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Through the empty hamlet that hugged the oasis, a figure in a black cloak drifted.
Sometimes, when something weighed heavily on his soul, Matteus would leave his shrine and aimlessly wander amongst the dunes. It was good exercise for his aging body, and time away from his duties at the shrine was time that could be spent in quiet contemplation. Exploration had always been a joy of his; the fact that this mortal world always had new things to discover was one of the few praises he had for it.
His travels had brought him to this empty hamlet. It was not the first time he had stumbled upon an abandoned settlement. The pestilence that had struck last year had wiped quite a few off the face of Pangera. Of those that were spared total annihilation, sometimes the survivors, too few in number to sustain their way of life, would pack their things and leave for bigger settlements. He silently counted the number of buildings surrounding the oasis, ending with nine. His expression was stern, if a bit mournful, as he shook his head. As tiny as this place was, there was no hope it would survive once such a deadly disease was at its doorstep.
He was silently contemplating what the history of this little town might have been when a sudden crunch beneath his feet caused him to stop. Stooping down, he found a skeletal arm, now cracked from his careless stride, barely poking out of the sand. He reached down and casually brushed away a layer of sand from the rest of the skeleton. If there had been any doubt before, it could rest.
“I hope that you have the peace you deserve, my friend,” he uttered to the corpse. Unbeknownst to him, his voice attracted the attention of another. A green-skinned figure, dressed down to a simple loincloth, peered around the corner. The old man caught the sudden movement out of the corner of his eye. Slowly, he tilted his head upwards. Wild blue eyes stared back at him. Water-like blue hair, ragged and unkempt, drifted lazily in the desert wind. Shirtless skin highlighted an emaciated form.
“You’re a pitiful sight,” the old man remarked in a gravelly voice. There was neither warmth nor hostility in his voice, only the detachment one might expect from someone who did not truly care. “Are there more like you, boy?”
The boy–he could not have been older than his teens–said nothing. Like a cow that had its senses dulled by generations of domestication, he merely stared.
Matteus saw it in his eyes. He remembered, in his 30s, how a famine had gripped the land. Back then, he had called Scorch Harbor home. He recalled, as grain and flour prices skyrocketed, how many stretched their food beyond adequate limits. What they called gruel was often little more than slightly murky water, and as he passed them on the streets, they stared at him and others with the same look in their eyes that this boy had. He had to have been dreadfully hungry.
“Speak up, boy,” he barked. “Your rudeness is contemptible, and I am not a man of infinite patience.”
The boy’s face darkened. The rest of his starving figure drifted around the corner. In his right hand was a dagger. He gripped it with all the strength he had left. It was still pathetically weak. Nevertheless, he pointed the tip towards the old man.
“Impudent little whelp,” Matteus growled. His left hand clenched into a fist enveloped with necrotic purple energy. “Try it. I will make sure you do not go gently.”
The casual display of magic made the boy’s eyes widen. He did not approach. The old man did not soften his scowl. The impasse did not last long, for the dagger fell from the boy’s limp grip. He took one slow step back, then two, then broke into a full-fledged sprint. The old man, however, did not let him flee. He raised his arm, the magic shifting in his fist as he extended it out towards the boy.
“Halt.”
The boy’s body did as he commanded. He froze in place, the only movement coming from his bony chest as he began to heave in pure horror. The old man, still regarding him with a look of annoyance, closed the gap between them, digging into his robes as he did so. He passed in front of the boy and locked eyes with him again. He noticed that they were brimming with tears, and so his scowl lightened ever so slightly. A hand withdrew from his robe, gripping something wrapped in cheesecloth. He unfurled the pack, revealing dried sprouted bread and two smoked fish.
“Starvation is no excuse for impropriety,” he chided. “You are lucky I am not blinded by the follies of wrath. Now, if you do not run, and you do not fight, you will eat. Do you understand me, or am I speaking to someone beyond aid? If the latter, I will make you die where you stand, and yet you will still find that to be a mercy.”
The boy’s eyes never left the food. Weakly, frightfully, he nodded. The command spell seemed to loosen in that instant, and he swiped the food from the man’s head. It was a meager meal, the kind of sustenance one would expect from an ascetic lifestyle. Nevertheless, the boy treated it like a feast, scarfing it down in only a handful of bites and licking the crumbs from the palms of his hands. Once there was absolutely nothing left, his wild gaze flickered back up at the old man, his lips stretching into an expectant smile.
Matteus shook his head, no longer glaring, but instead growing weary. His gravelly voice seemed to tinge with genuine pity. “I am sorry, boy. That is all I brought to lunch. It will have to suffice.”
The boy’s face fell, but he nodded in what appeared to be understanding. A ravenous growl echoed from his stomach. He shrunk back, averting his gaze.
“Are you the only one left?” Matteus inquired. He had his suspicions, but best to ask from the source.
The boy nodded. His gaze flicked back and forth between Matteus and the sand. The old man, harsh as he had been, could only sit there. A brief idea flashed in his mind. This poor soul had been left behind, left to suffer. Even a taste of necrotic energy would be enough to…
His gaze drifted to his own heavily-wrinkled hands, an ever-present reminder of his own long life. He had lived longer than he ever expected to, enduring every struggle in Tydea’s name. A tired sigh escaped him. He had worked hard; his reward would no doubt come sooner than later.
He glanced back at the boy. Yes, his reward would come, but who would tend to the shrine in his absence? Somebody would need to continue the burden. Why not him?
He smiled a bit, rising to his feet. He offered a hand to the boy, a hand that he did not take.
“Come with me. You have no future here, and I do not wish to see you waste away further. I will make sure that you do not go hungry, that you will have a roof over your head. I will train you, watch over you, and you will find a truth that will make everything that happened to your old life make sense.”
The boy averted his gaze, looking at the houses, at the oasis. He suddenly seemed to have an odd fascination with the way sunlight shimmered off the water. Perhaps, Matteus speculated, he would reject his offer. If so, let the fool perish. On the other hand, it could be that he was taking one last look at the place he called home.
“It can be difficult to let go of attachments,” he spoke with some degree of empathy. “It is a battle I have often had to fight myself. All things die in the end, boy. Can you not see that your old life, whatever joy it brought you, has been rendered beyond saving? Leave this place. Leave it in the past. You have been chosen to fulfill a higher calling.”
For the longest time, the boy did nothing, but neither did Matteus. All was still, as if the world had suddenly been frozen in time. But then, the boy slowly turned back to Matteus. Tears shined in his eyes. Matteus pretended not to notice, but when the boy took his hand, he smiled as he pulled him to his feet.
“What’s your name, child?”
“D-Desiderius.”