The apartment was more of a box, really. More of a box than an actual home. It could fit Alena and it could fit her brother Kumiko and not many people else. Their parents had once lived here too, which made the little hut much more crowded but much more homely. But it couldn't fit many people. That was okay. The hallway was large enough. Was large enough to fit all the people in the floor in. If only because it was long, its length making up for its lack of width. It often felt like the building itself was their house, and not just their one room.

Kumiko knew that they should not get too comfortable. That the building could collapse at any time. They could be bombed and then, and then what? They would have to leave this place that had come to be home, they would have to leave these people who had come to be home. And they would have to start over again somewhere else. If they even survived the bombing, that is. They might not survive that. They might die at any moment.

And he knew that his sister knew that too. His sister, Alena, was just six years old. Just six. Far too young to be thinking about dying. Too young to be thinking of her friends dying, of her home getting blown to bits. She was too young for the constant hunger that spread its corrosive fingers through all her experiences, too young to be constantly struggling to survive. But this was what she was faced with, what she had to deal with whether she wanted to or not.

Kumiko wished he could give his sister a better life. His sister who he loved more than anything in the world. All their many neighbours wished they could give these orphans a better life as well. They were, all of them, glued together. Glued by bonds of desperation and love. And they tried to make each others' lives as bright as they possibly could.

Alena felt at home when she was with her brother. She felt at home when she was with her neighbours. She knew that the war all around them wanted to take everything from her, wanted to take every security that she had. And she didn't have security. Not really. Every night bombs fell. Every day there was rubble and hunger. There were soldiers patrolling the streets. But she still felt strong, she felt soothed, she felt at home when she was with her people.

Alena awoke before Kumiko one day, as she so often did. She got up from the clay floor she was lying on with her brother. The electric blue shine of the just-before-dawn seeped in through their narrow window. The sky was filled with promise, and the ground was filled with rubble. There was something destroyed about the world at that moment. But there was also something alive, and something tranquil.

"Kumiko. Wake up. It's morning." She gently shook her brother, rousing him from his sleep. Kumiko's eyes were weary, just as they always were. And they were tender, just as they always were when he looked at his sister.

"Hi, little bird," he whispered. "How was your sleep?"

"I had nightmare again," she stated.

"I'm so sorry. I wish I could make it better." Alena often had nightmares. It was a side effect of living in a war zone.

"It's okay. I could cuddle you. And that made me feel so so much better."

"You're so sweet." Kumiko gave her a tired smile.

"You are too."

"Aww, thanks."

"You're welcome."

"So, we should get going, should we not?" Kumiko began. "I'm sure you're hungry. And there's food in the childcare centre."

"I am hungry."

"Let's go, then."

There was no food in the house. There was rarely ever food in the house. Kumiko's day job as a mechanic paid enough for rent, paid enough for meagre rice and lentils for him, but Alena got her food at the childcare centre run by the Allitian military, one of the two militaries battling it out in their home. The food at the childcare centre was more plentiful and more nutritious, and for that Kumiko was glad.

The two siblings brushed each others hair with their fingers, rinsed their mouths, and went out to go face the world. They walked down the broken streets, the broken streets made of dust, the broken streets filled with too-thin, ragged people with desperation in their eyes. The people were all like them. They were all devastated in their souls.

There were also soldiers walking through the streets. These soldiers were muscular, were armed with camouflage and guns, were filled with hatred and harshness in their eyes. They were not fighting, thank the gods. They were not fighting here. Instead, they were keeping an eye on the common population. They were making sure that the common people were following the rules, were staying in line, were not causing trouble.

There were many ways to cause trouble on the streets. One could, for example, be saying things against the military, or against the war. People could be gathering together. They could be singing. They could be trying to steal from the soldiers. They could be distributing banned literature. They could be chanting, anything really. They could be telling each other classified information. They could be getting into the bomb-proof trucks the soldiers used. The soldiers had to make sure they weren't doing that.

Alena was terrified of these soldiers that prowled up and down the streets. Kumiko was afraid as well. That's why they held on tightly to each other. That's why they walked closely together, clinging to each other, finding shade in each other's shadows. They saw each other as a force field against the world, though they each knew that the other provided meagre protection against the soldiers.

But Kumiko wanted to protect his sister as much as he could, and Alena knew that.

Thankfully, the soldiers did not accost the small family today, and they were able to drag their aching feet across the aching streets and get to the childcare centre.

The childcare centres was a sturdy building, one built to withstand bombs. The Allitian military did not really care about the civilians in the war. That should be evident, seeing how they regularly bombed people. It should be evident seeing that they regularly captured and tortured ordinary civilians. But they wanted to seem like the good guys. So every once in a while they did something nice for the civilians there. For example, this childcare centre, which had some education but not enough, which had some food but not enough, which had safety. It was rare, to get a spot in a place like this. Kumiko knew he should be grateful.

"I'll miss you," Alena pouted at her brother, not wanting to let go of his hand.

"Don't worry, I'll come pick you up at the end of the day," the brother consoled, crouching down to her eye level. "I have to go to work. You know that I have to go to work. I have to make money. I'll see you at the end of the day, I always do."

"Okay," Alena responded, worry in her voice. She did this every day. She acted as if her brother would not come back for her. But he always did.

"Come on, young Alena," the strangely pale and well-fed Allitian woman inside the building called to her. "We've missed you. We're going to have another fun day!" All the Allitians were strangely pale. They had pale skin and pale eyes and pale hair. They were strangely happy, never being able to see the energy of the people around them.

Alena's brother smiled at her, and he walked away. Alena looked at him for a second, feeling as if he would never come back. She was so afraid. She was so, so very afraid. Losing her brother was her worst fear. It has always been her worst fear. And it was a fear that made her feel like her heart was being constricted in her chest, like she couldn't breathe, like all that she was was being ripped off of her bleeding soul.

But Kumiko did come back. He came back in the evening, as he always did. And Alena was hungry. And she missed him. She smiled widely when she saw him. She smiled like a small child. She was a small child. But it was seldom that she could smile like one. She went to go hug him. But she could not.

"Kumiko," the Allitian lady pressed, "come with me. I have to talk to you in private."

Fear flashed across Kumiko's eyes but he did what he had to do. He followed the orders of the woman, face drawn with darkness.

"What is it?" the brother asked the pale lady when they were in a small room lit with dim flourescent ceiling lights in long rows.

"It's nothing bad. Don't worry. Your sister has been doing very well in her lessons. She's very smart."

"Thank you." Kumiko knew that Alena was smart. He had known that for years. He was just sorrowful that he could not give her a proper education.

"She is exceptionally bright," the woman continued, "and that makes her a perfect candidate for adoption to a nice Allitian family."

Kumiko's eyes went wide. Mostly in horror.

"If she were adopted," the lady explained, "she would be able to live in Allitia. She would be safe from the war, and she would be well fed and well nourished. She would have access to good healthcare, and would have a bright future ahead of her. What do you say?"

"Will I be able to come with her?" he asked.

"No, of course not. The adoption placement is for her alone. You are far too old. But you are her guardian right now, and we need your permission before shipping her to the homeland."

Kumiko thought about it. He really did think about it really hard. He thought about how amazing it would be if Alena was safe and well-educated and well provided for. That was his wildest dream. It was everything that he wanted for her, coming to fruition. And it was such a special chance, a chance to get her out of this accursed country plagued by endless wars and famines and pestilence.

But he thought about what Alena would want. He thought about what Alena would need. And he knew, he knew deep in his heart, that being separated from her brother would be the worst thing possible for her. He knew that it would be beyond devastating to her, that it would drown her in sorrow from which she would never be able to rise.

"I'm sorry," Kumiko started, "but she belongs with me."

"You are letting go of an incredible opportunity," the lady countered.

"I know. But she needs to be with her family."

"If you ever change your mind, let me know. There will always be an opening for her."

"Okay."

"What did she talk to you about?" Alena asked Kumiko when they were finally reunited.

"Oh, nothing," Kumiko lied. "Nothing important." He didn't want his sister to worry. He didn't want her to worry that he could abandon her.

But, as they walked hand and hand down the broken, dusty streets, Alena knew that something was wrong. She knew that something was very deeply wrong. But she could not do anything about it. She felt so lost, so helpless. But at least, she thought, she did not feel alone. She did not feel alone and that was what was the most important. She clung to her brother even harder, walked even closer to him, as they made their way home.

Kumiko kept thinking about the offer that the woman had given him. He wondered if he was making the right choice. He clung to Alena. But he had his doubts.

When they got back into the building, their neighbours greeted them heartily.

"How are you doing, Alena?" young Eojay asked her, brightness in his dark-drenched eyes.

"Not too good."

"I understand," Ameni responded. "It's hard, living like this. You're alive at least. We all are. That's good."

"But what about Raya and Jayvali and Parthi? And Raybanna and Layto?" Alena asked.

These people used to be neighbours. They were dead now. Raya killed by a stray bullet, Parthi was beaten to death by the soldiers, Jayvali was killed in a bombing at their workplace. They were all far too young to die. Raybanna and Layto had both been babies when they died, and they died of illnesses that their parents could not afford to see doctors for. The undernourishment that everyone faced also likely played a part in making them sick.

"I miss them too!" Little Kata added in.

"I know you both miss them, sweethearts. We all do. So much. Hopefully they're somewhere better," Saki stated. She held a squirming baby Kabi in her arms. "And we will be able to see them again. I promise."

"And how's the brother doing?" Karlti asked.

"Fine," Kamiko responded, but there was something deeply perturbed in his eyes, something deeply disturbed. But thankfully, the neighbours did not press the issue any further. Kamiko accepted the sleeping toddler Cayjay into his arms from Ameni.

"Do you want to hear a story?" Karlti asked the small crowd gathered in the hallway. They were met with a chorus of resounding yesses.

"There was a rabbit one day," they started. "A rabbit that lived in a city where there wasn't any food."

"Like us!" young Eojay exclaimed.

"Yes!" Saki replied.

"Anyways," Karlti continued, "the rabbit was very hard pressed for money. But they did not have any. The rich people in the city loved dining on their fine cakes and pastries, and they always wanted more flavourings. One day, the rabbit got an idea. They pooped onto the ground. And they put that poop on a plate. And told the rich people that it was an expensive, rare form of chocolate with a distinct taste."

Everyone started laughing. And the laughter was resounding. They knew what would happen next. And it was resoundingly filling. They wanted to know what would happen next in the story.

"What's next?" Kata pressed.

"The rich people tasted the 'chocolate' and they thought it was a very strange flavour indeed," Karlti responded. "But they though, this must be what the most expensive and rare chacolate tastes like. So they payed the rabbit many silver and gold coins for the 'delicacy.'"

There was more laughter all around.

"If only we could do that with the soldiers," Kumiko spoke.

"Would they be that dumb?" Eojay asked.

"Of course they would be!" Alena answered.

The people, the neighbours, the family of bonds, they continued talking in their little hallway. Trying desperately to make each other believe that in that tiny moment, they were safe. Trying to make each other feel as though they could protect each other. Though, in truth, they could protect each other in a way. They could protect each other's hearts and minds and souls. And that was the best kind of protection that there was.

Eventually, everyone retreated into their individual tiny shacks. And they talked amongst themselves.

"I really liked that story," Alena told her brother.

"Karlti's very creative, are they not?"

"Yes, they really are. And very funny too!"

"You're really funny too!"

"Aww thanks. You're really funny too. We're all really funny."

"Well, we have to be, don't we?"

"I like jokes. They make everything worth it."

"Do they really?"

"Being with you and everyone else makes everything worth it."

Kumiko thought once again about the lady's offer.

Eventually the two siblings went to bed, cuddled close together for heat, for strength, for an entirely psychological sort of safety. And they went to sleep for one more night. When they woke up, the sky was dark.

"Kumiko, wake up," Alena whispered. "It's morning."

"Hi, sweetheart."

They went out for the day, just as all the other residents in their block did. They started walking in the directions they needed to go.

"You, there!" a soldier shouted at the pair. "Where are you going?!" He wasn't Allitian, this soldier, which meant that he looked a bit more like the civilians. But not much. He was much more strongly built and muscular.

"I'm just dropping my sister off and then going to work," Kumiko replied timidly, submissively.

"Not without showing me your papers you're not!" the soldier barked out with hatred in his voice. Kumiko was not too worried about this. He always carried their papers in a small bag with his tools. He got the papers out and handed them to the soldier. The soldier spent a good amount of time looking through them.

"These are out of date!" he spat finally.

Both siblings' eyes went wide with terror. No-one was ever allowed to go anywhere without their papers. The brother and sister pair could easily be killed. The soldier in front of them very well might be the one to do this. Was this the end? They moved closer to each other. Held each other tighter.

"I'm going to let you off this time," the soldier pronounced, "but if I see you ever again with out of date papers, you're dead!"

"Yes, sir!" Kumiko replied. "Thank you immensely, sir."

The soldier left, leaving both siblings pierced through with dread and staring at each other.

"We need to get new papers," Alena stated. "We need to do that right now."

"Yes."

Instead of going to their normal destinations, they started going in the direction of the house of the registrar. They tried to move as quickly and quietly and unassumingly as they could, so that they didn't get the attention of the soldiers. They knew that if another soldier stopped them now, if they asked to see their papers, then the siblings were dead. They knew they couldn't be walking out in the open like this, unsheilded by their official passes.

Finally, after what seemed like both a millennium and a moment, they got to the large house of the registrar. The house was made of stone, and had many stained glass windows. There was a wide stone staircase leading up to it. It was impressive, and it was untouched by bombs. Before they could get to the top of the stairs though, the door opened and a man in ripped clothing was thrown down the stairs. The siblings stared at the man for a moment before making their way up the stairs.

"Who is it?" the elderly registrar asked when Kumiko knocked on the door.

"Kumiko an Alena Daydali," the brother replied. "We're looking to get our papers renewed."

"Come in."

The house was even more impressive on the inside. There were many soft chairs, many bookshelves filled to the brim with an unaccountable number of books. There were many little crystal things decorating the room. There was a crystal chandelier. And there was space. There was so much space.

"Sit down," the registrar with his white beard told the pair, gesturing at a soft fuzzy sofa. They sat, and he sat in an armchair opposite to them, with a polished coffee table in between. "What seems to be the problem?"

"Our papers are out of date," Kumiko replied, handing him their papers. "Can you get us new ones?"

He calmly looked through the papers.

"Sure," he replied. "I'll mail you your new papers. It will take a week, though. Where do you live?"

"Thank you, sir." Kumiko gave him their address. And then they took their leave.

One week. One week. The new papers would take one week to arrive. Both siblings were perturbed by this. They would not be able to go out during that week, for fear that the soldiers might find them and kill them for not having papers. They would not be able to go to the childcare centre where Alena got her meals. They wouldn't be able to go to Kumiko's job, and earn money for rent. How would they survive?

"What will we do?" Alena asked Kumiko after they got home.

"We'll stay right here. We'll stay right here and we'll rest," he replied.

"At least I'll get to spend time with you."

"Yes. At least."

"What do you want to talk about?"

"I'll talk about anything you want to talk about."

And so the two of them talked. They talked though their throats were dry and they talked through the banging, clanging, all-consuming waves of hunger pangs that crashed over them and crashed over them and crashed over them. They were accustomed to hunger, but this was too much for even them to stay strong against. They were overcome with hunger. And the hunger weighed like thousands of stones crushing their souls. But still, they had to bear it. They had to bear it.

When their neighbours got home they told their neighbours what had happened.

"We won't have food for the next week," Alena explained. "Can you help us?"

"Absolutely," Saki responded. "We'll give you what we can."

Kumiko smiled. That was appreciated. That was appreciated immensely.

But it wasn't enough. The neighbours were all poor as well, they were all very poor. They gave what they could give, but what they could give was not much. And so Alena and Kumiko were still far too hungry. And not only were they far too hungry, but their neighbours were far too hungry as well. And it wasn't fair. None of this was anything remotely close to fair. But it was what they had to live with. What they had to make do with.

"I can't take it anymore," Alena whined the next day. "I can't, I can't, I can't I can't."

"I'm so sorry my girl," Kumiko tried to placate. "I'm so sorry. I wish we had more food."

"I hate it. I hate all of it so very much."

"What do you hate?"

"This war. These soldiers. These rules. This hunger. It's all terrible."

"It is. I understand. I agree."

"I can't bear it anymore. I can't keep doing this."

"Can't keep doing what?"

"I can't keep living life when this is life."

"Do you want a different life?"

"Yes. I want a different life."

Again Kumiko thought about the offer that the Allitian lady had given him. He could save his sister from this life, from this unbearable life. And he could give her something better. But would it be better? Would it truly be better?

"Would you want to leave me to go live your different life?" he asked. Her eyes went wide at this.

"What? No! Without you, what is the point of life?"

"Okay."

"Don't leave me. Don't go away."

"I won't. I promise."

But was it a promise he could keep?

The days bled together, one after the other. Each day was unendurably long, was unendingly long. Each day was an endless rough rope of coarse hunger being pulled through their insides. Each day was desperate and wanting, was longer than the last, was more unendurable than the last. And yet, they had to keep on enduring. They had to endure on.

Hunger was a rough, grating, jagged piece of serrated metal cutting and cutting and cutting deep into the body, deep into the mind, deep into the heart, deep into the soul. Hunger was a superheated electric wire, running from the pit of the belly to the hollow of the chest, through the arms and legs, through the throat and up to the head. Hunger was a thousand thorns all over their insides, twisting and writhing. And hunger was an enormous lead weight on their joints, on their muscles, on their organs, on their bones. Hunger was inescapable. And it was everywhere.

What was worse than the constant pain in their bodies was the constant pain in their souls. The hunger pulled at and squeezed and grated on their souls. The hunger took a cheese grater to their emotions, to their sense of life, to their sense of safety, to their sense of stability. The hunger weighed heavy on them and weighed heavy on them and squeezed the breath from their hearts. It left them screaming inside, left them wailing inside, left them drowning inside and clawing for an escape. And still. Still they had to bear it. Still they had to go on.

They clung to each other. They clung to each other with everything they had. Physically. Mentally. Emotionally. Socially. They exchanged closeness and they exchanged kindness and they exchanged many many words, spoken with desperation, as if they were the last words they would ever speak. As if they were the most important words they would ever speak.

When the neighbours came home, they all talked together. They talked of their hurt and their hunger and their rage. So, so much rage. Rage against the war. Rage against the soldiers. Rage against the inequality. Rage against the disaster capitalism. Rage against the stupid rules they were all forced to live by and rage against the people that hade made life like this.

They talked of hope too, in little bits and pieces. To be honest, there was not much hope. Not in the midst of this unending war. In the midst of this unending occupation. But there was always hope, in every situation. And they dreamed that they could break out of this situation one day. That their children could break out of this situation one day. Or their children's children or their children's children's children. There would surely be a chance one day.

Eventually the week was over. The week was over and Kumiko was able to go back to work, and Alena was able to go back to the childcare centre. But it had been a long week. Far too long. Far, far too long.

And what was the worst thing was that this wasn't the first week they had had to live like this. No. By no means was it the first. It was fairly common that someone in the building was out of work. Sometimes it was Kumiko, sometimes it wasn't. But they had had to scrape by on weeks or sometimes even months like this a couple of times every year. And each and every time they had just had to bear it. They had just had to get through it. There had been no other option.

But now Kumiko saw that he had another option in front of him. He could give his sister to a family that could take care of her. Of course, that would be worse. That would be so much worse. But this past week, combined with the many, many years they had had to spend living like this, had taken too much from Kumiko. He didn't have the strength to fight anymore. He didn't have the strength to keep his sister with him. The promise of her being fed and clothed was too much, it was too much to turn away from.

He didn't want to do it. He didn't want to lose his sister. He didn't want his sister to lose him. But after that hellish week, after so many hellish weeks, after every week of their lives having been hellish, what could he do? He wanted to say no. He wanted to say no. He wanted so very much to say no. But how could he? How could he say no when these were the circumstances Alena was faced with?

Also, he thought of the fact that hunger wasn't the only thing they were facing. Poverty wasn't the only way to fall into the jaws of death. The brother thought of how close he and his sister had been to getting killed by the soldier. He thought of how close they had been to meeting their end in front of the barrel of a gun. There were so many people killed by soldiers. And they weren't all shot. Many of them didn't even do anything to incur the wrath of the soldiers. But they died anyways. He didn't want that to happen to his sister. And the bombs, too, were a constant threat.

He had no choice. No choice at all really. Let the person you love most in the world starve and die or give her up and send her away, what kind of a choice is that? So he took his sister Alena to the childcare centre and he kissed her forehead. Tenderly, desperately, as if he was trying to pour all the love he had for her into that single kiss. Which of course could not be done. Love is infinite.

"You're coming back, right?" Alena asked worriedly.

"Of course, little bird," Kumiko promised. But Alena was not sure that he was. She was not sure at all.

After Alena had finally been dragged away from the door, dragged away from her brother, and pulled into the dark interior of the sturdy and looming building, Kumiko stepped into the building as well. He knew that his sister was off somewhere doing something, and she wouldn't see him. So he asked for the lady from last week.

"Did you rethink my offer?" she asked him, her pink-painted lips twisted up into a knowing smile. She looked like a snake ready to strike.

"I did," he replied. "And ..." he tried to keep his voice from faltering. "And I'm really grateful to you for having given such a kind and generous offer to my sister. I would like to inform you that I have agreed to hand over her care to whoever you deem the most competent. And I hope that she can find safety in her new life."

"Thank you." The lady's words were too sugar-sweet. They were too poison-laced. But Kumiko smiled and turned away, tears welling up in his eyes.

This was the worst thing he had ever done in his life. And he knew. He knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that his sister would never forgive him. And he thought that he would deserve her not forgiving him. But still, he could be sure that his sister was getting food, was getting water, was getting safety and security and education. That was something. That was something at the very least. Or at least, that's what he tried and failed to convince himself.

He wanted so very badly to just die. But he thought, if Alena would have to be cursed to continue on living life, then it would only be fair that he should be too. And part of him held onto a faint sliver of hope that Alena would find him one day. He did not know why he believed that. But he couldn't stop himself.

Alena knew that something was wrong. She had known that something was wrong when her brother kneeled down to kiss her. She had known that something was wrong when she was standing there, looking at him. She had known that something was wrong when she was being dragged away from him by a pale, fat volunteer. She knew that something was deeply, deeply twisted. Something was deeply, deeply horrible.

This sense of wrongness, it sat like a black hole in her gut, twisting apart her insides and tearing and pulling at her flesh, her blood, her bones. Until she felt as though she was collapsing into something infinitely heavy, something infinitely dark. There was so much gravity within her, trying to pull her down into the very ground.

But she played with the other children. She played with the other children despite the slimy feeling in her mouth. And she played with the other children despite the heaviness in her core. Because she was a child. And that was what children did. Children played. Even through absolutely broken, crumbled hearts, children played.

The other children also knew that something was wrong. They knew that something was very wrong. And their hearts ached for Alena, their hearts called out to Alena. Children always know when something is wrong. They were as kind to her as they could be. But they were children. They were children and they were poor people in a war zone. That meant that they didn't have power. They didn't have the power to fix the wrongness they were all feeling.

One of the pale Allitian volunteers came up to Alena. He came up to Alena and he asked Alena to follow him. Alena knew that she did not have a choice. She was just a scrawny kid against his well-fed muscles. And so she obeyed, and she went with him, despite everything inside her protesting and pressing her to not follow him.

He took her to a car. She had never been in a car before. She was terrified, terrified about everything that was going on. But despite all that, the seats were soft and the car was cool and comfortable. That didn't stop her from being supersaturated with fear though. It didn't stop the black hole in her gut from consuming her.

She eventually was taken to a dusty makeshift military base. And she was lead to an airplane. She had seen airplanes before, roaring as they cut through the skies, dropping bombs on the land. This airplane was both very much like and nothing like those airplanes. She had seen airplanes that didn't drop bombs as well, and those airplanes were more like this one. But still, seeing it up close was both impressive and horrible.

She climbed the staircase leading to the door of the plane. It was a rather steep, daunting staircase.

"Why are we getting on the plane?" she asked in a quiet and confused voice.

"We're just going on a little trip," the Allitian man stated, "we'll come right back when we're done."

"Are you telling the truth?"

"Of course."

She didn't think he was telling the truth, but she didn't have the power to argue back with him. So she made her heavy, leaden feet climb up the stairs and into the plane. Though she wished beyond anything that she was back home where she belonged.

Inside the plane, it was spacious. It was spacious and it was well-lit with a number of purple and blue coloured lights. The plane was filled with soldiers who were sitting in many seats. But there was a space in the back of the long, hollow tube where there were no seats, and a few children were playing there. They were all Allitian, but still, children were children, and so Alena went to play with them.

This plane was by far the richest thing she had ever seen. It was so clean and polished and shining. And it was so large. She admired its beauty, she honestly did. But still she wished beyond wish that she wasn't here, that she was at her humble, tiny, shabby home instead, with her brother and her neighbours and everyone who she already missed beyond comprehension.

As the plane thundered through the sky, Alena felt more and more suffocated, more and more panicked, more and more trapped. She felt as though she was in a locked room with no air, as though the walls were closing in around her, as if her whole body was slowly being put under more and more and more pressure.

"Can I please go back?" she asked one of the soldiers.

"Not yet. Don't worry. We'll land soon." His words sounded as if they were trying to be sympathetic words, they were trying to be kind words, but still they were words devoid of sympathy and kindness anyways. They were words that were cold, and cutting, and hollow. Alena wanted to scream. She wanted so very badly to scream. But she was afraid of what would happen if she did.

When they finally landed, they were not in the dusty makeshift military base they had left. Instead, they were in a strange new world. Everything was so clean. Everything was so shining. Everything was so straight and square and most importantly everything was so big. It was pretty. Definitely, it was pretty. But it was wrong, all wrong, so very wrong.

This time Alena did scream. She screamed and she ran back towards the plane and she tried to get back on. But the soldiers caught her and held her down and stopped her from getting on. She kicked and screamed and scratched and bit and flailed her arms and fought as hard as she could. But it was no use. There were just so so many of them and they were just so big. Still, she fought with all the energy she had, until all her energy left her and she was exhausted and too tired to fight back.

"Where are we going?" she asked.

A pale woman came up to her and crouched down beside her. She looked as if she was trying to look caring, trying to look kind. But in her eyes there was the same cold hard hollowness that there was in all the eyes and the voices of the Allitian people.

"We're in Allitia. This is a nice place. A safe place. A free place. We're going to find a nice family to adopt you and take care of you, and you will have a good, safe life."

This was by far the most devastating thing that Alena had heard in years. The only thing that could come close to this news was the news that her parents had died, many many years ago. It felt as though she had been shot through the heart. It felt as though everything inside her, everything in her soul, had become dark and dead and rotten all at once. She felt trapped, she felt trapped, she felt more trapped than she had ever felt in her life. She felt devastated, desecrated, and entirely destroyed. But she didn't have the energy to fight anymore. She didn't have the energy to fight back.

"I want to go home," she pleaded with everything that she had, her voice sounding sad and lost and desperate. Her voice sounding oh so small.

"This is your new home now," the woman replied, voice matter-of-fact. But this was not true. This strange land so far removed from everyone she loved was not her home. It would never be her home. Never ever. She was a prisoner here, and she was a ghost walking through the pale shadow of life.

"I want to go home," she repeated. "Please."

But they did not listen to her. They did not listen to her and they packed her into another car and they drove off, not at all caring how she felt.

This car went through many strange streets. Streets that Alena did not understand at all. Streets that were wide, so very incredibly wide. Streets that had so many incredibly fast cars and even trucks driving through them. The cars were so whole, so clean, so shiny. And there was grass lining the roads. Green grass and many, many buildings. The buildings were so very straight, so very shiny, so very perfect and big. There were no broken windows. No broken houses. No rubble anywhere. It was so strange. She admired it, but more than anything she wanted to go home.

They turned in to a street filled with houses. And the houses were all so big, were all so immaculate, were all so clean and pretty. They all had pretty yards full of grass and flowers and trees. There were no soldiers anywhere. There were barely any people anywhere. And all the people that there were were perfectly well-fed and whole.

They turned in to a large building. And there she was shown to a large, clean room with a soft, cushioney bed. She went immediately to the bed and she wrapped herself in blankets. The blankets offered a tiny bit of security, a tiny bit of comfort. But they didn't offer even a fraction of the comfort that her brother offered, that her people offered. They didn't offer even a fraction of the comfort that her family offered.

She lay in bed and she missed her family. She missed her family with all that she had. And she felt so heavy, so tired, so weighed down by their absence. She felt lost, absolutely lost. And she felt like everything all around her was poison, was blood. She felt as though she was breathing poisoned blood instead of air. And she felt as though she would never taste the sweet freshness of air again. There was nothing left of her. For she was nothing without her family.

Many families came to see her. Strange, clean families with pretty, elegant clothes. The clothes were so elegant and the shoes were so new and the eyes were so completely, absolutely hollow. But perhaps they simply reflected the hollowness she felt in her soul. Many families tried to talk to her. They tried to see if she would be a good match for their family or not. But Alena did not talk to them. She was holding on to the hope that if she didn't get adopted by a family, then she would be sent home.

But get adopted she did. A family found her and they liked her. She did not know why they liked her. She did not like them back. And she tried to make it apparent that she had no interest in being adopted by them. But still, they insisted on taking her home with them.

"She's so sweet," the mother cooed.

"Yes, she is," the father agreed.

And just like that the papers were signed and she was dragged out of the building and into yet another car. And just like that her fate was sealed.

The house that the family lived in was nicer than any house she had ever imagined. It was big. It was clean. It was ornately decorated. But it wasn't home. It wasn't home and it wasn't even a prison. It was a hell, a place of torture. And she felt as if she was being sliced into with knives of ice every second that she was in there. It felt as if her soul was being frozen in ice and tied down with iron.

The family tried to be nice to her. But they had that same hollow coldness that everyone from this strange country always had. They never seemed to see her, to truly see her. They never seemed to see her sadness, her misery, her aching inside. They never seemed to see her truth or the constant horrors she faced in her every waking moment. And they never seemed to care, either. They never seemed to care that she was broken inside, that she wasn't the perfect, grateful little girl who they rescued from horror.

There was a mother. And she was not anything at all like Alena's mother who had died. There was a father. And he was nothing like Alena's father either. There were two children, a boy and a girl, both older than her. And they were nothing like her brother. They were so carefree and careless and thoughtless. They did not understand that any emotions beside positive ones actually existed. And they did not understand why Alena was so wistful and withdrawn. This family was a family. They loved each other. But they were not her family. And they didn't love her.

It sank deep into her like a thousand jagged pieces of broken glass, the fact that the people in the house were a family, one that she wasn't part of. They loved each other. And they cared about each other. But they did not care about her. Not truly. Not while they kept her there, away from her brother and her people, and that cut into her so very deeply. It made her feel small, faded, ghost-like. She felt as though she was banished from life, banished from personhood, and trapped behind a thick glass separating her from the world. And everyone else around her was part of life, and part of each other. She hated it. It was unfair. It was so deeply, incredibly, intrinsically and fundamentally unfair. And it absolutely suffocated her.

She wanted, more than anything, to be away from this horrible family that stole her personhood from her in the same breath that they claimed to save her. She wanted, more than anything, to be back with her people, where she belonged. Her loneliness, her homesickness, her grief, her alienation, it all sank down through all parts of her, poisoned and freezing and oh so deeply wrong. Her soul was being boiled in crude, thick, poisoned oil. Her soul was having the breath squeezed out of it. Every single part of her felt ragged.

She had always had a baseline desire to die. It had haunted her for her entire life. And it had been especially strong, especially destructive and overwhelming when her parents had died. When they had died, her heart was screaming at herself to end it. To stop this horrible, aching existence of hers. Her grief had been devastating. And it had, after many many years, not diminished even a bit. She had always had to live with the heavy weight of her parents' deaths. A weight that had never gotten lighter.

But now, now that she was all alone, without any family, the weight of grief was far more crushing that she could have ever even imagined it possible to be. There was no part of her that wanted to continue living. To continue living with this family she wasn't truly a part of. Without any of the people who made her who she was. She was ready to just give up.

Meanwhile, Kumiko wanted to kill himself too. He thought that he had betrayed his sister.

He thought that he had betrayed her in the worst way imaginable. In a way he did, but it was truly not his fault. But he hated himself. He hated himself so very much, in the very base of his heart and then out of his gut and in every other part that existed in him. He thought about Alena every single second of his existence, no matter what he was doing. He thought that her pain must be overwhelming. And he was right. His own pain was overwhelming too. Alena's absence weighed heavy on him, colouring everything he experienced with desolation. Her absence clawed and scratched at him. But there was nothing he could do. The deed was done.

One day Alena was lying in her soft bed, trying to melt into it and get as many of the meagre, faded threads of comfort that it offered. There, she made up her mind to finally go end herself. And so she stepped out of her bed, as softly as a feather, and she snuck her way to the bathroom, under cover of night, while all the others were sleeping. She meant to pick up a razor and slit her wrists. She felt like she was finally embracing the arms of freedoms.

When she got to the bathroom, she softly closed the door behind her. And she turned on the light so she could dig through the drawers.

"My child," a voice called out to her, soft and gentle, and she turned her head sharply towards its direction.

There, kneeling down so that they were eye-level to her, was a person dressed in clouds. They had a softness in their eyes. A deep, aching kindness. And a deep, aching sadness. A deep, aching sadness that perfectly reflected her own.

"Who are you?" the young girl asked.

"I think you already know who I am."

"But ... Alemi? Why are you here?"

"I can't do much for you, child. My powers in this mortal world are limited. I wish I could do more. Especially for you, my dear, sweet child. But I can do this."

The room seemed to be bathed in a strange white glow. And when the little sister looked at herself in the mirror, she saw that she had earth-brown, feathery wings that matched the colour of her eyes. She reached back to feel them. And the feathers were whole and strong. The place where the wings connected to her back was thick and strong. And she saw in the mirror that the wings were large and thick and formidable.

"These will carry you where you need to go. Trust in them, for they can keep flying indefinitely, and they will fly in whatever direction you bid them to go. And they will take you to the ground whenever you bid them to."

"But how will I know the way back home?" Aleni asked.

"I will give you the knowledge needed to find your way." The God held their hand to Alena's forehead. And all at once, the calm, flowing knowledge of how to get home washed over her, like clear flowing water, like a calm breeze of air.

"Thank you, Alemi."

"No need, Alena. Simply follow the knowledge and you will get back to your home, to where you belong."

"I will, parent."

Alemi then kissed the little girl on the forehead. And then the God disappeared.

Alena quietly padded to her room and got a large shoulder bag from her closet, which she slung over her shoulders with great care, making sure to place the strap between her two wings so that they would not encumber her flight. She stepped carefully into the kitchen, in the barely-there light of the night. She had a large meal easily worth three meals, scarfing down the food as fast as she could. She went into the large pantry and filled her bag with food of all types, food that would survive the long journey back home. She also filled up all the water bottles in the house. When she had had about four days worth of food and water she went back.

The little sister softly snuck back to her room, taking great care not to wake any of the family that inhabited the grand house. She softly closed the door behind her and she opened the window. The night was calm and clear and cool. The darkness coated everything in an air of soothing, an air of promise. And it was clear to her, what she must do next. What she could do next.

She stood up on the windowsill, in front of the open window. And she flapped her great, powerful wings. She took off without making a single sound. And she left that house behind her, the window still open.

She soared above the darkened neighbourhood. And from up so high, the huge houses all looked so very small. They looked small and unassuming and altogether powerless. Nothing like the high, hulking monoliths of perfection that they looked like on the ground. She soared higher and higher, until she was no longer able to be seen from the ground. And she began her long journey.

There in the night air, she felt so incredibly free. She felt as though she was finally herself again. She felt as though she could breathe. The cold of the night washed over her, bathing her in cool, clear rejuvenation. And the air all around her, flowing over her skin and stroking through her hair, it was healing her soul and filling her with a soft yet strong and constant hope.

She felt at one with the night. And she felt at one with the sky. The night, the sky, the air, they were all a part of her. They all flowed into her and she flowed into them right back. They gave her a constant embrace of strength, and helped her heart to have a constant embrace of strength within it. She felt as though she was in the arms of Alemi, of her parents, or her brother. She felt as though she was in the arms of the whole world.

The shoulder bag carried by the strap on her back quickly got heavy. It got heavy and it burned and it was such torture. But still, she knew that she had to keep carrying it, because it would provide her with the nourishment that she would need for her journey. She knew she had to keep going. Because she was going home. The night and the air and the sky gave her strength to keep going onwards. And the knowledge that she was going home have her strength. It gave her so much strength. And, through the aching and burning in her back, she could go on.

Her wings beat automatically, of their own accord. They both were hers and were not hers at the same time. They were given to her as a gift from the God. And they still belonged, in a sense, to said God. To said God who was helping her to get home. Her wings beat fast and strong, and carried her forwards and forwards through the air. They did not get tired no matter how long or how fast they beat. And she supposed that that was due to their magical origin. She was brightly thankful for them, for the help they provided.

The sister knew that she must go east. She knew that she must go east and she knew in which direction east was. East was towards the horizon where the sun lifted itself out of the ground and into the sky each day. She followed that horizon, and she knew that with each beat of her wings, she was getting closer and closer to her home. So she went east, and she went with knowledge, with wisdom, and with purpose. A sense of purpose that was so strong that it shone hot and burning through everything that she thought, felt, and experienced.

This was not to say that she was not sorrowful. She was an orphan, she had experienced war her whole life, and she had been ripped away from what was left of her family. Of course she was sorrowful. Of course she was sorrowful and anguished. Of course the pain hurt too much and there were parts of herself still screaming at her to give up on life. Of course everything hurt, going on hurt. Her past haunted her, her present haunted her, and her future haunted her. But amidst all the sadness, there was still strength, there was still power, there was still glory. There was love and there was joy and there was soothing darkness and energetic brightness. She had to see her brother, and everyone else, again.

She flew east until the night faded and the morning rose. The sunrise was beautiful, and it coated the whole sky with pinks and purples. The clouds were supersaturated with colour. It felt like Hope. It felt like Hope being shot straight through every part of her. And it felt like love. The world loved her, the sky loved her, the sunrise loved her. They could not do much to help her, but they still loved her all the same.

She saw, once the sky was blue again, that she was flying over a forest. There was so much dark green below her. And so she landed, because she was sure she would not be found, between two evergreen trees on the soft forest floor. She took her shoulder bag off and ate some of her food, sitting in the tranquility and the crowdedness of the forest.

The forest was beautiful. It was beyond beautiful. The forest floor was soft with moss and leaves and pine needles. There were trees of all types all around, thickly crowding the landscape with their strength and their tallness and their verdant leaves. There was a stream nearby which she could drink from. Birds sang in the trees and a squirrel scurried through some branches. She looked around and she saw a great brown bear staring at her with knowledge in her eyes.

The forest was alive. All parts of it flowed and burned and shone and flowed with life energy, with love energy, with spiritual energy. The forest gave her strength, gave her love, and gave her courage. It rooted for her on her journey homeward. And it told her that it was cheering for her, it was cheering for her, it was cheering for her to succeed. The forest was holding her like a parent, and the forest was giving her all of its kindness, was sharing its life force and its energy with her. Every tree, every shrub, every plant. Every animal big and small. The earth and the sky and the water. It was all rooting for her and giving her encouragement.

After finishing her food, she bid goodbye to the forest. She thanked the forest for its cover, its secrecy, its connection, and all its help. And she took off to the sky once again, continuing on her journey.

This time she fell asleep in her flight, her wings still beating as her body slumped over, not holding itself up anymore. When she awoke, she felt sore but well-rested. It had become night time. She knew she needed to eat again, but she saw no wilderness below her for her to land in. And so she decided to take a risk and she landed on the top of a large skyscraper. There she ate her meal, as quickly as she could. Thankfully, the night had provided cover for her. Those who did see her figure descend upon the building could not figure out what she was. And when she once again rose to the sky, no-one could figure out what she was.

When it was morning, she found another forest to hide in. And during the night she found more tall buildings. When the daylight came again, instead of a forest she found rolling fields to have her dinner in.

These fields were wide, they were filled with all sorts of grasses and wildflowers and shrubs. Everything around her was burning green, burning gold, and burning all colours in between green and gold. The wildflowers shone in potent and powerful colours, dotting all throughout the landscape. And the shrubs shone in the sun. The wind blew through the landscape, making everything wave backwards and forwards as if they were waves in the ocean. There was a river snaking through the landscape. And the sky stretched out a brilliant blue on all sides. There were prairie chickens and ferrets and prairie dogs, and a heard of buffalo in the distance, all grazing together.

This landscape too filled her with life. If filled her with life and encouragement and love. Everywhere she turned was life. And everywhere she turned, life flowed into her heart and soul. The prairie loved her. It loved her beyond measure. And it burned for her to be successful in her journey. And she in turn burned back. She was connected to all of the life, and to the earth and the sky and the sun and the water. She was connected to all of it, and she was one with all of it. She might have been the only human there, but she was not alone. She was not alone at all.

The next morning, after another night of flying and stopping, she came upon a desert. At seeing the desert, her heart soared with joy. It was still weighed down with lead tones of sorrow, but it soared with joy anyways. Because coming upon a desert meant that she was getting nearer to her home.

She landed, and took in the magnificence of the desert all around her. There were cacti dotting the lands, tall and green and strong. The sun burned just as she remembered it burning in her home. And everything around her was burning bright with spirit and energy and glory. The dry earth was burning, the rolling hills were burning, the great and strong rocks were burning. There were badgers and foxes and a heard of wild camels. Out in the distance she could see the green of an oasis.

The desert felt like home. It felt like home. And it called her to keep going homewards, to keep going home until she was all the way home and back with the people who she belonged with. She drank her water thirsting and she listened to the voice of the desert. She listened to its voice, a voice like a parent calling to a child, and she wrapped her heart in the desert's spiritual embrace. She had not ever seen the desert before, despite living so close to it. She had not ever seen it before because it had been on the other side of the soldiers' military encampments. And trying to cross a military encampment was suicide. But now she was in the wilderness that was meant to be her's all along. And it felt rebellious. And it felt good.

She thanked the desert and she once again took off to the sky. She realized now that the military bases were close by, the war was close by. And that meant that all the many airplanes of the different sides of the war were close by as well. So she flew higher and higher into the sky, until the air was frigid and cold, and the airplanes could not see her due to how high up she was. The air was thinner here, but if she breathed rapidly she could still get all the oxygen she needed. She wondered why she was not feeling dizzy due to the lack of oxygen, and she chalked it up to the work of Alemi. She fell asleep and woke up again in the night.

She followed the knowledge that the God had given her and she turned and flew towards the direction of the little apartment she shared with her brother, and the small building that housed it. When she had gotten to exactly the right place, she hovered high up in the air. She could still hear the faint rumbling of airplanes far below her. She hoped that they were not bombing her house. Fear sparked in her chest, making her heart jump to her throat.

But as the night grew darker, all the sounds of the airplanes faded away. She stopped beating her wings, dropping down like a falcon. And once she was near the ground, she unfurled her wings all at once and they caught the air and stopped her fall. She softly landed herself on the ground, in front of the building she called her own. Her wings vanished, and she knew this from the lightness on her back. She knew then, that her journey was over.

She quickly went in through the door to the building, and stopped in front of the door to her apartment. She knocked frantically, heart beating lightning-fast with excitement. This was the moment.

"Who is it?" her brother called sleepily.

"Open up," she replied.

The door quickly opened and Kumiko's eyes went wide with ecstaticness. He couldn't believe what he saw. He couldn't believe it, but he oh so deeply wanted to. Alena's eyes sparked with joy, her heart burned with joy upon seeing her brother, despite the inky black sludge that was still all over her heart. She felt so much exuberance. She was home. She was finally home! And her brother felt the same exhuberance right back.

"I missed you so much!" Alena declared, tears of joy and heartbreak falling from her eyes.

"I missed you too," Kumiko replied, crying as well. "I'm so sorry. I'm so, so sorry."

"It's okay. We're together now." Kumiko could not believe that his sister had forgiven him, but all Alena could think about was the fact that they were together now.

The two siblings melted together in a desperate and desperately tender hug.

"The others will be so happy to see you again tomorrow," Kumiko exclaimed softly.

"I know," Alena replied.

“You get three questions, after that I expect you to behave.” It stated simply, grip around my arm growing tighter.

“Where is- where is this place located?” I stared at what was around us. The sky seemed inky black and the landscape almost seemed to jump up on the horizon as we grew closer to it.

“The sky, amongst my people.”

“Who are your people?”

“The stars, the winds, the clouds. Anything that resides there that doesn’t stay on the mortal coil.”

“Who are… what are you?”

“I am the ruler here and your fiancé.”

“But that doesn’t-“

“That was your three questions.”

Suddenly we were back at the top of the stairs, though we had never gone back up them.

“How?”

“You will return to your rooms now, my beloved.” It grabbed my face gently between its claws, tilting this way and that as if observing me. “I have waited so long to have you, watched you suffer such horrible things… now we will finally become one, as we were always meant to be.” Its lips were pressed against mine then, a gentle kiss.

When it parted from me and my eyes opened we were in some opulent bedroom.

“I will see you at our wedding beloved, just three weeks!” It smiled brightly, waving coyly as it left the room. The dark door disappearing as it closed.

“Wait…”

I stared after it, in shock truly. But also in mounting confusion.

I think I day had passed, though the light through the windows I could not open nor see through did not changed before I stated to really oook at the room around me.

It stared at me, bluish-grey eyes narrowing into slits. After moments that seemed to stretch forever, the marble-carved servants still behind it, was I released.

It gestured plainly to the window behind me, allowing me to go to it and through the curtain aside to peer through the glass.

There was nothing.

No trees, no water, no land, no noise.

There was only sky, endless star-filled sky.

“What…?” My legs felt weak beneath me like I was going to pass out again.

“There. You saw it.” It was pressed up against me again, supporting my weight as my body seemed to fail me, “now come sit for dinner.”

“Where.”

“You. Will. Eat.” It hissed, all but shoving me into the chair before taking its own place.

I stared blankly at it, watching as faceless -lifeless- servants moved around us, setting a plate before me.

It glared, watching as I did nothing but stare at the plate set before me.

“Is it not to your liking?” It sneered, its mannerisms becoming more aggressive the longer I seemed to play outside of its script.

“I…” I finally looked at my plate, taking in that it seemed to be ginger rice paired with a slice of meat I couldn’t recognize and a delicate cup of green tea. “It’s good, thank you…” I did eat, though I found I couldn’t stomach much.

“Drink your tea. It should help with the unsettling feeling beloved.” It was smiling. Again, eyes wide and face relaxed as it watched me eat. “It’s not abnormal for those who spend so long down there to feel ill when returning.”

“Down there…?” I paused, the cup in my hand “Where are we? What, who are you?”

“We are in our palace beloved… drink your tea.”

“I…” The tea seemed fine, the liquid the same pale green color I had seen countless times before when my brother and I shared a pot of warm tea before bed. There was no reason to anger it by denying it what it wanted.

So I drank it.

“Good… you’ll feel better soon, I’m sure.”

“Will you please tell me what’s going on? Where are we, where is this palace? What do you mean we’re engaged?”

It looked between me and the hardly touched food before me, eyes settling on the cup I still held.

“I suppose you did eat. Very well.”

It stood, the kimono seeming to stretch as it dragged on the floor behind it. As it made to exit the room I reloaded it wished for me to follow it, and I was quick enough to do so.

It offered me its arm, crooked the way a lady’s would be around a man’s should they be walking together in the gardens.

It looked at me, pleased when I looped my own arm around it and let it lead me into the gardens that stretched out below the staircase we stood upon.

“Welcome to my realm Ankukoji. I have been waiting for you, my prince of the night.”

I had stared silently at the creature who was as beautiful as it was terrifying.

It had helped me rise and take me just to the edge of the nearby lake, which had been turned muddy with blood.

There, beside the lake, was a starkly white gissha with four armored white figures set to pull it.

The creature in the silver and blue Kimno entered it and gently extended its hand out to me.

“Come my beloved prince. This will take us to our home.”

I didn’t know what else to do, and I had nearly taken its had to join it before I realized with horror what I was leaving behind.

“My brother…” I turned, searching the red-stained fields for him.

“Dead I’m afraid…” The creature was close to me again, nearly melting over me as it pressed itself close wrapping itself around me. “He cannot follow where we go.”

“His body… I need to bury…”

“Oh…” it cooed, pearl teeth tsking as it embraced me tighter, turning me around gently to face it. “Do not worry. That princeling has taken him to be buried with honor.”

With that, it pulled me into the gissha and set the pullers off.

The thing hardly jostled, even though the terrain around us was muddy and covered in bodies still.

“Where…. Who are you?” I could hardly stay awake, it felt like all the weight of the world was pulling on my eyelids.

“Oh my beloved…” it smiled in what it may have believed to be gentle, but its pearly fangs peaked through and I couldn’t help the shudders that racked my spine. “I am your fiance. I’ve been waiting ages for you.”

Its face seemed to melt, porcelain turning to inky black splotches.

It’s hair falling out, silver strands shedding to the ground only to be replaced to long locks of too black hair.

Its eyes slotted closed the wrong way, like a lizards. The pale grey ish blue changing to a stark silver.

Its silver and blue kimono was the only thing that remained unchanged when I finally slipped into unconsciousness.

When I awoke, it was to a body cleaned and pampered in sleep clothes finer than anything I had worn as a prince in a bed softer than the clouds had ever looked.

Laying by my side, propped on its elbow was the creature that claimed to be my fiancé.

“Good evening… you’re finally awake again.” It smiled, teeth blacker than charcoal.

I think I screamed, or I must have said something horrifically rude, because the next thing I knew its cold clawed hand was harshly clamped over my mouth. Stifling any sound or breath I may have taken.

“Shh… let us not devolve into such things.” It was back in its too-bright white form. All but its teeth were a stark glittering shine, its eyes back to that grey ish blue.

Beautiful, though perhaps disturbing.

“You should compliment me.” It purred, realizing my face from its clutches. “I have done well, have I not? I saved you, brought you to our palace, cleaned and spoiled you, and let you rest.”

“Thank you…” I breathed, trying to suck air back into my lungs. For something that looked as delicate as a fine as china, it was certainly stronger than any soldier I had met.

“I said compliment me.” It hissed, eyes narrowing vertically, “I get empty thanks every day, I will not have it from you.”

“You’re very pretty.” I whimpered, and that seemed to please it. For it hummed and leaned it, placing a chaste and surprisingly warm kiss onto my closed lips.

“Thank you, my beloved.”

“What do you mean beloved? What do you mean fiancé?!”

It was like I finally snapped out of whatever stupor I had been in since the battle, I sat up quickly, pulling myself away from it.

“We are engaged, thus we are fiancés.” It smiled, one that didn’t reach its eyes as it glared at the distance I had set between us. “And I love you, so of course you are my beloved.”

It cocked its head, eyes narrowing into slits as silver hair spilled over its shoulder. “Why have given away from me…?”

“Because… because I don’t know what’s going on! I don’t know who you are, or where we are!” I looked around the room. Spotting a window I frantically fled the bed, pulling the silk sheets off with me, and threw it open.

“Let us behave rationally…” it growled, claws catching me again and pulling me away from the window. “You have been asleep for so long, perhaps you are hungry…”

I wrestled silently with it, or at least I tried. I just needed to see what was out of the window it had turned me away from. I heard it close the window and lower the sash with one hand, keeping me pinned to its chest with the other.

Faceless servants, like the ones that pulled the gissha, filtered in. Setting a table full of fruits and light breads and pits full of steaming sweet smelling tea.

“Let us eat, hm?” It loosened its grip on me, pulling me over to one end of the table where a marble servant was taking a seat out for me.

“Sit. Eat. All will be discussed later.”

My mind was spinning. If I could just see outside this would all make sense. Surely we were only in my family's own palace or one of the manors nearby!

“I won’t.”

It growled in my ear, I could feel its fangs brushing against my skin as it dung its claws in deeper.

“You will sit-“

“I won’t be able to stomach anything! Not until I see what’s outside.”

*This chapter is part of "The Small Town Magic Arc." This saga began with Chapter 134*

Cyclo's sneak attack of fire was quickly snuffed out by an icy blast from the Pirate Mage's finger, which also froze Cyclo's hand in a block of ice.

"Now Cyclo dear, did you really think it would be that easy to take me down?" The Pirate Mage teased. "We didn't do this fusion just for looks. The Pirate's powers and Cerissa's magic are not only combined together in this form, but both are also enhanced."

"Cyclo's growled in anger as he struggled to pick himself up off the ground, succeeding despite the hits he had taken, and his frozen hand."

"I feel a bit sorry for you pal." The Pirate Mage teased playfully before gently thawing Cyclo's hand with a light burst of fire. "Feel better now?"

Cyclo howled and lunged at the Pirate Mage ferally. He swung his other fist at her, which she ducked under before grabbing his upper arm. She gave it a light squeeze, resulting in the combined sound of a cracking bone and a screaming monster. Despite his pain, he pointed at the Pirate Mage and attempted another direct hit with his fire spell. She fizzled out his attack with another ice spell, this time encasing Cyclo's whole arm in a block of ice. The Pirate Mage then somersaulted backward a few feet to distance herself from her foe.

"The first thaw was free, the next one will cost you!" The Pirate Mage joked before giving him a serious look. "Step down and surrender, and I'll heal both of your arms."

Before Cyclo could respond, the Pirate Mage began glowing a brilliant white. The white light then split into two separate forms. The light then slowly faded until the Pirate and Cerissa stood before Cyclo.

"Bwa ha ha ha, is time up on that fusion spell?" Cyclo hollered with delight, his adrenaline apparently blocking out the pain of his respective frozen and broken arms. "While the power of that combined form of yours was impressive, the two of you alone pale in comparison. I sense much less from each of you!"

"Perhaps, but man do you seem quite sure of yourself pal." The Pirate smiled. "You haven't even healed up those injuries yet. Need a moment to do so after you're done gloating?"

"Heh, I'm doing just fine!" Cyclo laughed as he charged towards the pair. The Pirate and Cerissa stepped aside, and as Cyclo attempted to turn around, he lost his balance and fell face down.

"You sure you got this Cyclo?" Cerissa asked with a sweet tone and smile. "Need some help healing up again?"

"I told you, I've never been better!" Cyclo yelled furiously, despite not being able to get up without the use of his arms.

Cerissa pointed at Cyclo and then pointed up, raising the monster into the air with a wind spell. As he floated helplessly in Cerissa's wind, it was the Pirate's turn to lunge, and he ran their adversary through with his sword. Cyclo looked helplessly at the pair as he felt his life fading away.

"Don't worry, you aren't going to die, you're just taking a trip to the Reflection Dimension." Cerissa said reassuringly. "Before you go, know that it wasn't the Pirate and I who truly finished you off."

Cyclo looked at the pair with a confused, weak expression. The Pirate read this as an unspoken request for clarification, and proceeded to provide one to their fallen nemesis.

"Cerissa's spell and my blade may have ended this fight, but this battle was decided a long time ago. Essie is the real reason we have defeated you."

To be continued....

Three years had come and gone.

After the first few months here, I grew used to the silence, grew used to the loneliness that seemed to creep in from every shadow.

After that, I started to put myself to work. The boredom was what was awful, so I did everything I could to counteract it.

Within the year I had read through the entire library. More than 500 books, covering nearly every topic. I read them all. I also finished rough drafts for three books and was halfway through my fourth draft. I would start editing them around book five.

By the start of my second year I had started to put letters requesting materials. New books to read, paper, pens, ink, some other things to keep me entertained.

I got new books, and I was instructed to send down any old ones I no longer wanted to make room for them. I got books of plays, short stories, books on how to be a good ruler and king, books on politics, ones on commerce and economics, I got books about fairies and dragons, and books on how to play music.

I got huge pads of paper and enough pens and ink to run the palace that I had called home before this tower place.

I got musical instruments, lyres, flutes, lutes, violins, anything that was light enough to be hauled up really.

By the end of the second year I had fully written and edited nearly ten books, read another 500 or so books, learned how to play seven musical instruments fairly well, and could now read and write in thirteen more languages.

But I was still bored.

Reading, writing, music, cooking, learning, eating, sleeping. All of it only took up so much of the day. At some point during my second year, I stopped sleeping, I didn't sleep for nearly three weeks before I passed out in my bed on the 19th day.

The boredom, the silence, the loneliness. It was starting to drive me mad.

But my third year had started, and I could finally start to count the days down.

365, 300, 250, 200, 150, 100. Then I hit double digits. 50, 25, 15, 10.

Nine days left. I woke up and I just stared at my wall. Two weeks after I was put here, I started to use paper with lines on it to track the days that passed. I had no calendar and I feared I would truly lose my mind if I didn't know what day it was.

I would draw tiny little lines, tally marks in sets of five. I learned I could fit about 20 on the tiny pieces of paper that weren't big enough to use for anything else.

For three years I, nearly religiously, marked down each passing day as a tally on one of those tiny pieces of paper. When it was full, it went on my wall, stuck on there above my bed, and slowly spread to take over one of the entire bedroom walls. Nearly 54 pieces of paper were hung there. One thousand and eighty-six lines marking the days I was stuck here.

And there were only nine more left.

8 days, 7 days, 6 days, 5 days…

Each one that passed filled me with a joy I could not fathom, it was something I had never felt before.

I took extra care in grooming myself, picked out my favorite green outfit and waited.

4 days, 3 days, 2 days, and then it was tomorrow.

I didn't sleep that night. I just couldn't. It was the most exciting thing that I had ever looked forward to.

I had spent all month practicing how to speak so I didnt sound so odd and quiet when I left. I gathered up everything i wanted to bring down with me, and just laid on my bed staring at the window and waiting for the sun to rise.

Today! I got dressed and ready as soon as the sun came up.

I bathed, brushed and braided my hair, which now fell to my waist, got dressed and gathered my things and sat staring at the window.

The day came and went.

That's fine. I'm sure I may have missed a mark or two, or maybe added one where I was supposed to. I'm sure my counts are just off.

Another came and went, and then another came and went, and then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went…

Maybe they were waiting for my birthday to bring me back! Yes, the people’s beloved prince, freshly 18, has arrived back from his three years of study and self-improvement ready to be the king-in-training they need!

Of course!

And to top it off my birthday was just weeks before the biggest festival in our kingdom, the summer equinox. It brings good luck and the whole thing is surrounded by a week of nonstop festivals and parties and just general god cheer.

Of course they would wait to come get me on my birthday, it just all made so much sense. It would be like a full month of good things! A wonderful moral boost for the people! And my birthday was just a month away too!

And so I waited, and waited, and waited, and then a month had passed and it was days before my birthday.

And then that day came and went. Then another day came and went, and then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went, then another came and went.

And then the third year came and went.

My fourth year in this hellish tower.

To make things worse, only food came up in the basket now. Always the same meager rations.

What was happening?

Why was I here in the first place?

Why didn't they come to get me?

When… will I ever be able to leave?

Why is it that when I want time to fly by me faster than I can understand it, it passes slower than ice melts in freezing weather?

That’s all I can think as I stare out of one of three windows. The rain dripping off of the roof, the only other sound besides the absolute downpour outside.

I had been grabbed and thrown in here when I was fourteen, told that in three years I would be let out.

I was in a tower, oh the cliche, a royal teenager in a tower. It was taller than my family’s castle was, though there were only three floors in the whole thing. At the very top was my bedroom, the curving pointed roof made for a lovely ceiling to hang streams of colorful fabric from over my bed. The large circle window just above it was lovely when it was sunny out. There was a window seat by one of the wall windows where I now sat, and a tiny little circle window near the area that had been dedicated as my closet.

The second level was a kitchen and dining area. A table for eating, a kitchen, a pantry, and a bathroom were all set up there with walls dividing some of them.

The bottom level was just a circular room full of floor to ceiling bookshelves packed full with books. A small desk and chair and a comfy but dusty couch tucked into opposite sides were the only other pieces of furniture.

Why I was here, I didn’t know. All I know is that a few months ago my father forced me out of bed and out into the courtyard while my mother stood watching ominously through one of the castle windows as I was all but dragged and thrown into the awaiting carriage.

Nearly a week's worth of travel, all in absolute and slowly growing fear-filled silence.

I was brought into the tower when I was asleep, I suspect that my father had me drugged the night before. I was left in the bedroom, a small bundle of letters next to me on the bed.

The first letter explained it all. I was to stay here in this tower for three years, after which my father would come and fetch me. There was no point in trying to escape, the place was enchanted and wouldn’t let me leave without the spell being broken.

All the other letters explained how and when food would be brought to me (there was a hatch in the pantry wall, one that was connected to a pulley bucket system where food was placed and brought up once a week) and how the bathroom worked (there was running water, by some odd magic, and it could be finicky).

I was not allowed contact with the outside world, unless I fell grievously ill or somehow horrifically injured myself.

I tried to trick them into sending a doctor up, after my first month here, but it didn’t work.

The first month I was hopeful. There was a mixture of educational and entertainment based books and plenty of writing and art materials. Three years here were surely going to fly by as I improved myself and finished writing my book and just enjoyed reading and relaxing.

It was hell.

The silence was too loud and I’ve grown restless and bored out of my mind.

And I still have no idea why I’m here.

This is a true story. I am writing my recollection of the events and although it has been many years, I still remember the details as if they happened yesterday.

I was lost. The snow laden conifers looked the same no matter which way looked. They surrounded me, smothering any hope of getting out of here before dark. My steps crunched on the snow which deceived me into thinking it could bear my weight. With each step my legs were buried into the snow up to my knee. I pushed my black hair out of my face and adjusted my hood. I kept moving forward, crunch after crunch. We called it post-holing- the act of stepping through deep snow and sinking in with every step.

My mind drifted. I thought of my cabin with a warm fire crackling and venison stew bubbling in the pot. I could almost smell the wood fire. I worried about my husband. We had been married for just a few months. Used to living on my own, I kept the duty of hunting and providing food for us and I was good at it, except for today. My husband, Eric, skilled in woodcraft, built our cozy cabin and made it tight to withstand the brutal winter. Each chair was carefully crafted. The head and foot boards of our snug bed bore ornate knot carvings. I thought of the piles of furs and blankets that kept us warm. The cold air on my face was a cruel reminder of my current situation.

I promised I would be back in just a few hours. It was well over six hours. My hunting trip was a failure with only a brace of rabbits to show for it and now I couldn’t find my way home. I adjusted my quiver and bow and steadied my mind. The moon should be rising soon, but, alas, it was in the time of the new moon. Darkness would persist. A small lantern hung from my pack. I lit the wick with a scrape of flint and steel. The firelight gave me new hope and a resolve to get home. But, with every brutal step, hope faded. Every step I took in the cracking snow was new. There was no trail, no markings, nothing to guide me. The trees surrounded me and trapped me in a branchy cage. I pulled my the hood of my fur cloak closer around my neck. The soft wool shirt and britches kept me warm enough. My feet were not cold. I kept soldiering on.

Hours passed by and I was still lost. I became exhausted. Every laborious breath was a puff of frozen mist in the bone chilling cold. My mind descended into darkness. I started to consider death, how easy it would be to just lay down in the soft snow and go to an eternal sleep. No! I would not succumb to my mind’s weakness. Pine branches offered a suitable shelter. Flint and steel offered a way to make fire and warmth. I set the small lantern in the snow and began to build my fire.

Small wood shavings and a single spark created a tiny fire…a glimmer of hope in the smothering darkness. The small spark gave way flames and finally a proper fire. Somehow the warmth and light of a fire gives hope to the hopeless. Survival is in the mind, more than it is in physical ability. I warmed my hands and face. I took one rabbit and was about to skin it for eating and suddenly, a snow laden branch gave way and snow plopped on my fire and all at once, it was dark and cold again. The fire was gone along with my hope. I was not one to give in to emotion, but warm tears welled up in my eyes. This was the end. I laid down in the snow. Images of my beloved husband floated before me. After a time, I was suddenly warm and sleepy. I let the relief of sleep wash over me. This was it. Death. The end.

“Wake up, child,” a soft voice woke me. I opened my eyes slowly. I was drowsy and did want to wake from my frozen sleep. Bright blue eyes stared at me from beneath bushy gray eyebrows. I rubbed my eyes. Was this real or was it delirium from hypothermia? The man’s woolen clothes were red and green. His hood enclosed his face in warm fur and his rosy cheeks were cheery and welcoming. I did not care if he was real or imaginary. I could feel his warm sweet breath on my face and I was overcome with a feeling of wellbeing. Maybe this is how it ends. I didn’t care and I surrendered. He extended a mittened hand and helped me up from my snowy bower.

“Follow me, girl,” he said. He commanded. He wielded a great wooden staff that gave him stability as he walked through the deep snow. The man led me through the forest maze to small cabin. The light shone from the windows welcoming the lost. Finally, the darkness of exhaustion was overwhelming. I don’t remember anything after that until I woke up tucked into a comfortable bed.

The firelight cast shadows around the room. I pulled the warm blankets up and snuggled into the soft bed. A lady crowned with golden braids and dressed in fine leather and furs sat beside the bed. “Drink this,” she offered me a mug of warm liquid. Carefully I raised the mug to take taste. The aroma of berries and herbs was inviting. I savored the wild flavor as I swallowed. My energy was returning and I sat up, pushing the blankets aside. I did not remember how I actually got to this cozy cabin. My last memory was handing the blue eyed man my pack. I could see the man bent over a cauldron hanging in the fireplace stirring it carefully. He turned and looked at me with those same kind blue eye. This time, I noticed a twinkle and a slight raise of his eye brow. The smell of whatever was in the cauldron was overwhelming. Stew of some kind. I was famished.

The couple bade me sit at the table and together we ate the stew, crusty bread and more of the berry drink. I did not speak. I was inhaling my dinner like someone who was starved. The couple looked at each other and smiled. After dinner, the man lit a pipe and pulled out a tagleharpa and bow. He played and sang melancholy tunes in a language I did not understand. The clear tones in a minor scale floated in air one after another as the bow glided across the strings. I realized that this music was very old, yet strangely familiar. My eyes became heavy and could feel myself drifting off in comfortable darkness. Was this death and the afterlife? I did not think so.

The woman looked me with her beautiful face. A light seemed to surround her, like an aura. “Please child, get some rest. You have had quite a day.”

I agreed and I crawled back in bed. I was instantly asleep.

The next morning, the wind howled outside the tiny cabin. I peered out the window and could not see anything but frozen white. I wanted to continue my trek home. I knew my husband, Eric, would be very concerned. My heart hurt with empathy for how he must feel. I gathered up my gear and started to put on my boots and the lady stopped me.

“You must not leave,” she said, “the storm is too strong and you will not find your way.”

I knew she was right, but I didn’t like it. However, I resolved to wait out the storm with these interesting, yet mysterious. Now that I was rested, I began to notice my surroundings. Little pottery jars neatly lined shelves beside the fire place and dried herbs hung from the ceiling rafters. Furs were stretched on frames for tanning and some were neatly folded and stacked. The intricately carved wooden table and chairs were adorned with candles that cast a warm light across the room. The smell of sweet herbs and leather permeated the air.

A heavy wooden door kept the storm out and a string of bells cascaded from the handle. I started to wonder about my hosts. How did the man find me just at the right moment and who was his beautiful wife. They never called each other by name. In fact, they really didn’t speak much at all. Even so, it was not awkward and felt welcome and comfortable.

One night, as we sat by the fire. I saw the man carving small piece of wood. “Did you make all these beautiful things?” I asked.

“The winter is long here, and I pass the time by making this and that. It amuses me.”

He handed me detailed carving of a raven. “Take this, he said “I made it for you.”

I was amazed at the craftsmanship of the tiny bird. Each feather was detailed and the raven’s eyes seemed to look at me. I thanked him and tucked it into my pocket.

Eight days went by and the wind howled relentlessly as the blizzard continued to rage on. The days passed with simplicity. Breakfast and coffee, spinning and weaving in the morning. Working the leather on the stretched hides in the afternoon, supper and then music. Every day was the same but went by quickly. On the ninth day, the wind stopped. I was not prepared for the sudden silence. I was anxious to get started home and I started collecting my gear to ready to leave.

“No child you can’t leave yet, the snow is too deep,” said the lady. Her eyes sparkled like the snowflakes on the new drifts. “Stay with us a while longer. I promise we will help you find your way home.”

“My husband surely thinks I am dead by now,” I replied. “I need to go home.”

“Please stay,” she implored, holding my hand and staring into my eyes. “it is not safe for you to leave just yet.” Just then, I heard a scratching at the door. The woman rose and opened the door with jingly bells to reveal a very large black wolf. She gently patted his head. He shook the snow off his dense fur and entered the room. He looked at me with large yellow eyes and laid down by the fire. “There you are my boy,” the woman said to the wolf. “I was wondering where you were.” She bent over his huge head and kissed him.

I wanted to leave, but I could not refuse her. I felt like I was under a spell. Perhaps I was. Days continued in the same way. I lost track of time. I was content and started to forget about the world outside. But deep inside I was aware that something was not right, not in nefarious way. I can only describe it as other worldly. Deep in my consciousness, I knew these people were not human. I realized I could stay in this place until I was old and gray and be perfectly happy. I needed to get out, while I still remembered my life and Eric. Once I resolved to leave, my mind started to clear and I began to formulate a plan. On the full moon, 2 days from today, I would leave while everyone was asleep.

The full moon arrived as always. We drank, ate, and sang until it was time for bed. I crawled into my bed to wait. It was hard to resist the comfort and drowsiness that tried to take over. When I was sure everyone was asleep, I grabbed my bundled gear and slowly exited the house. Quickly, I donned my coat and boots, slung my pack and bow over my shoulder and hurried as quickly as I could through the snow. The moonlight reflected off the sparkly snow, guiding me forward. I could see my breath in the air surround by tiny snow flakes. I pulled my hood closer to my face. It seemed like hours and I was still walking. I sat down to rest. Just a little rest. My eyes closed. Suddenly I felt a wet tongue licking my hand. The great wolf had been following me. He laid down next where I was sitting and waited for me. “Come on, then,” I said to the wolf. I stood up and adjusted my load. The wolf walked ahead, looking back ever so often to see if I was following. His great, black, furry body was a stark contrast to the white snow.

For reasons I can’t describe, I followed that wolf, convinced he knew where I needed to go. We walked and walked. We trekked up side of a steep hill, which became a mountain. The trail became the ridge line, and still we continued with the wolf in the lead. Where were we going? The tiny path became less evident. Suddenly, I lost my footing and started to slide down the mountain side. I grasped a small tree and held on tightly. The ground beneath me was very far away. I looked up and the wolf sat, staring at me with wise yellow eyes. The small tree did not hold and the branch I was hanging on to broke. I slid down the side of the mountain and over the cliff into oblivion.

Everything was black, but I heard a familiar voice off in the distance. “Dani, Dani, my love! Wake up!” My eyes fluttered open.

“Eric!” I held him close. “You found me! I fell off mountain. How did you find me.”

“What do you mean?” he asked, looking at me like I was crazy. “You have only been gone a couple of hours. I came outside to get some wood and you were laying in the snow.”

I was confused. My pack and my bow were shouldered as usual and 2 rabbits hung from my pack.

“Come inside and get warm, Dani” Eric helped me up and ushered me inside.

“Eric, I have been gone for over 10 days,” I explained.

“Darling, no, it’s just been a hour or two, he countered, pouring hot coffee for me. The black liquid and smell of the coffee was restoring.

I pushed back the hood of my coat and unhooked the wooden toggles.

“Dani! Your hair!,” exclaimed Eric.

Startled by the urgency in his voice, I found my bronze mirror and peered into it. I gasped. My once black hair, was now white as the snow outside.

“Eric, sit down and let me explain, “ I reached into my pocked and put the tiny raven on the table. I told him the whole unbelievable story. For years we looked for the cabin deep in the forest and never found it. My hair never returned to its original color.

Every now and again, I hear stories from travelers and sometimes my neighbors about the hidden people, the old ones, who remain with us but were very rarely seen.

I am an old woman now. Eric passed on several years ago. I wanted to see the hidden people one more time. I braided up my white hair and donned my gear, pack and bow. My quiver had sufficient arrows. It was winter again. I headed into the snow.

I'm twelve years old. I shouldn't be working in a factory. But here I am. Here I am with all the other twelve-year-olds, with all the people older than that, with people younger than me. There are even seven-year-olds here. They should be out playing. They should be having fun. But they need to make money so that they can eat, so that their families can eat, so that the whole community can eat. I remember when I was seven. How deafening and arduous the process of being at work was.

The seven-year-olds should be at school. I should be at school. But it's not like any of us could afford that luxury. Though I suppose it's not a luxury.

I have no idea how long I've been working for. My mind screams and my soul bleeds and everything in my world is whittled down to the sharp, piercing knife point of the present. I have to do it perfectly. I have to do everything perfectly. There is no room for any mistakes, not even small ones. If I make even the tiniest of mistakes, I don't get paid. If I don't get paid, my people starve.

Not that we aren't starving anyways.

I keep my eyes down on my work. And I keep my whole mind, my whole being, straining against my desires and pushing me forwards. Forwards, forwards, forwards. I do not have even a moment to take a breath. I do not have even a moment to rest. Not the smallest, tiniest, slightest of rests. I have to keep on going. Through all the pain, physical, mental, emotional, and spiritual.

I sink each fabric in the glaring, screaming blue of the fabric dye in a vat in front of me. Fabric after fabric after fabric after fabric. Again and again and again and again. Until I am absolutely dizzy with it. I am already dizzy with the fumes coming off of the dye. I am dizzy and my head hurts from the noxious, poisonous smells.

I have to then swirl each piece of fabric in the fluid using my ladle. This part is a lot more technically difficult than I first thought it would be, since I have to make sure that all parts of each piece of fabric is getting soaked in the dye. I have to swirl it around fast, faster than humanly imaginable, because I have to get through all my gargantuas workload, a workload that never lets up no matter how inhumanly hard I work.

After the swirling, I have to take the fabrics out and go hang them on the drying rack, a contraption of curved metal beams with a drainage grate under it. This rack is enormous, and it is constantly bathed in dry air. This is the part that I hate the most. I have to hold the piece of fabric, the piece of fabric filled with stinging, toxic liquid, in my own hands. Sure, I'm wearing gloves, but the gloves are meagre protection as the dye seeps through them and makes my hands sting and burn in pain. I have to then walk, well actually, practically run, to the drying rack and place my load up absolutely perfectly.

My hands are always burning, always stinging, always in horrific pain throughout my whole time working. I'm not allowed to go to the one bathroom that we have in the building, that is far away, in order to wash them. It would take far too much time to walk there, not to mention it wouldn't even help if my hands are just going to get burned again the very next fabric that I have to hang up. Time is money. Literally. It's a meagre little bit of money for me and it's a whole lot of money for the people who own this factory.

I'm barely even allowed to go to the bathroom when I actually need to go to the bathroom. Because there aren't enough bathrooms. Because it's too far away. Because I have to work, work, work and work. I don't drink water, and I end up being so overheated and dehydrated, and that makes my head throb even more, makes my whole body strain. But it's not like I have a choice. This is the life that I am forced to live.

So through my aching, pounding head and my stinging I work on. I keep on working and I keep on working and it's so repetitive and monotonous that it feels like sandpaper on my brain. It feels like sandpaper on my brain and dry, waterless winds in my throat and a slow-acting poison in my heart. It feels as if my whole being is being slowly consumed by some eldritch beast that no-one has a name for. I am a ghost. I am a ghost and that is all I will ever be.

This is what life is for me. This is what I have to do twelve hours a day, six days a week. This is all that will happen to me for years and years and years and years. This is all that will happen to me until the day that I die. This is all that I have to look forwards to, all that I have to have hope for. There is no hope for me. There is no hope for any of my people. Just a fragile, faltering sort of survival that very definitely is not life.

I wish that I was dead.

———

I feel tired in my bones, tired in my blood, tired in my flesh. I feel tired in my mind, tired in my heart, tired in my soul. It's a tiredness beyond tiredness. An exhaustion beyond exhaustion. It's as if I have been hollowed out, as if all my insides have been scraped out, raw and bleeding, and all I am left with is a used-up, burnt-out shell of a person.

But I am a person. I am a person. I am a full, whole, and good person. I have to remember that. I have to remember it. For the sake of my family, my friends, my neighbours, my community, and all the people I have never met before, who toil and suffer just as I do, I have to remember it. I have to remember who I am. I have to remember who we all are.

I am walking home from the bus station, and all around me there are masses of people just like me, masses of people who are all walking home as well. It makes me feel seen, feel known, to be among them all. It makes me feel as if I belong somewhere, as if I belong with someone. And belonging is the best feeling in the world. It gives me a sweet, bright, secret sort of victory tucked away deep in my soul where no malevolent forces will be able to find it, where no malevolent forces will be able to snuff it out.

"How was work today?" an older man who lives a few blocks away, Yoshi, asks me. His eyes are full of darkness. His eyes are full of exhaustion. His eyes are full of concern. His eyes are full of love. And looking into his eyes, looking into the endlessly deep, dark pool of his brown eyes, it absolutely breaks my heart into so many pieces but it also makes me feel more whole and more seen than I could ever hope to convey.

"Oh, you know, horrible," I reply to him. Because it's the truth. And even though it's horrid, even though it's heartbreaking, he needs the truth. He deserves the truth. Of course there are a lot of places and situations where lying is the best thing to do, where it's the kindest thing to do, but this is not one of those situations. He can see the hurt, the devastation, the desecration, deep in my eyes, and no matter how much I try to hide it, he will still be able to see it.

"I'm so sorry, Miri," he replies, voice heavy. "You deserve better. You deserve so much better." There is kindness in his words. And despondence in them. I knew he was expecting my answer. But still, he grieves for me, I know he grieves for me, I know he grieves for all of us. I grieve for him too, and I grieve for all the people, for all of my people, everywhere. We all grieve for each other.

"How was your work day?" My words come out with a deeply sorrowful edge to them. An edge that cuts into both of our souls, an edge that heals us both.

"Difficult. Very difficult. I had to lug bricks up so many flights of stairs, again and again and again for hours and hours at a time." His words are haunted. But I knew that this is more or less how he would answer. I could see the devastation within him the whole time. I can see the devastation within him now.

"Try to get something to eat after you go home," I suggest to him. I know it's not a very powerful suggestion. There might not be food at his little hut. And even if there is, it might need to be cooked first. And that takes time. But still, I know how hungry people are after they come home from work. I know it because I have felt it, day in and day out, for years on end. Although, I'm hungry all the time. We all are. The hunger never really ends.

"I'll try," he responds, "but I'll have to cook first. And I have to make sure there's enough food for all of us. I have to make sure there's enough food for the kids." His voice carries so much love in it. So much selflessness. Self-sacrifice. It's incredible, it's beautiful, it's terrible how much self-sacrifice we all need to have. How much self-sacrifice we all need to have all the time.

"Of course," I answer. And what other answer could I have possibly given. Of course he needs to look after the kids first. We all do. I suppose I'm lucky, for now, since I am a kid myself and that means that everyone looks after me. But still, I try to make sure that the younger kids get to eat before I get to eat. I try to make sure that the younger kids don't go hungry, or at least not more hungry than they have to.

"You should wash your hands right after you get home," Yoshi advises me.

"I will," I tell him. And it's the truth. Thankfully, water is not as expensive as food is. Well, good clean drinking water is expensive but nobody uses that. Nobody washes with that or drinks from that. The tap water that I have at home is connected directly to the river, and I can wash away all the stinging chemicals from my hands using that water.

Suddenly I hear a baby crying. It's an incredibly mournful, desperate sound. So young and innocent and searching. It pulls at my heartstrings, pulling me towards its direction. Who is leaving a baby to cry like that? I suppose maybe their caretaker is busy.

"Do you hear that?" I ask Yoshi. He looks at me questioningly.

"Do I hear what?"

"The baby?" I respond, "do you hear the baby crying?"

"I don't hear a baby crying."

"Huh. That's weird. I'm sure I can hear it." This is strange. Very strange. I absolutely have to investigate.

I twist and squeeze my way through the crowd that moves around me, finding any path I can through the dense crowd. I let the sounds of the baby crying guide me. They keep crying and crying and crying on. Strangely enough, for some reason nobody seems to be able to hear them. Or if they do hear the baby, they are showing no signs of it. Which is absolutely impossible, since anyone would go to a crying baby.

My mind thrums with confusion and curiosity. What is happening here? I don't know. But I feel something calling me, I feel something pulling me. Something that feels like the hint of smoke that is in the evening air. Something that feels like the gray-blue clouds of the twilight sky. Something that I can't explain, that is tugging at my heart, tugging at my heart, tugging at my heart. It's beautiful and calming yet deeply melancholy at the same time. I don't know why it's happening but this feeling feels familiar, it feels familiar, it feels so so very familiar.

I find myself in front of a dark alley between two lines of huts. The space is tiny. It is so tiny. I can barely squeeze myself into it. But the crying here in front of the alley is louder than it has been anywhere else. And I can see a tiny basket inside the alley. It must be the baby. Who left a baby in here? Why did they leave a baby in here? This strange mystery is only deepening.

I squeeze myself through the alley, and it's dark in here, so dark. A warm sort of dark. A shielding sort of dark. A protective sort of dark. I have felt this sort of darkness before. But still, there is something strange and unknowable about this dark. As if it is the stillness of life waiting to happen, before the universe was created. The darkness that preceded all life. That preceded and gave birth to the spark in all of our souls.

The crying gets closer as I near the basket. So I was right, the baby is in there. The basket is a worn-out thing, with holes and bits of wood sticking out here and there. It is practically falling apart. So whoever left this baby here, it's unlikely that they were rich or middle class. It's unlikely that they had a better basket to leave their child in. They must be one of us. And more than that, they're probably not mentally well. I don't think a reasonable person could do this, though of course I don't know the whole story. And I must find them so that I can give their baby back and help them with whatever they need so that this doesn't happen again.

Finally, I reach the baby. They are wrapped in a worn-down, threadbare blanket. Poor thing. I pick them up into my arms. The second I do, the entire world seems to shift around me. It seems to grow sharper and more plunging, more aching with life. The whole world seems to be calling out for me, welcoming me, needing me. Of course, I have always felt this way before. I have always felt this way so deeply before. But this is so much deeper, so much more ever-reaching than anything I have felt before. I feel as though I have become one with all the suffering and all the hope the whole world over.

The baby is so sweet. So, so very sweet. Like all children are. Their little tiny face is poking out of the blanket that they are wrapped in. And I look at that face. I look at that face with every part of my mind, my heart, my soul. Because something inside me is singing. Something inside me is telling me that this is very, very important. Of course, all babies are very, very important.

For some reason I cannot make out the facial features of the baby at all. Their face seems to be changing, shifting in front of my eyes. Not in an unsettling sort of way. Just in an inexplicable sort of way. They look like they have the face of every baby in the world, simultaneously. They look like they have the face of every baby that has ever been in the world, the face of every person that has ever been a baby, the face of every baby that will ever be in the world. All at once. All at the same time. I know, I know that as I am looking at this baby, I am truly looking at every baby that is, has been, or ever will be.

And it's inexplicable. It's so inexplicable. It's so very inexplicable. I don't understand it at all, and yet I understand it completely at the same time. I understand that I understand it, I understand that I don't understand it, and I don't understand that I understand it as well. I am feeling emotions that I never thought myself capable of feeling, and that is saying a lot, considering how many emotions I have felt in my life.

"Baby?" I coo softly at the child, who looks up at me with big eyes that are all the colours that eyes can be, simultaneously. "How are you baby?"

The baby smiles at me. And it's such a bright, sweet, saccharine thing. I am beyond amazed by it.

"What do you want, little one?" I smile back at the baby. They look at me. And I get the feeling that they are looking deep into me, deep into me, deep into my very soul.

"Noww, nooow, noww," the baby babbles again and again. In this sweet little baby voice. In their sweet little baby voice that is all at once the voice of every baby in the world. Of course, I know the baby is not really saying "now." The baby is just babbling in baby talk. But that's what it sounds like the baby is saying to me. And these words, these words that are not words, seep into the centre of my very being. I don't know what is happening. I don't know what is happening but at the same time, a strange part of me does.

"Come on, let's get you out of here," I say to the baby as cutely as possible.

I walk towards the end of the alley, the little bundle in my arms. I don't know what I'm going to do with this child. Previously, my plan was to track down their parent or parents and ask why they had been left in the alley. But now. Now, I'm not sure the child even has parents. Unless of course you count every parent that's in the world, that ever was in the world, that ever will be in the world. But still, a baby is a baby is a baby, and they need some sort of caretakers to take care of them.

I emerge out of the alley and onto the dusty road. My arms feel strangely light, though. I look down, and there is no baby there. Just air.

———

I lie on my mat on the floor, my dad on one side of me, my three younger siblings on the other side of me, and my papa behind them. There are more people against the other wall. It's cramped here. Like it always is. But some houses are even more cramped. My aunt died a year ago, so we have a bit of space. But still, she died. She died and she was my aunt. She was practically my mother. And she died too young, too early, like all people do. And I'm still not over it. I'm not over it. I'm not over it at all. I don't think I ever will be over it.

The night is dark and hot around me. Silent, save for the blowing of the wind outside. It almost seems eerie. It almost seems otherworldly. Night is always this way. That's part of why I love it. There is no work at night. No demands. Just rest. A person gets to exist as just themselves, they get to exist just as a person and not as a work machine. Whatever else the rich took away from us, they couldn't take away the night time. It's a time that is just for us.

In this atmosphere, the thoughts of the baby return to my mind. I had pushed that experience away, thinking of it just as some sort of psychosis, as I was talking with my neighbours, with my friends. I had pushed the experience away as I was talking with my family. And I had tried to tell myself that it was nothing, it was nothing, I was just going crazy. Lord knows that many people go crazy in this world. Lord knows that there are a lot of things to go crazy about.

But in the stillness of the nighttime, I realize. The air all around me waits with promise. And I realize. That it was not a hallucination. It could not have been a hallucination. It was too real, too definite, too undeniable. No matter how strange it was, no matter how much it made no sense, there is no denying that it was amazing, and there is no denying that it's undeniable. Because I know what my feelings were at that moment. I know how strong my feelings were, how sure my feelings were. And everyone always says that if your heart is adamant about something, you better follow your heart.

So I'm going to listen to to my heart and I'm going to listen to my feelings and I'm going to let my feelings guide me in the right direction. I am going to let them guide me towards the truth, whatever it is. Because I know there is so much more to this world than what makes sense. I know there is so much more to this world than what can be understood and explained rationally. And this seems to be like one of those things.

But still, knowing that what happened did actually happen and knowing what that means are two very different things. I can't figure out what it means, though I know that it definitely does mean something. Why was the baby there? Who is the baby? How did the baby get created? Why - and how - did the baby choose to reveal themselves to me, if they did choose to reveal themselves to me? Why were they saying what they were saying?

The more I think about these questions, the more I think about my situation, the more questions I have. And the more questions I have, the more I wonder what the answers to those questions could possibly be. Everything happened but nothing was explained. I have to find out for myself what all of this means. And I have no clues to go off of.

Actually, that's untrue. I do have clues. And there are certain things that I do know. I know for example that the baby represents all of us. The baby represents all the people, past and present, and all of the struggles we are faced with. They represent all the love shared between us and all the ways, big and small, that we resist our exploitation and that we hope to resist our exploitation. That much is apparent. But what now? Why did they show themselves to me in this moment and what does that mean?

Despite my confusion, the pulse of hope thrums in me. A pulse of hope that is so much stronger than hope has ever been before. Because I know that this means something. I know that this has to mean something. And it means something profound. It means that things are happening. Things are finally, finally happening. And maybe we will finally, finally get free.

I try to stay up late thinking. I want to stay up late thinking. But exhaustion and drowsiness settles over me and I cannot fight it anymore as I am pulled down into sleep. Though I suppose that is for the best. I have work tomorrow, and if I am sleepy at work, it will be even more hellish than it already is.

———

I am surrounded by friends both old and new. People I've known for a while and people I've just met. We are all together, gathering after work. We are all crowded together, sitting on the floor of Karlium'a hut. And I'm aching with tiredness. As I always am after work. I'm aching with hurt. And, like always, the steady gnaw of hunger twists in my gut. Twists in all of our guts. But, surrounded by people, surrounded by my people, all of that is soothed. And I feel, I feel at home here. I feel like I belong here. And being a part of this milieu makes me feel like my life is returning back to me, at least a little bit.

There is Daria here, a woman in her mid thirties I haven't met before. She has skin the colour of river clay and hair the colour of darkness. There is Hadashi, and I know him. He's in his twenties and he has thick, curly hair that shines like a halo when the light hits it.

There's Valimem, and they're in their twenties too, and they have the darkest, largest eyes I have ever seen on an adult. Arili is in her early thirties, yet she looks so much older. Her eyes do at least. Cambri is in their forties, and they have wrinkles around the edges of their eyes. Mallee is a teenager and she has a beautiful broad nose and round eyes. The two other children that are here are Kallari, aged seven, and Amori, aged five. They're both so incredibly cute. Amori cannot pronounce his Ks and he loves monsters and fantasy creatures. Kallari always tries to make sure that everything is fair, though she's so young. And of course there's little baby Rosalee, with her big eyes and bright babbling, whose face I saw in that mysterious baby.

"If you could talk to any of our ancestors, who would it be?" Mallee asks.

"I want to talk to the people from before. Before the place got all bad." Amori's voice is so sweet.

"Ooh that's cool," Valimem pipes up, "why would you want to do that?"

"Because," the child starts, drawing out the word, "then I could know how everything was!"

"That's nice!" Cambri cheers. "I would love to know that too. Sometimes it feels like this life is all there is."

"Aww don't say that," Daria presses, "there's so much good stuff that we will have one day. I promise."

"How about you, Kallari," Hadashi asks, "who would you want to talk to?"

"I think maybe someone who made the bad people scared." There is something dark and sharp in her words. She is far too young to be thinking that way but she is thinking that way anyways.

"Ooh that's a good answer," Arili exclaims, "we could learn some tips and tricks from them!"

"What tricks?" Mallee asks.

"Like maybe how to steal!" Amori exclaims, "I would love to know how to steal!"

"Ooh, that's a good one!" Valimem's words are bright, with an exhausted undertone to them.

"I wanna learn to break thinks!" Kallari exclaims.

"Breaking things is fun," Hadashi agrees, "but if you do it you'll get in trouble."

"Hey un ... guys," I begin, not knowing how to start. My voice is cautious and fearful. It makes everyone's eyes turn to me.

"What is it?" Cambri asks. "Are you okay, sweet Miri?"

"I think I'm okay. At least, I hope so. But something really strange happened on my way home from work yesterday."

"What was it?" Arili questions, "tell us so that maybe we can help you,"

"Well," I begin, "I heard the sound of a baby crying from an alley. So I go there and pick the baby up, right?"

"Yeah," she responds.

"Well, the baby had the face of like, millions of different babies, all at the same time. I could tell, I knew in my heart that this baby was, it was all the babies ever. I don't know how I knew. I just knew."

"Trust your intuition child," Daria tells me, "it's there for a reason. It's saved us all before."

"Yep. I will," I reply. "So, I start to leave the alley with the baby. To maybe find out where they came from. But, the second I leave the alley, the baby is gone."

Everyone is silent for a while. Well, except the kids, who are talking to each other.

"Do you know the story of how the universe was invented?" Mallee asks me, voice dead serious, laced with awe.

"Of course I do," I tell her, "everyone does."

"But do you really remember it?" she asks.

"What are you talking about?" My voice has a slightly incredulous tint to it.

"Miri. Your name." Valimem's voice is dead serious.

"What about my name?"

"You were named after the Mother of All," they answer.

"Yeah, Mama Miria, what about her?"

"Your Aunt June named you, didn't she?" Daria asks.

"Yeah she did, what about that?"

"I wonder why she named you that way."

"Anyways," Cambri commences, "I think things will become more apparent if we refresh the story.

"Once upon a time there were no people. No animals. No plants. There was no earth, no sky, no fire, no water. There was only Mama Miria, and within Her She held infinite possibilities." I know the story that Cambri is telling. I know it well. But it's always nice to hear it again.

"Miria was lonely," they continued, "She was incredibly lonely. So She thought to Herself that She would create a being that could keep Her company. So She looked deep within Herself and saw the endless possibility that was laid in there. And She became pregnant with a child. She waited many long months before She gave birth to that baby. And who was the baby?" Cambri's voice has a light edge to it.

"The universe!" the children both exclaim joyfully. I smile.

"Yes, the universe," Cambri agrees. "And what was the universe? It was everything that has ever been created, everything that is created, everything that was created. It is everything that will have the Spark of Life within it. And everything ever was coalesced into one thing, into one sweet, precious baby that was every baby ever to come, all together, all at once.

"And Mama Miria, of course, took care of the baby, protecting it and nurturing it and doing everything to help the baby grow up big and strong."

"Like my mama!" Kallari exclaims.

"Yes," I tell her, "just like your mama."

"But all was not well," Cambri continues, "for evil forces found the baby and took it away from Mama Miria's arms. But She spends every moment desperately searching for Her sweet child."

There is silence again after this.

"I think," Hadashi starts, "Mama Maria found her child."

So ... what in the world am I supposed to do now? Now that I have to be the Mother of All? I'm only twelve.

———

I'm in a Resistance meeting. Because this is exactly what I need to do as a mother who wants to protect her child. This is exactly where I need to be. All around me are people who want to bring down the rich, who want to fix the world. People who are hungry, people who are tired, people who are over-worked. People who are angry about it all and would do anything to take a stand. And I have to fix the world. I have to fix the world. I have to heal my child.

"We have rights. Our rights go so far beyond merely staying alive. They encompass everything that is necessary for a good life, one of dignity and respect." The passion in Remini's voice is intoxicating. Her eyes are dark and her eyelashes even darker. She's in her twenties, like most resistance members, and she puts so much thought into everything she says.

"Exactly," Kalavi echoes, "they think that they do so much by giving us not enough food, and not enough water, but dear universe, they're the ones who should be grateful. Grateful that we haven't fucking killed them yet." His dark lips purse in disgust as he finishes talking. There are cheers all around us and I join in. It feels rebellious. But it feels wrong, somehow. Incomplete, somehow.

"They should be grateful that we fucking do everything for them!" Kalkiti softly exclaims, "we grow their food, we cut and sort and process and package their food, we make all their fancy clothes and pretty jewelry and nice furniture. We make their books and their toys and their big, big houses. And their televisions and music players and everything else. It's all us. We do all the work." Her skin is light, her face is round like the moon, and her broad nose crinkles in disgust.

"They never look at it that way though," Cakvi states ruefully, "they only see who is getting all the money for all the work that we do. And then that person gets all the credit. That's how it works, for the rich. They see a rich dirt stain in a position of power over everyone and suddenly that rich dirt stain is responsible for all the work their thousands of workers do." Cakvi's tone is dark from their harsh life. Their skin is dark from the harsh sun. And I can relate. I can relate so well.

The conversation swirls around me for a while. People try to get me to talk. I don't want to talk right now. I just want to hear what everyone has to say. There is so much anger all around me. Of course, there is always anger all around me but this anger is so much more flaming, so much more tangible. There is also deep insight all around me. Also not new, but it's all so concentrated, undiluted, all together at once. I don't know if I can take it all or not.

But there is one big problem. For all the insight and analysis and explanation of all that's happening, there aren't any actual plans for how to stop everything that's happening. I knew I wouldn't walk into a revolution on its way to being planned. But damn, there seems to be no hope here. No hope of things getting better. No plans of how to make things better.

"What should we do about all this?" I pipe up. "I know it's not fair. All of it is very much not fair. But how do we change it? Any plans for that?"

"We don't have enough power yet, to start a revolution," Diani explains to me, kindness in his eyes, "we couldn't face them and win. We plan crimes, heists, stuff like that. But all that is pretty small time. It mostly just keeps people alive, it doesn't really change the game."

"We have to lay the emotional and intellectual foundation for a revolution before actually doing it," Favi explains, a hand reaching up to her thick hair. "Revolution can't happen unless people want it, unless people know we deserve it, unless people know that what's happening needs to be stood up against. We have to build anger within people. We have to build rage and resentment and, most importantly, hope."

"What you're doing is very important," I acquiesce, "It's very important and good. We do need to lay the groundwork for a revolution first. But do you guys have hope?" I ask. "Do you guys thinks revolution is actually going to happen?"

"It will." Jai answers, "but we're not sure when."

"I think ... I think the revolution needs to happen now. Or soon. I think that we're powerful enough. That we have what it takes. Right now."

"Why do you think that?" Cakvi asks.

I explain to them what happened to me on that fateful day, coming home from work. I explain the baby. I explain the late night I had thinking it all over. I explain the conversation I had with my friends and neighbours. And I explain the horror and glory of the realization, and of the time I spent going over and over in my mind what this all could mean. They stare at me with awe, with joy, with hope in their eyes. And when I'm done, there is a spontaneous round of cheering echoing through the whole room.

"The Mother found Her baby!" Diani exclaims.

"But what do we do next?" Remini asks.

"We get more people," Favi states. "We get them to join us."

———

"The world will be better only if we all try to make it better," I speak out into the room of people gathered around me. They all heard my story already. And they generally agreed that the experience means something, that it means something important, and that right now is the time when great things will happen.

"Things can only happen if we work for them," an older woman named Ravi speaks out to the crowd, the children looking up at us wide-eyed and the babies crying or cooing from the arms of the people holding them. "We have a chance right now. We have a chance to set things right. But we have to go for it. We have to use this chance and not let it slip away."

"We have to fight!" little Alixi exclaims, their young voice dead serious, "and defeat the bad guys!"

"We have to defeat the bad guys!" I echo, "you're so right!"

"But how are we supposed to do anything?" Maliki asks, his dark curls shining in the dim candlelight lighting up the room. "There's no logical, practical reason for us to have power."

"There doesn't have to be one," I reply. "We will find our power if we all look. If we all have faith. If we all create opportunities out of what we have. Sure, we might not know how we'll win right now. But if we keep looking, if we all work together, we'll find a way to win."

"Exactly," Navai agrees, "we have to try. Because the Mother found Her child again. The Mother found Her child. And we're all the Mother. And we're all the child. We have to do what any mother would do and help the child, help each other, by any means necessary."

"We have to be a good mama," young Jini agrees, "so that all the kids can be happy."

"What's so loving about all getting ourselves killed in a failed revolution?" Balvi asks, his voice tinged with morose darkness but also with repressed hope.

"The future," eleven-year-old Clari explains, "the future people will live a better life. The universe will go back to being good, being fair, being the way it's supposed to be. We'll do it for the future and we will win."

"Yeah," Ravi echoes, "we need the future generations to have better lives than us. The universe will be hurting, will be wanting, will be wrong, if things go on the way that they do. If we can make things better for future generations, if we can get rid of the evil in the world, that would be good."

"Besides," Maliki adds in, "it's better to die on your feet that it is to live on your knees. Standing up against the rich, even if it kills us, is so much better than this desperate, aching sort of life that we're all living."

"Exactly," I agree, "And we will win. I know we'll win."

"And how will joining the resistance help?" A young woman named Nellin asks.

"Because," I answer, "if we're all in the resistance, we can all communicate with each other. We can all plan together, share ideas, share knowledge, and build ourselves up into a force to be reckoned with."

———

I stand on the corner of the narrow, dust-paved road, scores of people passing me by. I have lookouts who can tell me if any cops are coming by. But right now I'm safe.

"Would you like to join the resistance?" I ask the weary travellers as they pass by, "we meet at every house number ending in 4, from 7-9 on Saturdays."

People look at me. They smile. Like I'm a sweet child selling flowers on the roadside. I guess I am a young child. But I don't feel like one. I haven't felt like a child in years. There is a weariness about me and a darkness. My life has never been my own. Of course, I don't want it to be my own. But I don't want to belong to the rich either.

Hopefully I will be able to give my life to the people I want to. Soon.

"Would you like to join the resistance?" I ask.

"Sure," an older woman with wrinkles around her kind eyes tells me, "but only if you tell me why a kid as young as you is out here doing something so dangerous."

"I'm fine, ma'am. I chose to be out here."

"You be careful, though. You're too young to find yourself in trouble."

"Thanks for the concern." I smile at her, and she smiles back, ruffling my hair before she leaves.

I keep on telling people about the resistance meetings. I know that this is dangerous. But I also know that no-one will turn us in. No-one will tell the authorities about us. Because there is a loyalty among all the poor people here, among the people who have to sell their days and and their life's blood in order to put not enough food on the table. We all would die for each other.

The authorities likely won't torture us anytime soon either. Not before we plan our our next action. When the weapons are in our hands, the high-caliber, lethal weapons that can bring the end of the whole system as we know it, then we will be free. We will be free to rebuild a world of sibling hood. And the baby will finally be safe.

"Will you come to a resistance meeting?" I ask the person passing by in front of me. "We meet from 7-9 on Saturdays, in each hut ending with a four. We're going to change the whole world."

"How are you planning to change the whole world, little girl?" they ask me.

"We are planning to bring it all down."

"Bring it all down? But how will we do that? We have no power."

"We have more power than you think. A miracle has happened. Come to the resistance meeting and you will find out what it is."

"Okay, okay. I'll go to the meeting. But you guys better have the strength to back up your words."

"We'll be able to back up our words, just you see."

"Okay. I really hope it's time to finally change things. But I don't think we'll be able to, unfortunately."

"I know how you feel. I've felt that way before. We've all felt that way before. But you have to have hope."

"Hope is good," they agree, "but recklessness is not. I would advise you to be careful and to know what you're doing before you try anything dangerous."

"We will be careful, I swear. We know what the stakes are. We know what the consequences of failure are. We know all the lives that are on the line."

"I want to join you. I really do."

"Then do it. Then join us."

"I will."

They shoot me a tired, enamoured sort of smile, and I shoot them a strong, confident smile back. This day is going well.

"Do you want to join the resistance?" I ask the next passers-by. "We are planning something huge, and we need for everyone to get involved."

———

I'm coming home from work again. I am beyond exhausted. I do not feel like a human anymore. I never feel like a human after work. All I feel like is an empty vessel, a hollowed-out, spectre-thin thing that exists to suffer and for nothing more. I smile at the people around me. And they smile back. But all of our smiles are harrowed. All of our smiles are haunted.

All at once I hear the same sort of crying that I heard before. Many-voiced and woeful. Young and fragile. I follow the sound through the twisting alleyways again, just as I had done before. And once again I find the world baby, the baby which is everyone and and all of nature, all at the same time. The baby which is beautiful, beautiful, so infinitely beautiful. The baby which I want to give everything to.

Immediately, my heart is overcome with more love than I can fit into my body. It seeps out of me, and into this baby, this baby with so many features, so many faces, who I take into my arms and cradle gently. I feel as though my entire being is exploding out into the entire universe, and I am becoming one with everything everywhere. I want to protect this child. I want to protect this child.

I so very desperately want to protect this child. But I can't.

Not yet at least.

I cradle the small being close to me, until they stop crying. They are much quieter now, at peace since I picked them up, since I held them close, since I let my love and my proximity and my intimacy seep into their tiny, needy form.

They were lonely, so lonely out here in the alley, uncared for by the world, left on their own to suffer. But now they have me. Now they have all my family, all my neighbours, all my friends, all my coworkers, everyone in this world. Now we will all look out for them.

The young one is in my arms, and reaches up to grasp my nose with their tiny little fingers, with their tiny little hand. This is so infinitely adorable. I cannot help but laugh. It's sweet. It's so very infinitely sweet. Sweeter than anything could ever be and my heart is soaked through with glory, is heavy from my joy. Just looking at this child gives me so much joy.

"Are you going to stay with us?" I ask softly, looking at the bundle of joy my arms. "Or are you going to disappear the moment I walk out of this alley again?"

The baby flaps their hands in response.

"Stay with us," I plead with them, my voice gentle and full of love. "Stay with us, and let me show you to everyone, so that we all can see you and believe."

The baby makes an "aah" sound in response. I don't know how much they are understanding, but the big, round eyes look solemn, look thoughtful, look sad.

"Come on, sweetheart. Let's go." I get up from the ground I am kneeling on, slowly standing up and making my way to the sunlight of the streets. The baby is playing in my arms, babbling some adorable nonsense. I hope they'll be here when I leave the alleyway.

I take the final, tentative step into the main street. And still there is a light heaviness in my arms. And still the baby is cooing close to my heart. I break out into a beaming smile, and I go to the nearest person I can find.

"Do you see this baby?!" I exclaim in joy. And his ghost-like features light up in awe, and in hope.

——-

"Look at this child!" I proclaim to the resistance fighters gathered around me. I am not in the resistance meeting that I am usually in, the one in my neighbourhood. Instead, I am two neighbourhoods over, telling the people there of what I heard, what I witnessed, and what I experienced in my life.

The baby is in my arms now. But I pass the child on to Amine, who will pas them on to other people. It is important that everyone sees the child, that everyone holds the child. Not just the people in the resistance, but all of the people of the world. I realize that it will probably take about a year of constant travelling, a year of tired hunger, of new faces, in order to give everyone a chance to interact with the child. But it will be worth it. It will be so very worth it.

There aren't even that many people anyways. I'll be able to come home to my family after each day of travelling. And my family is okay with my "decision" to not work, even though that means that my whole community will be hungrier than they would have been if I did work, because they know that right now, everything is changing. The whole world is changing.

"I ... I'm amazed," a person named Davelo tells me.

"I am too, believe me, so am I," I respond.

"This is a sign. It has to be." Teenaged Arcadia's voice is full of joy, full of passion. She's holding her own baby, but looking at both the babies in this room, babies which are actually the same baby.

"So ... what does this mean? Does it mean that we will win?" Fig asks. He is trying to not get overly excited. He knows how dangerous that can be. But he can't help himself.

"Well," Amari starts, "we all know the legend. We all know that when the baby and the mother are reunited, it means that the world will go back to being fair again, being together and being free and being equal."

"Are you the mother, Miri?" Biri asks me, eyes full of wonder. "You are named after Mama Miria after all."

"I used to think that," I reply to him, "but I don't think so anymore. These past few weeks, I've been going around and seeing everyone. And the way everyone interacts with this child, the way that everyone loves them, I'm starting to think we're all the mother."

"That's very poetic," Davelo speaks out to us. "We are all the mother are we are all the child. And now that we are reunited with ourselves, now that the mother is reunited with the child, a new age will come."

"Are we sure, though?" Kamima asks, eyes darker than storm clouds and more solemn than the twilight. "Are we sure that we are on the verge of a prophecy?"

"We all know the stories," Manoni tells us, wrinkled eyes gazing into our souls.

"We all know how they come to fruition."

"But how?" Mamon asks. "How are we going to take on the whole system?"

"With effort," Arcadia answers. "By trying our best and doing everything that we possibly can in order to create change. We all have to try our best. All of us. Because the prophecy can only come to fruition if we work towards it."

"How right you are," Biri pronounces.

———

I am with my family. My dad, Amerni, my three little sisters, Cala, Rashi, Tessa, my papa Yonas, my "aunts" Marvi, and Carla, my three younger "cousins" Sali, Baro, and Lai, and my twin brother Davi. We are all sitting close together, on the floor of our hut, sharing in each other's warmth. We are passing the baby around, the baby that the community has taken to calling Uni. They are reaching their arms out, wanting to be held by all of us. It's cozy. Really cozy. It's sweet. Really sweet. I can almost forget about how hungry I am, how aching I am, or how my throat hurts.

"Are we going to be able to fight, too?" Sali asks.

"You can if you want to," my dad replies. "But it will be difficult. It will be beyond difficult. War is no place for a child."

"But why can Davi and Miri go?" Cala asks.

"Because," I reply, "We're much older than you guys."

"You can fight if you want to," Aunt Marvi tells the younger kids, "but war is not fun. It's not fun at all."

"But I want to fight!" Lai whines.

I think about how horrifying it would be if my younger siblings and cousins, and all the little kids all around actually, fought. They're just babies, really. They don't belong in a war. They don't belong in all the horror and danger that accompanies war. They don't deserve to die, they don't deserve to have to kill people, they don't deserve any of the brutality of war.

But then again, none of us deserve the brutality of war. And yet, we're all getting ready for it anyways. We're all looking forwards to it even, despite the fact that we're dreading it also. We are all anxiously awaiting the day when the pot finally boils over.

Why?

Because it's a chance to stand up against the rich.

They've been working us to death for years, giving us not enough to survive, making us waste all of our precious energy at their precarious jobs. I have seen so many deaths over the years. My aunt. My neighbours. My baby brother. People at work, who get into accidents. Unhoused people who freeze in the cold winters. I'm sick of it. I'm so sick of all of it.

But now, here, we have a chance to make the rich finally, finally see us. We have a chance to make them finally, finally fear us, instead of us just fearing them. We have a chance to show them that we are human beings, we always were human beings, and we are far more human than they will ever be. We have a chance to show them that we are much stronger than they ever thought we were.

And we have a chance to create a better future. A future where all of this suffering will not happen. A future where nobody has to suffer anymore. We can create a future where each child grows up healthy, grows up strong, grows up well-educated, and with time to play and have fun. We can create a future where everyone looks forward to happiness and peace in their lives. Where no child or adult has to work like a slave. Where we all take care of each other, we all really and truly take care of each other no matter what.

And that's worth fighting for. It's worth killing for. It's worth dying for. It's worth anything and I understand why I want to join the war. I understand why the children want to join the war.

"It's important to have people who live, who take care of the new generations," my papa tells the kids. "It's just as important for you guys to save yourselves so that you can create the future."

"I'll miss you guys!" Tessa moves to hug me, and I cry as I hug her back. It's horrific, how much sacrifice this is going to take.

———

I'm walking along the streets, streets only occupied by young children, by toddlers, by a couple of babies. Everyone else is at work. The adults. The teenagers. The older children. There's no-one left to take care of the young ones. They have to take care of themselves. It's horrifying. But it's a horror that we've all been forced to grow used to, over the years. It's a horror we are forced to deal with.

I carry baby Uni. And their weight is not heavy in my arms. Their weight is never heavy in my arms. I say hello to the groups of children who I pass by. They say hello to me back. I'm going to the far end of the city, where the agricultural workers have their huts. I'm taking baby Uni to them, so that they can spend time with the baby and see what the child is like. Uni is sucking their thumb.

I think as I walk. More specifically, I think about how I haven't seen a single police officer during the whole year that I've been with Uni. Why is this the case? Usually I see police officers here and there as I walk through the streets, as I go on with my life. Usually it's a terrifying experience, but an experience that I am accustomed to dealing with nonetheless, as anxiety-inducing as it always is.

But there have been none anywhere near me this past year. While I cannot help but be grateful, I also wonder, why is this the case? What is going on?

"Hi," I sing-sing kindly to a five-year-old boy. "How are you?"

"I'm okay. How are you?"

"I'm good. I have a question though. Did you happen to see any police officers here?"

"A time ago there was a police, but there's none now."

"Okay. Thank you. How long ago?"

"Maybe ... more than 15 minutes?"

"Okay, thanks so much. Good luck, buddy."

"Good luck!"

Okay, so, fifteen minutes or more ago there was a cop. But not right now. So, there was a cop before I showed up here, before Uni showed up here. But they left just as I came to this area. Interesting.

———

I take baby Uni to scrap yards. It's a horrible place for a baby, filled with so much garbage and jagged metal. But then again, what isn't a horrible place for a baby? I make these trips daily, and I am always accompanied by different kids. We have heaps of blankets with us, blankets borrowed from neighbours. We are confident that no guards will be after us. Because Uni is just such a loud baby and the guards can't stand their loudness.

We can also get through the gates of the scrap yard easily, gates that are otherwise closed to all the public, because the people who stand vigil by the gates leave once they hear the baby for too long. The child is our key. Our key to anything. And for this we are incredibly grateful to them. For this we thank them everyday.

In the scrap yard, we find pieces of metal that are shiny, that are new, that are not rusted. More importantly, we look for pieces of metal that have sharp edges and could be easy to cut. These will make our weapons. Weapons that the rich do not want us to have. Weapons that we make from the garbage that they throw away, from the incredible waste that they generate.

We wrap these medium-sized pieces of metal, usually about the length and width of my forearm, in the blankets that we borrowed. We understand that it looks suspicious, walking through the city with a bunch of blankets wrapped up in our arms. But we also know that as long as baby Uni is with us, no guards will accost us, for they'll all be too afraid.

Day after day after day after day, this plan works. We build up piles and piles of metal sheets. We find stronger bits of metal, with sharp edges. We cut the sheets of metal with the pieces of stronger metal, after using precious candles to soften the spots we want to cut along. We bend the newly-cut pieces. And we distribute them as spears for the people to use and get good at.

——-

Now is the moment of truth. I am walking towards the armoury, with a handful of other children. Cassi is seven, Racha is nine, Amio is six, Lai is eleven, and Olem is thirteen like me and has baby Uni in his arms. I have baby Clara in my arms. Nobody will suspect a group of children like us. Of course, the rich hate poor children like us, they suspect poor children like us, but they do not think us capable of of any great deception, or anything that requires a lot of thinking. And of course, they don't know about the World Baby. They don't know the power that the baby has. The power that all babies have.

I am fizzing with excitement. It is bubbling up hot and sweet in my chest, in my belly, in all parts of me. My mind is racing with equal parts anxiety and anticipation. Anxiety is a cold stone in my insides. Anticipation is making my soul light and in flight like a bird. And I feel as though I have the weight of the entire world on my shoulders. Though I guess I do. We all have the weight of the entire world on our shoulders. But we all have each other. And we can carry the load together. We can share the load together. And that makes the heavy weight so much lighter.

I am buzzing. I am buzzing. Everything inside of me is buzzing. I am overjoyed. There is so much that could go right. This might be the beginning. The beginning of the end. The beginning of the start. The end of our poverty, our brutal, degrading, dehumanizing work. This could be the start of true freedom, a freedom that we could all share together, that we could all share with each other. It could be the start of a world where all people are seen as equal, are treated as equal, are seen as one. We all hide in each other.

And yet. Yet. There is so much that could go wrong. We could fail. We could be killed. We could all be killed in punishment of our actions, in punishment of our rebellion. This could be the end of our people as we know them. This could be the end of everyone who's lived and died and worked and yearned and loved and hurt and cried and smiled and laughed under the heel of the rich. This could mean the end of our whole class as we know it. And with it, the end of all of our stories, the end of all of our songs, the end of all of our teachings and our histories and everything we pass on to the new generations. It all might be gone. The new generations might be gone.

Yet I don't think that will happen. I don't think we will fail. None of us think that we will fail, though the possibility looms in each of our minds, pressing us to make sure we put our full effort into this plan. I have faith. I have faith in baby Uni, I have faith in myself, and I have faith in all my people. All my people have faith in the baby, all my people have faith in each other. We have seen the signs, and we know that the time is now. The time to rise up. The time to change everything.

The children all around me have determination hidden deep in their eyes. They have rage. They have hate. And they have love. They all have a deep, untethered, primal, and all-reaching love in their eyes. A love that encapsulates themselves and is so much bigger than themselves at the same time. A love that has existed for as long as their souls have existed in the place beyond life, which is to say time without beginning. A love that will exist for as long as their souls will exist in the place beyond life, which is to say a time without end.

I look into their eyes and that gives me strength. I look into their eyes and it gives me hope. If soothes the sharpest edges of my cutting fear and leaves me able to go on, able to do all that I am meant to do, all that we are meant to do together. They are so determined. So determined. And I echo their determination. And I echo the power that they have. The power that we all collectively have, within ourselves, shared amongst ourselves. The power that will set us free.

The babies coo in our arms. They are adorable. And, looking at them, it makes the whole thing worth it. It makes our whole mission worth it. Because if these babies can have a better life, then that's all that we need, then that's all that we need from anyone. And it will make everything worth it. Besides the babies cooing, there is no sound from any of us. We all communicate in looks, in long-held eye contact, in the dead set of our mouths. Because we cannot give our plan away. We cannot let anyone know what it is that we are up to, besides all the people who already know and will keep the secret with us. We cannot let any of the rich, any of the guards, anyone with power in this society that we live in know what we are really up to. So we keep our silence, we keep our silence like a promise, and we walk together to the armoury.

We stop a slight bit aways from the armoury, away from the guards on all the many watch stations of the armoury. We sit down on the road, the dusty road that is unoccupied at the moment, except for us. It's not suspicious. It's not suspicious at all. Many children play in the road. It's the one place we have that is outside and under the sky. Even adults gather in unused roads often, gossiping and chatting about small things, things that the guards would not be suspicious upon hearing. It's slightly strange that we're doing this in the evening, when most children are much closer to the residential part of town. But there are huts near us. We're not straying too far away.

We sit down on the road, our worn, dirty clothes sitting on the dust. And we pass the babies around to each other. They giggle and coo, happy at being given attention and cuddles. And this is good. This is very good. We smile at them, and coo back. And, seeing our smiles, they giggle even more. It's adorable. It's so adorable. And it's so purposeful. So incredibly purposeful. These kids are helping us fulfill our destiny.

"Peek-a-boo!" Amio exclaims, and the babies scream in delight. We all join Amio in their peek-a-boo game. We each take turns covering our faces and uncovering them. The babies absolutely love it. They have no sense of object permanence yet, so they literally think our faces are disappearing and coming back into existence. This is adorable. Clara copies is, putting her face in her hands and then moving her hands away. Uni sees this and squeals. Perfect. This is so very perfect.

We continue playing our game for a while. It feels like it has been forever. Because the pressure digs into us, grates against us. It feels like it has been forever but I know that realistically, it probably has been only a few minutes. As the minutes go on, the babies get louder and louder. They get more and more excited. And I don't know if they're doing this on purpose or not. I don't know if they understand the gravity of this situation, I don't know if they understand the importance of what they are doing. But, looking at their faces, I think they probably understand, in their own, special, childish baby type of way.

I look around, as if in mild interest, at the scene all around me. The guards are getting increasingly agitated. All of them. I can see it in their faces. The growing trepidation. The discomfort. The way they adjust the expensive collars of their expensive black guard suits. The way that they look at each other as if wanting an explanation. They way that they fidget with their hands and pace in front of the doors that they're supposed to be protecting, getting up from their chairs.

They'll be gone soon. They'll be gone so very soon. And so will all the guards resting inside, where the windows carry in the sounds of our merrymaking.

Lai takes baby Clara and lifts her high in the air, and then brings her back down in a swift motion. Oh my gosh, it must be exhausting doing that. She's hungry. She's tired. She doesn't have the energy for all this. But anyways she does it, because babies love it, because nothing can make a baby scream like doing this. She goes to baby Uni afterwards, and lifts them up in the air and brings them backdown. The young child screams so loudly.

At this moment, the guards all walk away hastily. They do not say a word to anyone. They do not even look each other in the eyes. They simply speed away as fast as a walking feet can carry them, looks of deep disturbance in their faces. Lai is still lifting the babies. I don't look at the guards straight on. That would be too suspicious. But I do keep track of them through the corner of my eye. We all do, trying to keep it all as down-low as possible.

I take over Lai's job. She must be exhausted by now. She needs her strength for the battle to come. I play with the babies and yes, yes it is very tiring. But also, it's very rewarding. Seeing the babies happy, seeing them so full of life, so full of life despite the fact that they're immersed in death, it's beyond joyous. It's beyond worth it. And I understand, now, how parents put so much effort into their children even after being bone-weary from their long days of work. I understand now how seeing your child smile is worth anything and everything.

The guards inside the building now also leave. I don't see how many of them go, since I'm still busy with the babies. But I trust that the other children are looking into it, that they're seeing how many guards left and are ensuring that there are probably none left inside the building. I trust my friends. I trust my people. All of them. The guards on the roof also climb down and walk away.

I pass the babies to Olem, and he plays with them as well, making them scream and laugh and giggle and coo. All the other kids keep a lookout for any of the guards coming back. Right now we are all not even trying to hide the fact that we're looking. Cassi and Racha get up and walk all around the building, peering down all the streets surrounding the building.

"They're gone," the two young children tell us.

Amio then whistles, a sharp, piercing sound. A sound that is not too out of place in the busy, chaotic world that we inhabit. If any of the guards heard it they would simply attribute it to a child being loud. Which is exactly what this is. It's a child being loud. But the people lined up in the huts all around, who are standing close to each other, crowded and awaiting, they know what this whistle means. They know the many layers of deep, simple, complex symbolism behind it. They know that this is our signal, the one we all agreed upon for its simplicity and unassumingness.

The first thing that happens is that people hang up blankets to dry in front of all the streets, a few blocks away from the the armoury, blocking off sight of the armoury from the streets on all sides. Hanging up laundry in and of itself is not suspicious. But this is suspicious, to have so much laundry handing up at the same time, at such a precise location. Fortunately for us, if any of the guards who patrol the streets try to investigate this strange occurance, they will get too close and hear baby Uni, and then they will go away. Of course, they could call for backup. But we all doubt that they would do it, because then they would have to report to their superiors that they were afraid to go investigate because they heard a baby. They would not do that, because it makes no sense, because of the embarrassment, because of the blow to their ego. They would probably rather save their own skins and ignore it. That's the hope we're all hedging everything on anyways.

People flood out of the huts that encircle the armoury. It was really rather stupid of the rich people to make their armoury right within the poor neighbourhood. Well, what's stupid on their part is a godsend on our part. Perhaps literally a godsend, by the way. The Mother of All has been sending us a lot of blessings as of late. Blessings that we would do well to make the most out of. Blessings that we are making the most out of.

All of us kids keep on playing with the babies, making them be as loud as possible, as the adults and teenagers around us are walking up to the armoury. The strong doors are locked with strong, sturdy locks. But my people have a secret. The art of lock-picking has been passed down through the resistance for generations. And now, everyone who is in the resistance has their piece of wire, and has unfettered access to the locks, no worries of guards coming to arrest them.

When they finally get the doors open, there is an audible sigh of relief from everyone. So far the plan is working. So far the plan is working perfectly. I dreamed that we would get this far. I dreamed that we would win. But there was always a part of my mind that always told me that no, we would not make it. We would not make it. We would not make it. Now, that part of my mind is weaker than it has ever been. It is more quiet than it has ever been. And centuries of oppression which hammered into me that I am nothing are being lifted right in front of my eyes.

The kids and I continue with our jobs as the older people around us continue with their jobs. They grab gun after gun after gun from the many racks. They grab bulletproof armour and shove it on. They grab crates full of ammunition and tie them to their backs. They prepare for the war that will be started within moments. And they succeed. They succeed. They keep on succeeding until there are almost two thousand armed people, scattered within the armoury. I can see them through the windows. There are also many people scattered around the armoury as well, on the streets and in huts.

They move silently. They work silently. They load their guns silently and make sure that Uni's voice can be heard all around, so that no guards come near us in this moment of truth. And no guards do come near us. They hear Uni's childish voice, as faint and distant as it is, and it strikes fear into their hearts. They think that the armoury guards are already seeing to this part of the city, they don't need to go there as well. And they leave us all alone.

We are armed. About two thousand of us are armed. That's about three percent of the population. But at the same time, we have as many guns as the guards have. We have as many guns as them, we have as many bulletproof vests, and we have way more people than they have. Everything is working towards our advantage. The rest of the people have spears. Spears carefully crafted of scrap metal that the people stole out of the scrap yard and cut with the resistance's stolen factory equipment and expensive candles. We have been practicing with them in secret.

The war has begun. The war that I never thought I would live to see in my lifetime. The war that I have dreamed of all my lifetime. The war that I will fight in.

The older kids take the younger ones to the safety of the huts. The safety of the special dug-out huts that we prepared to help the especially young shelter and stay safe during the war. And we go get ready.

———

The street is covered in bodies. The bodies of the people. The bodies of the guards. There are far more bodies of guards than there are bodies of people who fought. So many people who fought. Some of them are decked in armour, that they stole from the armoury, that fits them in a ramshackle kind of way. Some are decked in the common rags that my people wear, worn and thin and like the earth. They all are covered in blood, are dark with it. Some of the blood is new, fresh, red. I imagine that it would be warm to the touch. Some of the blood is old and darkened.

It's a horrific sight, one that makes me deeply sick to my stomach. I've known death. I've known death. I've seen so many loved ones pass away. But death of this caliber, thousands of people in the span of a few hours, bodies paving the streets, it's beyond anything I've ever known before. And it's gory. It's so, so gory.

Yet I'm not mourning the murdered martyrs the way I've mourned other people who left this world. Everyone who died here, everyone who died like this, they died on their feet. They died fighting for a better world. They didn't die because of neglect, because of poverty. They didn't die due to horrific working conditions or prejudice against their class. They died because they stood up. They stood up for what they believed in, they stood up for future generations, they stood up for a better world. And at the end of the day, that is so, so, so incredibly much better than dying quietly, than accepting your fate as a lesser person and letting death take you on the floor or at work.

Everyone who is dying here will be able to walk into the afterlife with their heads held high. They will be heralded as heroes, and they will be able to tell all their ancestors that they did not go down passively. They went down fighting, with their teeth bared, looking their oppressors dead in the eyes. And oh how deeply, deeply glorious that will be. And how deeply cathartic too, how satisfying to be able to come to the end of your life's story and to have it end with such bloody, bloody triumph.

Not that they deserve to die. Not that any of them deserve to die. Besides the guards of course. Just because they got murdered for standing up for what they believe in doesn't change the fact that they got murdered. It doesn't change the fact that each loss is a horrific loss. Each person on the ground had friends, had family, had neighbours. They had children in their lives. Children who will miss them to no end.

But the future generations will never again have to know the loss of their loved ones. And they will never again have to live lives worse than death, where their only hope is death. That is why all these people are fighting, all these people are giving up everything. And that is why I'm fighting too.

I've been lucky so far. My dark skin hides in the night, a night that is only illuminated by the glaring yet dispersed street lights. I'm young, so people are protecting me. And I've been able to get my hands on a gun, since I was so close to the epicentre of the robbery. But still, my heart thuds in my chest and fear flows in the rush of my veins, coating each molecule of my blood. I am more awake than I have ever been in my life. I am more alert than I have ever been in my life. And I am terrified.

There are gunshots all around me. From friends, from enemies, from unknown sources. The guns all sound the same but the shouts of the people do not. There are those shouting in rage, the sort of rage that only comes after living your whole life under the heels of those who think of you as less than an insect, who don't think of you as a living thing at all. There are other people also shouting in rage. The rage that comes with living your whole life thinking other people are beneath you. There are people screaming in pain, wailing in grief, and even laughing in victory. It's a cacophony of chaos and I hate it and I love it. But more than anything, it makes me feel alive.

I get shot in the chest. But my bulletproof vest protects me. It's a close call nonetheless. I've been shot many times before. Each time has sent a jolt of fear racing through me. I shoot back in the direction of the black-clad soldier whose gun the shot came from. I can tell that he's a guard from the superiority glinting sharply in his eyes. The bulletproof glass on his helmet has long since been shattered. But he's still heavily armed. But my bullet hits him right in the jaw, horrifically disfiguring his face. He gives off a garbled scream. I shoot him again, in the head to make sure that he's really, properly dead. And then I cheer loudly. This is my second kill tonight.

But it's a broken sort of cheer. As much a scream of anguish as it is a cheer of joy. This is my second kill tonight. I'm only thirteen.

I guess I shouldn't have done that though. A hail of bullets comes flying at me from the right. I run to go duck behind a hut. And, thank the gods, my armour got everything. I thank the Mother and Her Child for just a moment before I scan my surroundings. I cannot ever let my guard down, even a bit. Because they're out to kill me. They're out to kill all of us. And I cannot let them. There is chaos all around me. Bodies falling. People screaming. I look for who to shoot next. I'm half cold blooded killer, half screaming child. But I do not know which half is which.

I see a guard shoot at an unarmed man. I guess he lost all his spears. The man falls to the ground, a fountain of blood gushing out from his thigh. I almost throw up. I do not even know this man. I do not know him, but I have to avenge him. I shoot at the guard. It doesn't pierce through his armour, but it does get his attention. Which is not good for me. I duck back behind the wall, catching my breath. If I go after him again I might die. Is that worth it? Of course it is. I cannot be a coward. Not now. Not after we have collectively done so much. I whisper a short prayer before leaning back out to shower him in a hail of billets.

Unfortunately this leads me to be showered in my own hail of bullets, which he fired as soon as he saw me. My armour holds strong, but it doesn't protect me this time as a sharp, burning, tearing bullet digs into the bottom of my rib cage, between two of my right ribs. I scream. I burns. It burns. It burns so much. White hot, searing pain that flows from my wound out to my whole body. I look at the man who shot me. He looks smug. None of my bullets pierced through his armour.

But right before I pass out, I see a woman impaling the guard with her spear, from behind. His face flashes with surprise, then horror. I guess I distracted him enough for her to be able to sneak up on him. I smile, and that's the last thing I ever do. And the last emotion I feel in this life is a sweet, hot, darkened sort of vengeance. A vengeance borne of pain. A vengeance bearing victory. It was worth it, it was worth it, it was all so very worth it. We will be free. We will all be equal.

———

I awaken to a realm made up completely of something intangible, something untouchable, something deeply intimate, something intimately beautiful. I wake up and this is the first time in my life where I have felt at peace, felt free from the horrors plaguing me. I am holding baby Universe close in my arms. They are infinitely beautiful, as they always are. In their eyes I see each person, each creature, each plant and rock and piece of soil. I see the sky and the water and the ground and the fire. And I see love. Universe is happy in my arms. Happier than I have ever seen them. They smile, and there is no brokenness behind that smile. They are happy. Everything is right. And I am about to enter a new beginning, along with the world.

My heart thuds in my chest. I find it hard to breathe, as if there is a stone lodged in my throat and I cannot force air past it. I feel as if my entire body has turned to stone. Hunger gnaws in my stomach, burns up through my chest, flows down my arms and legs, grates over my throat. I cannot breathe. I feel as if the entire world is on my shoulders. I feel as if I am nothing. I feel as if I am everything.

I kneel alongside the rows and rows of worshippers, the whole town gathered in the rolling square. The young and the old and the sick and the healthy alike. All together. All kneeling. All together for now. For now. For now. And us being together gives me a sense of strength. It gives me the ability to face this horror that we are all faced with.

On everyone's face is etched the same mask of reverence and worship. Everyone's mask is perfect, is flawless, is impenetrable. But I can see beyond their masks. Because I really look at their eyes. I really look into their eyes and deep, deep inside those dark pools is terror. Each and every time, it's terror. And a cascade of other emotions, too many and too complicated to be named.

Whichever unlucky person is chosen will have to leave the group. Whichever unlucky person is chosen will have to shoulder the burdens of the whole town in their fragile, thin arms. They will carry the stress of having to carry us all, they will bear the responsibility of all of our fortunes and fates. All of our fortunes and fates. That is too much for anyone to handle. But handle it, we must. And we must handle it with dignity and grace, no matter how fake the dignity and the grace is.

Time seems to still all around me as I kneel in my place, in my carefully-positioned place in the straight row that is part of the dozens upon dozens of rows all stretching out before us. I feel as if I have been kneeling here forever. I feel as if I will be kneeling here forever. But still, I'd rather kneel here forever than be chosen.

———

"We have to make do with what we have," Marsita is telling us through her all-consuming tiredness. I can see her exhaustion in her voice, in her eyes, in her face, in her posture, in her body language, in everything. She is trying to hold on, to her life, to her fight, to her will. She's trying for all of us. But last week her husband died. It's hard to be strong.

I am sitting in the clay hut of Marsita, a few huts over from my own hut. There is a ragged collection of people from the community here. We're all leaning against the walls, barely able to stay sitting up, letting all of our energy go. Scattered across the laps of the older ones, there are young children. Shajira, Baira, Namaro, and Kyare.

They are almost limp as they lean against their adults. I have little baby Alara on my lap. She is sweet and soft and thin and limp. But she's breathing. She is still breathing. I feel her breath against me, and for this I am beyond grateful,

Normally, someone would be cooking on the clay stove at the end of the little room. But right now there is nothing to cook.

"We should have more," Shajira says, looking out into the sky with her dark eyes. She holds an anger within her. I can tell that she holds an anger within her. That is not good.

"Now, don't blame anyone," Ereeth says in an exhausted, calm sort of way, the candlelight reflecting on his silvery gray hair. "We don't need to cause unneeded rifts."

"I'm not blaming anyone," Shajira replies, blowing a tuft of black curls away from her eyes. "I'm just saying, it's not fair."

Beside us, Jasey is sleeping. I watch his breathing, slow and shallow, rising and falling almost imperceptibly. There is something foreboding about the way the candlelight of the dark room settled over his peat-dark skin.

"Are you blaming the great and powerful Lady?" Marsita's voice carries alarm within it. And I totally understand why. No-one can blame the Lady about anything. Lest she hear and curse us. But still, she cursed us already, with our harvests failing and our year spent hungry. She cursed us already and I do not know how she could curse us any more.

"I'm not," Shajira replies, I'm not blaming her. I'm just blaming the situation."

"Do not even say what can be thought of as blame. For if she hears us, I know not what she'll do." There is protective alarm in my exhausted voice. I have to make sure that she stays safe. That she keeps all of us safe. Or, as safe as possible in a time like this.

"And, remember," Alaro adds in, "we cannot blame Darjo either. He's young. He's very young. And he had a great burden placed upon him those many months ago. He did the best that he could. He did the best that he could to please the Lady. And we should not place blame upon his young shoulders." Alaro's clay-red skin shines bright in the candlelight, almost like blood. and there is something slightly haunting to him.

"I'm not blaming him. I'm just blaming the situation." She presses on, sweetly, the young child, more oblivious than she should be of the danger that's all around her. Of the danger that's absolutely everywhere.

"Be careful," I warn her. "You should not be blaming anything. You should not be making it harder for us."

I keep my eyes on Jasey. He is still breathing in the smoke-tinted air. He is still lying on the hard clay floor of the hut. He's still sleeping, oblivious to the hunger and the hurting and the need and the death of the waking world. I almost wish that he stays asleep forever. Sleep is the only place where it doesn't hurt. It's the only place where nothing hurts. But no, no I do not wish that at all. We need him. Everyone needs him. We cannot do without him. I don't know why, but we cannot do without him. We need him to stay alive.

"Why can't we talk about how sad we are? Kyare asks.

"Because," I answer, "it's not safe."

"Because of the Lady?" They ask.

"Yes, sweetheart, because of the Lady," I respond. Hunger gnaws at my gut and twists apart my insides. I feel as if I have been scraped hollow, scraped raw, left bleeding. But I feel like this all the time. This past few months I have been feeling like this all the time.

"Why does the Lady listen to us?" They ask with their tired, youthful voice.

"The Lady does not listen to us all of the time," Alaro explains. "But you never know when she might be listening. You never know when she might be looking in. If we want to have a good harvest next year, if we want to eat next year, we must make sure that we do not displease her. And that means that we must be grateful for everything that she gives us." Alaro's words come out slowly, with many breaks in between. I understand why. In this stretch of time, they really sink in, true and necessary and terrible.

"But how do we know when she's looking?" Kyare asks. There is something curious in their voice. Something dreading. And something just, lightly hopeful.

"We don't know," Ereeth responds. "We don't know if she's looking in on us. We don't even know if she can look in on us. But her power is too great to rule it out as a possibility. She controls the harvest. Who knows what else she controls?"

"Anyways," Marsita cuts in, "this conversation is getting far too negative, my young ones. Why don't we move on to another more positive line of talking?

"Like what?" Kyare asks. There is something hopeless in their tone.

"I don't know," Ereeth replies, "maybe we could talk about next year when the harvest will be better. What are we going to do then?"

"I'll make rice cakes," Namaro tells us. Sweet, little Namaro. Sweet little all of them. Each and every single one. "I love rice cakes."

"I love rice cakes too," Marsita tells him. "Rice cakes are so delicious. And they're so soft and fluffy and lovely. Hopefully next year we get a lot of rice. Hopefully next year we get a lot of rice cakes. Enough to make up for all the hunger this year."

"I hope so too," Namaro agrees. "I hope we get lots and lots of food. I love food. I miss food." Sweet kid. I relate to him, I relate to him so much. I'm sure we all miss food. I'm sure we all miss it so much. Not that we don't have any food. No, the Lady is too merciful for that. But we don't have enough. We don't have nearly enough.

"I miss food too," I tell him. "I miss it so much. But I'm holding on to hope. You have to hold on to hope too. You all have to hold on to hope. Hope is all that we have after all. Hope is all that keeps us going." The baby is my arms is still breathing. Still breathing. I am so glad that she is getting to rest. Sweet baby.

"Do you think we'll have a good harvest next year? I hope we do." Namaro's young, dark voice has a hint of lightness in it.

"I think we will," Alaro replies. "Just hold on hope."

"Yes," Ereeth echoes, "hold on hope."

"We have more good years than bad years," Marsita tells everyone.

"But we still have bad years, though," Baira tells us. And there is something imploring in her adorable little voice that does not pronounce everything properly. There is something amazing as well.

"We do, Baira, we do," I tell her. "But we can't dwell on the bad years. We have to dwell on the good years."

"We have to dwell on whatever we have," Alaro adds in.

"And we have to be grateful," I finish. "We have to be grateful to the Lady for all that she blesses us with. Do you think you can be grateful?"

"I think I can," Baira replies, voice thoughtful. "I think I'll try to be. But it's hard sometimes."

"Of course it's hard sometimes," Marsita acknowledges. "Of course it's hard sometimes. But it's okay. You're okay. You'll get through it. We all will. And you'll find your ways to be grateful and to count your blessings despite it all. You'll see that there's a lot that we have, a lot that the Lady gives us."

"Like what? What does she give us?" Baira asks. I can tell that she wants to listen to us. I can tell that she wants to be grateful. But she doesn't know how. And that's understandable, that's so understandable. A lot of us don't know how sometimes.

"She gives us good harvests," Ereeth replies. "And she gives us all the things we need in order to have good harvests. She teaches us to be humble and grateful and thank her for all she gives us. You have to be grateful for that."

"I'll try my best to," Baira replies. There is something determined and resolute in her little voice. In her big, dark eyes. And I'm proud of her for trying her best. I'm really proud.

"Good job," I tell her. "That's all you need to do. You just need to try your best. That's all we all do. We all try our best and we do what we can. And guess what? It's enough to keep the Lady happy, most of the times." My words come out slowly. I try not to put an emphasis on most of the times, but it happens anyways. Most of the times is the key phrase here. Our best is not enough to keep the Lady happy all of the times. We have too many years when it's not enough. Far too many.

We keep talking, trying our best to ignore the hunger and the aching that's inside of us. The conversation is a good distraction. It's a good distraction from the pain. But it doesn't do enough, it doesn't go far enough, not nearly far enough to help us all. But still. Still I am very glad and grateful for the people around me. I am grateful for the words that flow on all around me and the words that flow into my ears and through my mind. I'm grateful for the words that flow from me. I'm grateful for the fact that the others listen to them, that they hear me, that we all hear each other.

I'm grateful for the baby in my arms and I am so, so worried about her. She was born in the midst of a bad year, in the midst of famine and hunger and need. And she never got enough nourishment in her life. She never got enough. I hope so strongly, hope so hard, that she doesn't die. I hope with all my being that she lives to see better years, that she lives to see years that help her grow and thrive and bloom and flourish into the radiant individual that she is meant to be, that she already is.

We keep talking, we all keep talking, until one by one we start to fall asleep. There is nothing else to do. It's too dry to raise crops and there's no food to preserve and prepare and cook. All we have to do is talk. Which in its own way is a strange sort of blessing.

I look towards Jasey, as the night is pouring darkness in through the cracks of the shutters. And he's not breathing. He's not breathing. I move immediately to tell the others.

"Jasey's not breathing." My voice comes out small and stilted. It comes out forced and squeaky.

"What?" Marsita's voice is dreading and determined and purposeful. It's calm in a untraceable sort of, in a strong sort of way.

"He's not breathing," I reply. I still find it hard to force the words out of my mouth.

Marsita goes to kneel over Jasey. She puts one dark hand on his dark neck. And she feels for a pulse.

"There's nothing there," she says all at once.

———

We are stone-silent here, kneeling, all of us terrified, all of us hiding it. We have been kneeling here for what feels like hours, feels like days, feels like years, though it probably only has been a few dozen minutes. The time flows in a trickle, and the breath flows heavy and ragged down my chest, like I am breathing in a collection of hard, sharp-edged stones instead of air.

We are waiting for the moment. For the moment in which she will come. The moment in which the Lady will come. The moment when everything will start, and we will have to start praying with everything we have for the unlucky person who gets chosen. Praying to soothe them. Praying to give them strength. Praying to give them victory. So that they might please the Lady. So that they might save our town and our harvest for one more year.

I kneel here until my knees hurt. And I make sure to not show any of the hurt on my face.

All at once there is a bright flash of light all across the whole sky. It's too bright. Too painful. It hurts to see. But I keep my eyes open. I struggle and I fight to keep my eyes open anyways, through all the hurt, because she needs to see us looking at her. She needs to see our eyes upon her. Immediately, as quickly as the world got bright, it gets pitch-dark. And there's something dreadful in this darkness, darkness in the middle of the day. There is something deeply unnatural to it. Still I keep my face a mask of reverence. I don't let any of my fear and my trepidation show through.

Standing in front of us, on the large, ornately-carved stone stage in the middle of the town, is the Lady.

She wears a shimmering dress of bright, sparkling red. It's sleek and falls beautifully, falls perfectly on her. Clasped around her waist is an intricately-carved, flowing and swirling belt of gold. Hung from her neck is a fine golden chain adorned with a gold-framed pendant of a bright ruby. She has a youthful look to her and black hair as straight as a beam. She is beautiful. Far too beautiful. Far too beautiful for it to possibly be natural. There is something deeply uncanny about the way that she looks. There is something deeply uncanny about all of her.

"Your reverence," old woman Marila, one of the town elders, speaks out in a voice that sounds so unafraid, in a voice that is hiding so much fear. "Welcome to our humble town. We thank you deeply and profusely from the bottom of our hearts for gracing us all with your magnificent presence. May we be able to show our deep and humble gratitude towards you for all that you have done for us and for all that you are. Your reverence."

"Indeed." The Lady's voice is clear and peaceful and supercilious, as it always is. There is so much highness and dignity in the way that she speaks. Her words flow out so smoothly, so loudly, as they always do. And there's something deeply unnatural about it. There's something deeply unnatural about it all. Like everything else about her, her voice is just too flawless, too beautiful, too perfect. But I try to not let my fear show in any way as I stay there, kneeling, listening to her words.

"Our bright and radiant Lady," Marila begins, "for what purpose have you graced our village with your presence?"

"I come to have a communion with one chosen member of your town. I come to test how your town is keeping to its virtue and its honour."

"Thank you, my Lady, for blessing us with such a rare and treasured opportunity. It is my greatest hope that we do not let you down."

"My expectations for your town and its people are quite elevated. There is a lot for you all to live up to."

"But of course, my Lady. Your expectations are high and glorious and it is my deepest, sincerest hope that we are all able to live up to your lofty desires."

"Allow me to look through the crowd, now. I must select a fine and upstanding citizen of the town with whom to carry out my communion."

"But of course, my Lady. Take all the time that you need."

She scans over the crowd with here serene, impartial, menacing eyes. There is something too smooth about the way she looks over all of us. There is something too probing.

I wonder, briefly, if I will be the one who gets chosen. I hope to the universe that I am not. I cannot handle that type of pressure. No-one can. But I pacify my racing heart with the knowledge that there are thousands of us here. There are thousands of us here in the town. The likelihood of me being picked is very slim.

She looks through the crowd for what seems like an eternity. I wonder what is going on in her head. I don't think I'll ever be able to know what she thinks. I don't think I'll ever be able to even imagine it. She is so, so very different from all of us, from her unnatural beauty to her lack of fear to the calm, cool way in which she regards everything. There is an untouchability to her, as if all the cares that us humans have merely pass by her as interesting ideas. She looks through the crowd.

She eventually settles on a person. And that person is me. Her gaze holds me longer than it has held anyone else up to this point. My heart stops in my chest. I feel as though I am about to throw up. This can't be. This can't be. This can't be. But it is. It is no matter how much I want it to not be. It is no matter what I want.

"Calen Agua," she calls out, eyes dead set on me.

I bow my head low.

"Yes, my Lady?" I reply, keeping my voice as even as I possibly can. Keeping my voice as meek and humble and submissive as I possibly can.

"I choose you to be my companion for the harvest ritual that we are about to undertake."

"Yes, my Lady," I reply. "I am deeply, overwhelmingly honoured and humbled that you have chosen to select me out of all the masses of people. It is a deep honour." My words, of course, are a lie. But I lie as convincingly as I can, extracting all my effort into making sure that she does not sense even the idea of a lie behind my words.

"You may come join me now," her voice rings out clear and terrible.

"Yes, my Lady. Of course."

I rise. And my legs want to shake, my knees want to buckle, my breath wants to come out ragged and jagged and uneven. But I force everything to keep calm and collected and contained, to be smooth and fluid as I make up the distance between myself and the stage.

I am more deeply, more entirely, more horrifically terrified than I ever have been at any point in my entire life. The profound, all-consuming dread cracks and crumbles everything inside of me, at the same time as turning my insides into stone. I feel like I am getting hit by lightning over and over and over again. I feel like I am crumbling to ashes. I feel like I want to throw up. I want so deeply, so badly, to throw up. But I can't.

I force myself to the stage on my numb, rubbery legs. And I climb the stone steps, cold and harsh and piercing under my bare feet. And everything feels frozen, screaming cold and cloying, suffocating hot both at the same time. Everything feels completely unreal, as if I am moving through a nightmare. Yet everything feels overwhelmingly, undeniably real, more real than anything has ever felt before.

Finally, after what seems like forever, my long and weighted walk is at its end. The Lady towers in front of me. And I force myself to look at her. I force myself to look at her and gulp down all the multitude of feelings that I am feeling. I force myself to hide.

I twist my lips into as close to a perfectly realistic smile as I can possibly make. And I kneel down in front of her.

Everything relies on me now. The town's fate relies on me. The harvest relies on me. The lives, health, and survival of innumerable people rely on me. And I can't take this. I can't take the pressure. But I have to. It's not my choice. It's my duty. I only hope that I am strong enough. That I can save them all. I have to save them all.

———

Darjo and I are washing clothes by the river. It's a Saturday, a day that is mostly not for work, a day that is mostly for rest. But both of us have washing to do and we thought that we might as well do it. We might as well get it out of the way. And so we're here, just the two of us, together on the sloping, silt-covered banks of the river.

It's beautiful here. The water stretches out bright and calming and perfect as far as the eye can see in each direction. It reflects the sunlight in bright rippled waves. It soothes my soul and fills me with a sense of purpose. I love the river. It seems to talk to me every time I am near it, every time I come to it for help. The river feels like an older brother or sister or sibling. And I am so grateful to have some time now, here, beside the river.

The universe knows that I need to soothe my soul. I need to find some solace and some peace and some way to ignore the hunger within me, some way to ignore the fear and the grief and the pain all around me. Some way to make this nightmare of a year just a little more palatable. Because we all know that I will have to gulp down this horror of a year no matter what.

Not that I blame Darjo, not that I blame him at all.

"But I blame myself," he says to me, as we are washing our clothes. "I'm the one who disappointed her. I'm the one who disappointed you all."

"You tried your best, my soul's brother. You tried your best and you did what you could."

"It doesn't matter whether I tried my best or not because it wasn't enough. It wasn't enough to save you all." There is something profoundly haunted in his voice. And something profoundly haunting.

"We all know that it's very difficult to please the Lady. Nobody is blaming you. None of us are blaming you. Not at all."

"You should be blaming me." The guilt in his tone is almost tangible. I can almost reach out and touch it with my fingers. I feel so bad for him. So bad. He must be feeling so bad himself, must be feeling so much worse than the rest of us are feeling.

"We shouldn't be blaming you."

"Yes, you should. I'm the one who disappointed the Lady. I'm the one who displeased her. And because of this, the whole town has to suffer. The whole harvest has to die."

"We can get by. We are getting by. We can pick the berries and dig up the roots in the woods."

"But it's not enough. It's not nearly enough. There are too many people and not enough woods to feed them all."

"We can get by."

"What about all the people dying? Can they get by? They're not getting by. What about all the families and neighbours and friends who are grieving. Can they get by?"

"I know. I understand. It's hard. But it's not your fault."

"How is it not my fault? The Lady chose me. She chose me to commune with her. And that meant that it was my responsibility to take care of you all and to please her so that she blesses the harvest."

"That's a lot of responsibility to take on. But you took it so well. You took it well and you did everything that you could. You should be proud of yourself. I'm proud of you."

The water flows cool and clear against my hands, refreshing and rushing and altogether full of life. The sun shines warmly against my skin, warming me up from the inside. There is the lightest hint of a breeze and it flows in my hair. Today is beautiful. It's so beautiful. But inside my heart it is dark and wet and twisting. My emotions are not beautiful. Still, I am grateful for the beauty of this blessed day, and I'm grateful for all the ways that simple nature is trying to cheer us up.

"I'm going to kill myself," Darjo declares out softly to the river and to the sunlight and to me. My heart thuds in sympathy and sorrow.

"Please don't."

"I will. It's what I deserve. I've killed so many people. The blood of so many people is on my hands."

"Their blood is not on your hands. But if you kill yourself, your blood will be."

"My blood deserves to be. I've damned you all. I've hurt you all."

"Please don't."

"There's nothing that you can say to stop me from doing it."

Tears trek their way down my cheeks. And I don't stop myself from crying. Not here. Not now. Not like this. I am grateful for the fact that I am allowed to cry. And I am grateful for the fact that I am allowed to express my emotions. But I'm not grateful for the fact that I can't help. I cannot help dear, sweet Darjo and I cannot stop the guilt that he feels inside of himself. I can only watch him go, and try to give him whatever comfort I can until he does.

I feel so very helpless. So very, incredibly, unbearably helpless.

But I understand what he's feeling. I really do. I think, perhaps, if I was in a similar situation as him I would feel the same way.

We continue washing our clothes, the river's water cool against our hands. I think I can understand what he must be feeling. I can understand why he blames himself. I think he's carrying more perturbation this year than anyone else is. He's carrying more weight. He has been carrying this weight since the first moment that he got called to represent our town in front of the Lady. And we're all carrying weight in this awful, painful year. We're all carrying so much weight. And there's nothing we can do to lessen it. Nothing except for helping each other.

———

I am kneeling in front of the Lady. And, for the first time in my life, I am glad that my stomach is empty. Because if it wasn't, I don't know if I could keep myself from throwing up. Though I make sure to not let her know that. I have to act as if I'm honoured. Act as if I'm honoured. Act as if I'm amazingly honoured to be in her magnificent and awe-striking presence. I have to make her believe it.

And she does believe it. I truly believe that she believes me as she looks down her nose and unfolds her lips out into a haughty, satisfied smile. She looks as carefree and supercilious as she always does. She looks as calm and as serious. There is nothing in her face that warns of disapproval. And I internally sigh with relief, just a tiny bit. It seems that, so far, I am pleasing her. It seems that, so far, I am doing good. Let's just hope I can keep it up.

She waves her clean, dainty, ivory hand, a motion through the air that is much too smooth to be natural. And the world around me goes white. I cannot see my people out of the corner of my eye anymore. I am cut off, alone. No-one can help me now.

The fear in my heart spikes sharp, stabbing through me. But I make sure that I keep kneeling there, I keep kneeling there, through all the terror I keep kneeling there and not showing any signs of my inner longings. But I want my people. I want them to at least be beside me.

The whiteness all around me glows brighter and brighter, until it is absolutely blinding to look at. I keep my eyes open, though the light is searing my eyes. And I keep my head slightly bowed though my head is throbbing in sharp pain. The light seems to be cutting through my soul, through the very fabric of myself. Yet still, I fight with everything that I have in order to not react.

Finally, the light dies down, and I find myself in the strangest place I have ever been in.

It's a large room, larger than I knew rooms could ever be, positively palatial. The floors are patterned in many colourful tiles, little flecks of darker colour dispersed through their light hues. The tiles are arranged in intricate patterns. The walls are covered in large paintings and fine tapestries everywhere I turn, except for the windows which are crystal clear and look out into an immaculately blooming garden.

There are fine statues of heroic figures and regal animals, positioned stylishly around the room. And all the walls are lined with large tables of dark, rich, intricately-carved wood. There is a silver fountain in the middle of the room and the ceiling is a mirror. Beside the fountain is a small, sleek crystal table with chairs made of blue gems. In the middle is a China tea set.

I take it all in but I force myself not to react, even to all the strangeness. This room does not do anything to calm my nerves. In fact, it makes me even more anxious that before. Because not only am I alone. Not only am I carrying the burden of my entire town. But also, I am in a place I don't recognize at all, as beautiful as it is. I am in a place that I can tell is not for me.

"You may rise." The Lady's voice holds no affection within it, but no anger either. Hearing her makes my heart leap to my throat. But I force myself to get up as fluidly and as gracefully as I can.

"Thank you, my Lady."

"First of all, what is your name, gender, and age?"

"My name is Calen and I am a man. I'm eighteen." I'm really a demiboy but I don't think she'd understand that. I don't want to risk it. Though lying is a risk too. But it's a risk I'll have to take often.

"Take a seat. Let us drink some tea." She walks to the small table beside the fountain, her red dress swaying slightly as she moves. Everything seems completely unreal to me. Completely unreal and unbearably, unrealistically real both at the same time. I follow her to the table.

"Thank you, my Lady. Thank you for giving me the opportunity to drink tea with you." I keep my voice even.

"You may pour the tea now," she replies.

"Yes, of course, my Lady." The China has patterns of all sorts of birds on it, and is ringed with geometrical patterns. I fill both our glasses with the light brown liquid.

"And I will take two sugars," she tells me. I scoop her the sugars. I don't take any myself.

"You may pass the sandwiches now," she commands, and I put one dainty sandwich on each of our plates.

We eat in silence for a little bit, me keeping my head slightly bowed throughout the whole thing. It's so hard for me to force food down my throat. But I do so anyways. The food is surprisingly delicious, and that makes it easier to eat, at least. I have to be thankful for the little blessings.

"So, are you enjoying the tea?" she asks me in a serene voice.

"Yes, my lady. It's the most delicious tea I have ever had." This is not a lie. "Thank you so much for your gracious generosity in sharing your meal with me." This part is a lie.

"And what of the sandwiches? Are you enjoying those?"

"Yes, my Lady. They are absolutely delicious. Thank you once again for your generosity in sharing them with me."

"And now, I suppose, we will move onto the questions of more value. How is the town doing?"

"We are doing alright, my Lady," I lie. "Things have been pretty hard due to the harvest last year but we are getting by pretty well. Thank you for asking me of the town, and thank you for your everlasting concern towards us." I'm not telling the truth. Of course I'm not telling the truth. If I told the truth I would doom everyone. But I can only hope that she doesn't see through my lie. I can only hope that she doesn't have information to the contrary.

"And the townspeople, what do they think of me?"

"They think very highly of you, my Lady. You are, after all, the one who blesses us with so many blessings. You are the one who gives to us all that we have and all that we need to live. You have blessed us with so many good harvests and bounty flows from within your hands. And for that we are grateful, deeply grateful. And we are humbled. Deeply humbled."

"And do they not believe that I am to blame for the years when the harvest is cursed?" There is a bit of an accusing edge to her voice. It makes my world go still for a moment. This is not good. This is really, really not good. But I hope I can save it.

"Not at all," I answer swiftly. "We do not blame you for a cursed harvest. For we know it is your choice. It is your choice whether to curse the harvest or whether to bless it. And it is your decision to make, not ours. You have a right and an entitlement to make the decision that you choose to make, and we are in understanding of that." I think up the answer to the question as lightning-fast as I can, and I hope that it's coherent.

"And what of the children? What do they think of me?"

"They are awestruck by your power and by your amazing abilities. They are grateful for your blessings. We are teaching them to be grateful for your blessings." The children in actuality do not like her at all, they're dead afraid. We try to stop them from expressing it, but we can't stop them every time. My mouth feels a little numb as I tell her the lie. I am dead afraid of being found out. But I do what I have to do and say what I have to say to keep my people safe.

"And how about you?" she asks, a touch of concern in her voice.

"What about me, my Lady?"

"Are you happy, in the moment?"

"Of course I am, my Lady." I force the words out of my dry, grating throat as calmly as I can. "It's beyond an honour to be in your presence and to be able to dine with you. It's beyond an honour and I am beyond thrilled." I feel like my lung is full of rocks. Like I'm forcing the air through their hard, rough edges. "Are you happy?"

"I am always happy," she replies smoothly. Unsettlingly smoothly. "And the town, is the town happy?"

"Yes, we are. We count our blessings and are blessed by all that you give us."

"What of the years when the harvest is cursed? Is the town still happy?"

"Why of course we are happy. Even if food is scarce, we have blessings. And we are used to years with meagre harvests. We have grown able to handle them. We know how to deal with years with limited food and how to still be happy despite it all."

"What of the people who die?"

"The deaths, too, we have grown used to. We have learned how to work through our emotions and how to rationalize death so that we do not feel grief at losing someone. We must be grateful no matter what fate gives us." Talking about the dead people is even, somehow, much harder than talking about everything else. The grief pangs in my heart and I have nowhere to put it. I have to struggle and fight with strength I never knew I possessed in order to keep emotion out of my voice. But I manage to get through it. Somehow, miraculously, I manage to get through it. Maybe because I have to. I absolutely have to.

"And the children," the Lady continues on, "are they happy?"

"Why of course they are," I answer as convincingly as I can, "you have blessed them with so much out of the kindness of your heart."

"The kindness of my heart, you say."

"Of course, my Lady. Your heart is so kind. You provide us with everything we have." I do not tell her that she does not give us the one thing that really matters, which is each other.

The Lady smiles slightly. My heart stills, holds its breath. Is this a good sign? Am I pleasing her? I hope so. I allow myself to release a breath that I didn't know I was holding.

"And what of my birthday?" Her voice is an overly-saccharine trill. "Do you celebrate my birthday?"

"Oh we do, my Lady. Of course we do. With much merriment and celebration, and with a big feast, just as we should. It is, after all, a deeply auspicious day."

"A feast? How do you pull off a feast on a year when the harvest has been cursed?" Her question sounds genuine, but still, I'm in treacherous waters. Still, I anticipated this. I practiced for this. I have an answer.

"We fastidiously save every morsel of food that we have for the feast, of course. Because it's such a joyous day. Of course we have to celebrate it in a joyous way."

"And what of the boy I had in here with me last year? How is he doing?" Darjo. She's talking about Darjo. Oh no.

"He died, I'm afraid." I fight to keep the grief out of my voice, out of my expression. I fight to keep my voice even, keep my breathing even.

"Oh, how did he die?" Her words are cool and mildly curious. Not at all the words of someone who just heard about a tragedy. Not at all the words of someone who just heard about a death.

"Well, you see, he died in an accident. He was scaling a tall tree with a knife and he got distracted." Got distracted. Sure, he got distracted. I won't say anything about how he willingly jumped off.

"And was he loyal, this Darjo?" Loyal? She chooses to ask if he's loyal? She speaks no words on the tragedy of his death? I hide my exasperation.

"Yes, my Lady. He was loyal to you until his last breath." Hopefully this is the answer she is looking for. It's a false answer but hopefully it's the answer she's been looking for.

"And how do you know that he was loyal till the end?"

I think of an answer lightning fast and I tell her what she wants to hear.

"Because, my Lady, he always talked about how glorious it was and what an honour it was to commune with you, my Lady."

"Did he?"

"Yes, he did. He was deeply grateful to the opportunity you gifted him with. But do not worry, he did not say anything that would give any details away about his interactions with you."

"I'm happy he didn't give any details away." There is something smirking hidden behind her voice. My whole body goes cold with dread.

"He would never, my Lady."

"Oh, I know he would never." There is something sly and secretive to the way she says that. I am keenly aware of all the danger all around me.

"So anyways," the Lady continues, "are your people learning the wisdom that I am imparting to you?"

"We are trying, my Lady. We are definitely trying very hard. It is difficult, though. All your lessons and all your wisdom are so high and refined and intricate and complicated. They are hard for us simple-minded, uneducated people to understand."

"That is to be expected, of course."

"But know, my Lady, that we are doing what we can to the best of our abilities."

"You must keep trying. The wisdom of my glorious race can help you build better lives and families."

"But of course, my Lady. Of course it can."

"Speaking of families, are you properly worshipful of my family?"

"But of course, my Lady." This isn't a total lie. We are worshipful of her family. But we are only worshipful because we have to be. Not for any other reason. "We may not know your family," I continue, "but we are of course worshipful to them. Anyone who is related to your grace and your glory must be equally graceful and glorious. Any background that you came from must be an amazing background. Your race has so much power and awesomeness. We would be remiss to not worship them."

"My family is quite marvellous," she agrees.

"But of course they are. Anyone related to you must be marvellous." This interrogation seems to be going well. But I need to stay alert. I need to stay alert. And I need to do everything exactly right. I need to do everything exactly right until I am allowed to go home again.

"And do you all work hard in order to please me?" I know what this question is about. It's about the vestments. Every Wednesday there are bags full of the most fine and rich clothes that magically appear on our streets. They are the garments of the Lady herself. We fastidiously wash them in an elaborate ritual that takes days, and return them to the Lady through the special gift fire at the church.

"Yes, of course, my Lady. We meticulously purify all your vestments according to the proper rituals. It is a very high honour for us." I tell the truth. I have to tell the truth. But of course I don't tell her about how difficult and worrying and frustrating the whole process is.

"And are you all grateful for the opportunity to work and please me with your work?"

"We are very thankful. We are always thankful. The opportunity to work for you and your greatness and your glory, to be of service to you and to show our gratitude, to do anything at all for you, it is the best opportunity of all. We are very grateful to be able to be of service to you. We truly love being able to be of service to you. We are grateful to be able to earn even a fraction of the many gifts that you give us."

I think I am navigating these swirling, rocky waters alright. I think I am doing well. This does not, of course, take away more than the barest edge of the all-consuming terror that I feel. Terror that makes it hard to breathe, hard to move, hard to exist. I've been feeling this terror since the moment she first called my name and I am still feeling it now. I hope I'm doing well. I hope I'm pleasing her. I have to do well. I have to please her.

"I have an important question, though." There is something dark inside her voice. My throat seizes up and I feel like vomiting.

"Yes, my lady?" I fight hard, so very hard, to keep everything I'm feeling deep down under me. So deep that it will never be shown.

"A relative of mine told me that your people lie to me and that you merely say anything to make me approve of you miserable lot."

Oh my universe. Oh my universe. Oh my universe. I'm damned. How can I salvage this?

"My lady," I start, lying, "I do not think that this is the case. You see, people like us are simple and uneducated and stupid. We are all very simple-minded. Too simple-minded to lie. Too simple-minded to create intricate lies snd stick with them. Not in a remotely convincing way at least."

"That does seem true," she agrees.

"And besides," I choose my words very carefully, "we would never lie to you. We trust you. We trust you and all your great teachings and your benevolence and your grace. We have no reason for lying to you."

"That is what I thought as well. But my relative seemed really rather convinced. Are you saying that my own family member lied to me?" I hate the direction that this is going. I have no idea if I'll be able to salvage this. But still, I have to try. I have to try.

"Lied to you? Why of course not. Of course they didn't lie to you. But perhaps they were fed false information from someone else. Maybe they were manipulated by someone else. Of course, of course they must be a very intelligent person and would not be misinformed easily. Perhaps the person who fed them this wrong information was a master manipulator and manipulated your relative very skillfully and very well."

"That does seem to be a likely case," she concedes. Oh thank you. Thank you. Thank the universe.

"Yes," I agree, "we are far too simple and small-minded to lie convincingly."

"And why should I believe your words over her's?" Damn. What do I do? Everything inside me is a strange, hollow, scraping feeling. Everything inside me is a distant, silent and muffled screaming.

"My Lady." I do what I can to keep my words perfectly even. "My Lady, you can believe whomever you choose to believe, whomever you want to believe. Of course you can believe your relative if you choose to. But I am simply stating what I know. Our people do not have the complex mental capacity that your people have, that you have. Our people do not possess the mental capacities to lie very well." I lie as well as I possibly can. It's the only way to save my people. The only way.

"And have you ever tried to keep anything a secret?" she asks, hopefully, thankfully changing the topic of conversation. Not that this is anything like any other conversation though.

"Secrets? Between the people of this town? No, we love to gossip. We gossip about anything and everything. Any piece of information someone knows or thinks, everyone knows within a matter of weeks." And it's the truth I'm telling. It's really the truth this time. This time being the key words.

"I see. So you are able to speak accurately on the thoughts and feelings of the whole town?"

"I am. We share everything. There is nothing secret between us." I hope she bought my lie about us not lying. I so, so deeply and achingly hope that she bought it.

"And are you teaching the children of the town to serve me?" I'm so beyond grateful that she seems to have put that topic of conversation behind us.

"Yes, my Lady, I respond smoothly. And it's a fake smoothness. But it's necessary.

"We are teaching the children to serve you and to worship you and to work hard purifying your clothes for you." The cleaning ritual has special roles that the children need to take. Special roles that the children hate doing. That any child would hate doing.

"And what do the children think, of serving me?"

"They are deeply humbled and grateful for the opportunity to serve and worship you. They truly treasure it very much. They think you're absolutely amazing and very beautiful and they love working for you." I think my lie is convincing. I had put in a lot of practice towards learning how to lie properly. Everyone in the town has. Even the children. Though thankfully, they're never chosen. Only people who are adults, who have mastered the art of lying, are chosen.

"They think I'm beautiful?"

"Yes. Very much so, my Lady."

She smiles. And her smile is wide and prideful and seems to me to be very genuine. This is good. This is really good.

"And what of you?" she asks. "Do you think I'm beautiful?"

"Do I think you're beautiful? My Lady, you are the most radiant and beautiful being I have ever seen. Your beauty is flawless and beyond compare. I have never witnessed anything at all as beautiful as you." I pour as much awe and humility into my voice as I can.

"And do you think I am gracious?" she asks, small hints of mirth on her voice.

"I think you're beyond gracious, my Lady. I think that the grace that you have is absolutely indescribable and far, far greater and more glorious than anything I have ever seen. I think everything about the way in which you conduct yourself inspires awe and worship." I keep taking occasional small bites out of my sandwich and small sips of my tea. This food is really much more delicious than anything I have ever tasted before.

"And would you follow my orders?"

"But of course. Anything that you want me to do, I would do in a blink."

"Truly?"

"Truly."

"Then prove it." She puts her hand flat against the belly of the teapot. Steam starts flowing out of the spout and I can tell that the tea is very hot.

"Pour yourself a cup of tea," she instructs, "and drink it all in one sip."

I silently do as she asks, pouring the steaming tea into my teacup. I am afraid, but I know that I must do this. I know that I have no choice, I can only hope that I'm brave enough. Steeling myself against the pain, I move the cup to my lips and tilt it towards me. It burns my lips, my mouth, and my throat, but I force myself to swallow. It sears me all the way down. Then I force myself to take another painful gulp, then another, then another, until the tea is all gone and I can let my burned mouth and throat rest.

"Impressive," the Lady comments impassively.

"Thank you most graciously," I reply politely.

"And what of the townspeople? Would they follow me just as well as you have?"

"They would without thinking, my Lady. I know for certain that they would also." I force myself to speak evenly through my abused throat.

"I am done my meal," the Lady begins elegantly, "and I think we are done our conversation. I will send you back now. Come, kneel in front of me."

I am immensely thankful that it's over and I am aching to see my people again, to run into their arms. I move to a kneeling position beside the Lady's chair.

———

I am lying on the floor along with everyone in the family, trying to fall asleep through my weary body and my aching gut. It's cold, but the body heat around me is keeping me warm. It's dark out, and the sky is clouded over, with no moon or stars. Beside me is my nine-year-old sister Anali, and she is so soft and sweet and warm against my body. I am so, so unimaginably thankful to the universe that I am having this opportunity to hold her and be with her.

"Calen," she whispers, careful not to wake the others all around us, "are you awake?"

"I am. How about you?"

"I'm awake. I just can't sleep."

"Aww, sweetheart, why not?"

"Because, Calen, I'm so hungry."

"I'm so sorry, sweetheart. I'm so, so sorry." I keep my voice low and soft and compassionate in the blanketing darkness of the night.

"It's not fair."

"You're right, it's not." In the silence and the secrecy of this moment, I feel like I'm able to agree with her. I feel like it's safe to agree with her.

"Why does the Lady curse the harvest?"

"It's because the town displeases her. The representative of the town that she chooses and speaks with displeases her."

"That's not fair."

"It's really not. But you can't blame the representatives. They try their very best."

"It must be so very scary talking to the Lady."

"It really must be scary, you're right. She holds so much power. So much power over all of our lives."

"Why does she want us to be hungry?"

"Because we didn't respect her enough. We didn't listen to her enough."

"That's not fair, Calen."

"It's really not." I hug her slightly tighter near me. I feel her breathing against me. I feel the warmth that signifies that she has life. "Anali," I start, "I never want you to be hungry. Never, ever, no matter what. But I don't have any power. I don't have any power and I wish I had power and I wish I could help you."

"I wish I could help you too, Calen. I don't want you to be hungry no matter what. I don't want anyone to be hungry."

"I don't want anyone to be hungry either sweetheart." She's so soft and young and sweet. She's so fragile and delicate. She's so kind. So, so very kind. I wish she had power. But she doesn't.

"If I was the Lady I would bless every harvest no matter what."

"Just as you should, my girl. Just as you should. But you're not the Lady. So please try to focus on doing what you can."

"What can I do?"

"Try your best to be kind to everyone. Try your best to love everyone. Just like you're already doing."

"But that's not enough." There is a slight, heart-wrenching whine in her voice.

"You're right, sweetheart." I try to soothe her. "It's not enough. It's not enough. But it's something that we can do."

"Do you think the harvest next year will be blessed?" There's something slightly hopeful about the way that she speaks.

"I hope so. I really do hope so."

"I miss feeling full."

"I really miss it too."

"I really miss not being worried about everyone." She stresses the 'worried.' I understand so well how she feels.

"I miss it too. I miss knowing that everyone is safe."

"It hurts me more, knowing that my family and my friends and my community isn't safe. It hurts me more than my own hunger does."

"That's understandable. I feel exactly the same way. You're such a good soul."

"You too."

"Thanks."

"You don't deserve any of this."

"You don't either. You don't deserve all this need and this hurt and this grief."

"Neither do you."

"Thanks."

"Do you think the Lady will show mercy?"

"It depends. I don't know. I hope so."

"Have there ever been multiple years with no harvest, all together?"

"There have, but it was before you were born."

"I don't think I could stand another year like this. Another year right on top of this one."

"I don't think I could either. We just have to hold onto hope."

"And what if our hope is misplaced?"

"Then we just have to stay strong and get through it."

"What if I lose you? I don't want to lose you." She sounds like she's crying. Well, there are tears in my own eyes too. We can cry together. We can be together. We can take these infinitely precious moments that we have together, because who knows if we'll have any more.

"I don't want to lose you either. But hold on to hope. Please hold on to hope. It's all we have."

My sister takes my hand that's on her chest into her own hand. And we just stay like that for a little while.

"Are you asleep?" she finally asks me.

"Not yet. How about you?"

"Obviously not."

"I'd there anything else you want to talk about?"

"Who do you think will get picked by the Lady next year?"

"I don't know."

"I'm worried."

"Why are you worried? You're far too young to get picked. You know you're far too young to get picked."

"I know, but what if the person who gets picked fails?"

"Then it wouldn't be their fault. It wouldn't be their fault at all."

"But I hope they succeed."

"Me too."

"They've got a really big job in front of them."

"They do in fact have a really, really big job."

"I hope they succeed. I can't stand another year like this. I can't stand another year of hungry babies and dying."

I stroke her hair, and sing her a soft lullaby to help her get to sleep. The night is still and cool around us.

———

I kneel in front of the Lady, on the oddly warm, unnaturally warm tile floors. I keep my eyes down and my thudding heart under wraps. I keep myself as calm as I can be, outwardly. Inside, joy and dread and hope and apprehension all twist together in an unholy, delirious, indescribable mix. I don't know if I succeeded or not. I don't know if I succeeded. I don't know if I failed.

The world around me gets brighter and brighter. Once again, I fight to keep my eyes open through it all. But the pain in my eyes is nothing compared to the pain in my heart. I keep myself staring towards the ground even though I can see nothing but pain. I force myself to keep going.

Just a few moments longer, and I should be clear and free.

The light does fade in time, though I have no idea how much time, and I am met with the soft, clouded gray skies around the field of the town. Already memory is rapidly leaving me, my memory of the events that had just passed, just as I knew it would. But the feelings are not leaving me. The feelings are not leaving me at all. I sigh in the slight relief that comes with the ordeal being over, and force myself to stand up. I look around, and see Klaro walking towards me.

"Calen!" He exclaims, "You're back!"

"I am," I reply, giving him a bright, shining smile. I am so, so very relieved to be home again.

I can't help myself, I bolt towards him. He opens up his arms and catches me in a strong, tight hug. And it is at this moment that I finally allow myself to fall apart. I finally allow myself to fall apart like I've been longing to do ever since the fateful moment my name was called. I break out into sobs, ugly-crying with tears streaming from my eyes and my whole body trembling violently.

"There, there," Klaro soothes me. He holds me tightly in his strong arms. Provides a rock for me to cling to in my sea of infinite, swirling emotions. "There, there. You're home now. You're home now and I have you. We all have you."

If you like this piece check out my Mastodon my account is FSairuv@mas.to and I post about human rights, social justice, and the environment.