going forward, for deep down he had understood that every roadblock which for others would prove an obstacle, for him it was merely a chance to do what he did best: finding his own way past the well-treaded paths, through the woods and into the unknown.

Nonetheless, Phil and his family’s only hope for the time being relied upon selling every single quilt and rug they had throughout the course of the winter, which would earn them just enough to afford another workhorse before the next planting season. But even Phil knew there was little hope in that. Even if they managed to knock on every single door in all of Zagoria before the equinox, there’d be but a slim chance they might come back home riding atop a mangy donkey. And all that without a beast of burden to help carry the wares along their trip. Alas, all they could do was hope God, Hermes or Astraea would come down from the heavens and bless them with wings. ∗ ∗ ∗ It was a foggy day when Antilochus and his human mule set foot over the same stone path whence Pyrrhus had marched every single spear in Epirus towards the city on the Seven Hills. Phil had insisted they bring the dog, but was found quickly regretting it. Basil the hound had much more pleasure munching on his walking stick and barking at rocks than on spotting any of the countless threats that surely stalked the road, and that was omitting the fact that he wasn’t much of a war hound to begin with. The coarsely spotted, white, small but hardy mutt was an avid hunter of sticks and lost shoes, if not much else.

The trio followed the mountain’s rocky waist, bordering it until hazed prairies gently revealed their windy mantle through a curve in the ravine. They could see the fort of Aurocastro, hoisted upon a rocky hill that broke straight out of the flatlands. The castle stood against the backdrop of the stony Pindus range, which melted back into the skies at a considerable distance behind.

The ancient, unpolished walls that surrounded the dusty keep seemed like a natural, uninterrupted outgrowth of the solid rock upon which they stood. This, coupled with the general state of decay that had scraped most of the beauty and nuance of its masonwork with a tide of blood and fire just a few decades back, during the war, made it look far more ancient than its venetian origins declared.

Phil suggested they make a stop at Luchino’s, since dusk was fast approaching. Basil the pup nibbled at his sandals and jumped merrily in approval.

His father replied with a low grumble, raising an eyebrow sideways without missing a step.

“You know it’s not becoming of a young prince to let a couple of noisy peasants into his domains unannounced, right? Even if he agrees to it.”

“Which he will.” Replied Phil with a slight sardonic smile, mirroring and playing off his father’s dry wit, as they were wont to whenever they weren’t outright feuding.

“Still…” Antilochus sighed wearily, tip-toeing his way towards the right choice of words for the following sentence. “Lord Bonaccorsi is a… Busy man. You’d do well to stop disturbing his peace so often.”

“You know he likes me. He’s never lashed out against me like all the rest.” Phil pleaded. Basil barked at some passing partridges. Antilochus clicked his tongue.

“When will you stop riding your luck at every chance?”

Phil didn’t reply.

The fading sun hid behind a lone cloud, pleasantly robbing the sharp limestone cliffs of their blinding lustre. The travelling triad marched silently through the last bend in the road, before coming towards the open plains.

“Besides, Luchino said we can lay in the stables outside the walls. And he’d spare some oil so we can refill the lamp and cover more distance from here onwards, travelling by night.”

“So you had everything arranged in advance, eh?” The man looked at his son with a slight smile, more disappointed than amused, then turned his sunken eyes back to the road. “I saw you pack that rusty lamp. I thought you were planning to sell it.”

“Sly and quick. Can’t deny you’re the living image of your mother’s crooked strain.” The older man sighed as he steadied the bundle of quilts on his back with a sore look on his eyes.

The setting sun etched the pair’s elongated shadows over the dry gravel as they went up the winding path to the fortress. Towards the sides, the sandy slope was sparsely dotted with ample pebbles and small fig trees at irregular intervals. A poor attempt at a garden, fit for a poor attempt at a castle, reigning over a deserted valley. To add insult to injury, Phil had learned from his father that Aurocastro’s location was specifically chosen to guard a key pass through the mountain. One that was never crossed by an enemy that never came, and for that reason the castle was nigh useless for the purposes of supervising the actual lands which its lords had come to claim.

Phil and his father heard a rumbling coming from above. A gruff man’s voice, potent and clear in contrast with his washed-up appearance, as they soon discovered. Clad in old grey tatters from head to toe, the man resembled the ailing pilgrims Phil had seen on the backroads, crawling their way up stony steps towards the mountain shrines.

“I have tasty sphoungata, the best kokoretsi with onions and cheese.” They could hear the man proudly say as they took another turn, now seeing that he was indeed all alone. His voice was just as distressed as his quick, struggling steps.

“The young prince has to taste them. He has to be starving at this point! Godspeed me, oh Lord, that it may not be too late.” He made a sign of the cross and pointed towards the sky without missing a single step. “My forthcoming lord! My prince! Dare not the vilest allures tempt you away from your most needed sustenance! I won’t allow it!”

The old man turned another corner along the winding path and disappeared from sight. Suddenly his ramblings were cut short with the sound of a dry thud. As Phil quickened his pace, he could see the old man struggling with a couple of the count’s men. “My prince! Heed me, oh, they will starve you! They will…” “Shut it, Verc! For God’s sake! It’s dusk already, can’t you see people are heading off to rest? Damned lunatic… We’ve had enough patience with you already!” Grumbled the older of the two men, drops of spit flying through his thick moustache. This solid boulder of a man wore a wide-brimmed iron helmet, shining over a flaxen cape, all of which made him resemble a fat scarecrow. Phil knew him by the name of Akadios.

“Leave me be, you brute! Can’t you see that wretched woman keeps him chained up to a desk all day?! And all of you’d gladly watch your own young lord waste away inside walls, as long as you’re still getting paid.” Old man Vercna said, flinging a dry spittle towards the ground in contempt, his eyes set ablaze, fixed over the guard’s imposing figure. “My ancestors built this castle for a pious, worthy lord, not for one of those lunatic trickster-scholars to dwell, the kind of star-gazing charlatans which you’re trying to turn the young prince into. Him! Such a fine-spirited and comely lad!”

Just as it seemed he was pacified, the proud mason jolted to straighten himself against the guard’s tight grip on his shoulders, and raised his voice towards one of the high keep’s windows.

“You won’t find a single miracle in a thousand of those books, my dear young lord! You’ve been duped! We’ve all been…! What has this vile sorcery brought upon this land but misery and petty squabble?! Lord have mercy on…”

One of Akadios’ hands seized Vercna’s neck, while the other covered his mouth. Even still, the maddened old man’s muffled pleads could be heard as he was being dragged away, his voice fading in the distance with sobbing surrender. “Lord have mercy. Have mercy, Lord. Lord…”

As all of this happened, Phil and Antilochus lay waiting at the feet of the portcullis, given that nobody was left manning the gates. Phil held on to Basil in his arms, whose incessant barks in no small part contributed to the reigning chaos. Looking up, he casually noticed there actually was someone manning the gates, a man rocking back on a chair at the top of the ramparts, right next to the heavy wooden winch that lifted the portcullis. His face looked vaguely familiar. Certainly Phil had seen him along with the house-servants, but never actually with the guards up till then.

The man sat at ease, gazing at the reddish skies with a vacant stare, seemingly unaware of the travellers’ presence. Perchance he had felt the boy’s eyes affixed on him from beneath his heavenly gate, for he suddenly lowered his stance and looked at the pair with a content smile, elbows pressed against his knees.

“You want in, boy? I think I’ve seen you around.” There was a welcoming feel in his lax uncertainty, certainly odd coming from one tasked with gatekeeping. He looked exceptionally tranquil, almost blissful, elevated above the mud and grime of the earth.

As Phil was fixated on the mysterious man, his father intercepted the question with a sober tone befitting his stiff expression, his face permanently covered in angular wrinkles. “We’re just passing by. No need to open the gates. I do believe the young prince has been made aware of our coming. If you’d be so kind as to inform him of our arrival…” His tone rose with slight, nonchalant impatience. “Will do” The guard replied after a brief pause, smiling pleasantly. He leaned back on his chair and let out a shout to the roofer’s son, often employed as the fort’s courier for his quick, agile pace and silent and aloof disposition. Followed by a small entourage of giggling children and startled chickens, the boy rushed loudly down the limestone staircase.

Phil and his father put their bundles to the ground and sat down to wait and rest. A warm breeze gently beckoned them into a quiet respite, the foamy air thick with dust and smoke. Westward, whence they came, glaring embers still rose above sombre mountains, their warm light slowly fading under a shadowy tide. Soon the sable quilt of night would hang over this and all of the valleys.

He had always lived in a vale. For a long time, all he knew of the world was there were numerous valleys, and then the sea. He imagined the entire Earth as a succession of contiguous valleys, occasionally interrupted by the sea, for how would they know where one region ended and the other started otherwise? If God had created all the various peoples of the world, he had to arrange a fitting space for each and every one of them. And on the far reaches of the farther realms, massive mountains, each an entire Olympus on its own, enclosed the world on all sides. Which meant that, in a sense, the entire world was itself a valley. Neatly demarcated, evidently enunciated, as clear as only something borne out of His holy word could be.

The portcullis rose with the clanging fanfare of rusty chains and cracking pulleys. Luchino approached the pair with a warm, wide smile. He was ever so slightly younger than Phil, short and with a meek complexion, his hair a tangled crown of untamed auburn curls, falling over a pale but fairly handsome visage slightly eroded by acne. “Pleased to see both of you.” The young lord approached with firm, if slightly rushed steps. Trailing just behind him, Luchino’s phlegmatic bulgar attendant Mitko appeared, reaching over to pick up the travelling pair’s luggage. He was followed by a rowdy stable boy Phil knew by the name of Melanthios. Phil was surprised when he saw both of them carry the wares inside the castle walls.

“I’m afraid I must take you inside.” Luchino said with a puzzling look, his elusive eyes quickly falling to a side. Now, it was not uncommon to see the young prince in distress whenever he had to don the sumptuous mask of lordship - always in a dazed hurry to get it over with - so this certainly did not arouse the slightest suspicion in Antilochus, but it didn’t fool Phil. He seemed to be willfully trying to appear more solemn and detached than necessary, and not just because of his usual sense of obligation.

“You told me we were spending the night at the stables” Antilochus said to Phil with an accusing look, but Luchino quickly intervened before Phil could stammer any reply.

“Oh, no, none of that.” He said, amply shaking his head with a timid smile. “‘Tis truly a pity, but we made accommodations for a group of relatives travelling from the capital, but it seems they were in too much of a hurry and politely declined our offer. It would please me greatly to have you sitting at the table, so that all the savoury victuals our cooks we had prepare, with great effort and care, do not go to waste.”

Phil had been nodding all the way along, his mouth involuntarily drawing a smile with growing enthusiasm, until he felt his father’s incredulous look fall upon him. A puzzled look was all he could muster in response. “Well, if you put it that way, milord…” Antilochus cleared his throat. Not even his adamant pride could resist such an offer, and he wasn’t about to go against a nobleman’s wishes, no matter how little respect he had for the spineless boy. Once again, Phil found himself wondering how could his father – a man who naturally came to hold such a commanding presence over his village – in a moment’s notice, become the living incarnation of gentle servitude. Undoubtedly something he’d picked up from his city-dwelling life, that wretched place where the slightest hint of power seemed to give even the lowest of cravens the right to freely trample over all those beneath him. Or perhaps it was the old knave’s wisdom in carefully choosing his battles.

The candlelights shuddered with the rustling of a cold eastern wind, rocking the candelabra as it creeped in from the open balcony. Shadows danced all about to its rhythmic swaying. The long table was filled with dishes of all kinds, its abundance punctuated even more by the scarcity of its commensals. The count had remained in his quarters, where he had been holding a meeting with his varangian advisors, which soon devolved into loud squabbling. Their agitated discussion could be heard all throughout the halls, though Phil felt no curiosity whatsoever for whatever kind of minor inconvenience the count had chosen to obsessively focus his undying rage on, on this evening.

After the meal, Mitko led them across the narrow bridge connecting the keep with the main tower. He mumbled something about the bridge’s construction in crude Greek with some strange words that Phil had been told were in the coptic language.

Beneath the stocky slavic man’s absent-minded, almost crippling apathy, there lay a mind truly touched by the firmament’s grace. He claimed to have been born on a ‘fictitious’ day, a day that was never accounted for in the calendar of his people, who tracked with immaculate calculations the start of their years so as to make them coincide with the first sighting of storks in early spring. As Luchino had explained, this meant that any error in calculation resulted in uncounted hours, days, sometimes even weeks of a nonexistent stretch of time between the end of one year and the start of another one. To be born on an uncounted day was considered worse than being dead. People like Mitko were said to have ‘one foot outside this world, the other inside’, spending their days in a daydreaming haze, punctuated by bursts of mad genius that lasted several days or weeks before collapsing in exhaustion, back to their previous, distant and opaque selves.

Phil had seen the man build the bridge they were precisely standing on, almost entirely on his own, in one of such occurrences. He seemed to still be ‘himself’ and fairly lucid, though emboldened and disposed to such displays of vigour that would’ve made Atlas fall to his knees in reverence. That did Phil know for sure. The mighty Titan would’ve let all of the celestial spheres fall and tumble to the ground just to shake this man’s hand, and share his divine resolve and unwavering discipline, at least for the short whiles that he was permitted to exist in that heightened state.

It was also in another such of these maniacal episodes that the slavic titan had decided, all on his own, to adopt a young orphan. He would not cede or listen to the slightest of reasons, so much so that even the ruthless count was inclined to yield to his indomitable will. Mitko had asked for the infant to be bought from a slave market in Corinth ‘as per the birthplace of the great Diocles’, and to bear the name ‘Melanthios’.

As they came inside their new chambers, Phil and his father found Melanthios dragging a heavy wooden barrel towards a corner of the room in order to make space. Despite him being a house servant just like his father, Phil had never seen Melanthios sweep, dust or tidy. It was always some kind of physical, virile labour that he was involved in. He seemed to have a good shoulder for it, but Phil still found it funny how all the most demeaning and less physically-demanding tasks were so willingly taken up by the father. The boy was rotten by vain indulgence, and Phil often enjoyed shooting down his airs like a plump partridge in flight. Which was to say, with great ease.

Later that night, the three boys went up the tower and sat upon the balustrade, throwing rocks at the neighbouring wall’s battlements, aiming right at the arrow holes. Luchino insisted that the holes were actually called ‘balistariae’ but was promptly and bluntly informed of the group’s indifference to that fact. Phil threw his head back against the dusty parapets. The night had devoured the skies. Come down like a flock of eyeless ravens to clamp down all around the lone castle, as if hungering for its torches, the dead moon torn to shreds by their gurgling beaks and swallowed whole along with the rest of the prairie surrounding them, now in full darkness. Melanthios threw a hefty rock with such force that it shattered against the wall. The evening was so quiet that its sound echoed in the far mountains and back again, lingering for a short moment like an afterthought in the air. A cold, heavy wind tore a hole in the clouds, so that a single ray of moonlight shone through. It was mellow and thick, like a weathered torch in the fog. So blurry and thick with smoke. Then came along the smell, too. Something was burning, and soon it became apparent that it wasn’t any hearth burning inside the castle at that ungodly hour. The surrounding darkness had occluded it but, as the moon peered through with more light, it became apparent the skies had indeed been dosed with a thick, dark smog. The three friends straightened their backs and slowly converged their eyes upon the western valley. A tower of smoke was barely visible against the backdrop of night, slowly rising from where Phil’s own town ought to be.

He sped downhill like a raging earthfall, a landslide of loose rocks and soaring pebbles trailing close behind him. Some he picked up from the ground without missing a step, judging their size and weight for to supply his trusty sling. He could already hear the shouting and crying in the distance, as the crackling of flames threatened to surround him more and more.

Military men, shouting orders. Children and women wailing.

The flash of a torch flickered to his left from a gap in the trees. No point in even looking; it was on the other side of the creek anyways. A herd of goats sped right past him, bleating in terror. As he neared the end of the woods he witnessed a pair of fleeing male figures being chased by a lone rider with a drawn sword. What was even happening?

Racing around the edges of the village towards his house, Phil was taken aback with teary-eyed bliss by the mere sight of it, still untouched by the flames. Halting to a walk in order to catch his breath, he picked up the old rusty axe near the timber stacks and pressed his back against the wall, right by the open window.

Only tepid lights were to be seen inside, flames flickering from beyond the windows at the other end of the building, flowing like curtains in the heavy smoke. He heard a faint thumping of wood and, as his eyes accustomed to the dark, he could make out a stiff, male-looking silhouette, silently crouching towards an upturned table.

Suddenly, another shadowy figure sprang from behind the table with a high-pitched scream, followed by a low, manly growl. Phil had heard that ear-shattering scream countless times before.

He barely distinguished a pale pair of hands, hurling all sorts of cutlery and silverware at the broad-chested male figure, now towering above her with a steel gauntlet that shone in the night as he covered his face amidst an array of expletives. Phil struck the shadowy figure with a downward swing of the axe, hoping for the crackling of bone and not cold steel, for he couldn’t even make out the outline of the man’s head. Warm droplets rained on Phil’s hands as the man fell face to the ground, but his sister Kyra wasn’t there anymore. She’d already bolted past the garden fence.

“Kyra! It’s me, Phil!” His shout came out raspy, almost incomprehensible, completely torn apart from the strain and trembling. Rushing amidst the flames and the charred, maimed bodies he couldn’t even dare to look down at, he locked on to his sister’s blurred silhouette darting towards the woods, and the entire world around him seemed to vanish. He held on to her sight like his eyes were bulging out of his skull, and ran like his entire being was weightless, possessed by a maddening rage at her carelessness. He chased her like he used to chase her whenever she hid his fishing net; whenever she clumsily tried to follow him into the woods, or that time she slipped into the back of a carriage, trying to run away from home after breaking Mother’s favourite vase.

She was the firstborn girl, Antilochus’ heart and soul. The perfect princess to Phil’s slavery. Even though they were both greatly burdened with expectations, hers always seemed as lithe and natural to her as his were soul-crushing and perplexing. She had this effortless grace about her; such lax, free-flowing freedom in her bearing that she seemed to exist in a perpetual state of leisure. Always prancing merrily amidst her daily chores, somehow finding the time to meddle with Phil’s business, with an enduring sense of curiosity that was impervious to his lashings. And yet, even her constant nagging towards him and her petty quips were the product of an attentive, caring watchfulness, an indirect understanding like no other – not even Luchino – had on him.

She took a turn for the lower path, cleverly avoiding the main road and heading towards the pigpens. “That stupid girl always thinks she’s a step ahead. She thinks she’s staying out of sight, but she’s only throwing herself into a pack of frenzied, corralled beasts. Always blinded by pride in her own cunning, the brat.” He thought.

He heard a short scream of surprise and saw a flash of her yellow dress vanishing amidst the thicket. All manner of pigs, chickens, dogs and other torrid beasts ran amok in all directions, their throat-rending wails melding with the screams of the people trailing behind in terror, and the deafening crackling of fire all around.

Going further, as the serpentine, overgrown side trail twisted towards the ravine, Phil threw himself, sliding down the slope, cutting a corner through the thicket.

A strong hand reached out and tried to seize him from the back. As soon as the cold steel scraped his neck, he was already sliding off his shirt. He tumbled out of the bushes and into the road, emerging just in front of a startled Kyra, but he soon turned around at the low hissing of steel against a wooden scabbard. Before he could even raise his head to face his assailant, his legs were already springing him out of the mud, swinging his axe wildly against the figure in the corner of his eye. The man-at-arms recoiled just in time to avoid the whistling edge of Phil’s makeshift weapon.

A fleeting glimpse of terror in his enemy’s eyes instantly propelled Phil into a barrage of swings which were narrowly parried, but the very last one managed to knock the blade out of his now defenceless enemy’s hand. For a brief moment, Phil could see that he was just a lad in plain clothes, wearing a bascinet over his head. Was he really going to kill him? Just a swing would be enough to maim, and the bloodrot would take care of the rest. Was it really that easy to just murder someone?

“B-be gone! I’ll kill you! Get out of here!” Phil stammered as he shook his axe with a coarse yell, but his hands were now trembling, and the sweat in his palms almost caused his weapon to slip from his hold. At that moment, the slight smile that gleamed from the soldier’s mouth - even though his eyes were still gaping with terror - was enough to make Phil’s blood boil with rage.

“Phil, no! Please, wait!” Kyra’s screams went almost unnoticed amidst the reigning chaos. Phil had already seen his fate laid out before him. There was no turning back now.

He had dared to show the slightest humanity to his foe, and watched him smile back at him. The pathetic, defeated rat! Silently laughing at him with that same contempt he was so acquainted with. Phil smiled back at the young soldier boy, raising the axe with an upturned edge.

“Wait, Phil! Turn back!” He halted suddenly, but wasn’t fast enough to catch the hand that quickly clasped his right, nor the cold steel gauntlet that crushed his nose, laying him flat on his back against the mud.

“Atmas, you shaking buffoon!” The man who soon precipitated on top of Phil yelled towards the disarmed lad as he met Phil’s face again with his armoured fist. An entourage of shining flames danced mockingly in the reflection of his neatly polished cuirass.

“This is how it’s done!” A sadistic smile could be heard through his words, as he raised his hand for another vicious strike.

Phil could still vaguely hear Kyra’s screams, but soon even the knight’s shouting, right next to him, started growing fainter, each hit another wave in a rising tide that slowly washed over him, erasing every remaining trace of this merciless world. Completely immersed in this aura of silence, only the nightingale’s sweet chant remained to lull him unto sleep, solemnly serenading to the hum of a nearby river. He felt as though he was drifting away like a pebble in the current, quite placidly, up until a chilling whimper caught his attention. He opened his eyes using up to the last drop of vigour his fading soul could spare, and saw Kyra still standing right beside them.

“This hard pain on my ribs as well… Now it’s the two of them going at me now!” Phil reasoned, for he couldn’t even move his head to see. His right eye bore the brunt of heavy steel and went completely dark, but still he managed to take a deep breath and shout:

“Get away, Kyra! They’re all on me!” Two more hits in rapid succession. The kick in the ribs was tame, but the gauntlet that crashed against his mouth was terrible.

“They’re on me! Kyra, run! Run! Just…!” The last punch made him choke on bloody teeth, but still he managed to conjure up a torn, gurgling scream as he attempted to raise his hand towards the girl.

“If you don’t, they will…”