Corks pop and crackle. Two well-dressed priestly sisters pour red wine into silver-lined glasses.
One by one, each mourner kisses their hand, presses it to the stone for three seconds, prays and then takes a shot. After which they return to the seating area to chat.
We hear the crowd murmuring behind us, glasses clinking, soft laughter mixing with whispered condolences. As the last two in line, we finally reach the open pit. Jimson's body lies there, serene, almost too peaceful, and the black stone plaque bears his name, with a small, empty section beneath it that waits for the mark of the next life.
"He looks peaceful," I whisper, squeezing Tim's hand.
He swallows hard, holding back bloated eyes. "He really does"
"Cry. Cry all you want. I won't let them see you" I murmur, stepping closer, pressing my hands onto his shoulders, shielding him from the view of the others.
And then his heart shatters—collapsing onto the grass, an ugly spillage that cries out, through every breath, every sniffle and snort that emerges from the inside of his remnant heart. From this he discloses his most ugly emotions to me. Vulnerability. Grief. Desperation. Share it all with me. Teach me what it's like to be human again. Every piece of your pain will allow me to slowly unveil the puzzle of you, Tim. To understand you better, who it is exactly that is under my charge of my care, so that I can fill that gaping hole in both your heart and mine, to let us move on together and be strong.
I don't hesitate to get on my knees and hug him from behind, rocking from side-to-side. This is what helped me when I was at my lowest, I hope it can comfort you too.
After five minutes, I lift him up, and hold him to my chest, carrying him gently, methodically, carefully, murmuring, soft self-prepared hymns I thought up the previous night. Words that he probably can't hear over his heartfelt sobs anyway, but words, only meant for his ears.
I borrow a handkerchief from a passing table, and cover his face with it, carefully wiping away the stream of tears.
He leans into me, shaking, and for a moment the world narrows to just the two of us, the distant chatter and blank noise all fade into nothingness. His grief is my own, and I just hold him, feeling the emotions run course through him, being there in ways I wish I had myself received.
After some passing duration, when my arms tire blue, and my legs give in. Gently I am as I ease him into nearby chair, plonking him down and standing guard. My senses, keen. My ears flicker, around us I listen. Hearing words, all but distant.
"Isn't it strange for him to be this sad? People die all the time — what's so different now?"
"He's immature, naive, unprepared for the world. Is that guardian really what the boy needs?"
"That's why we have these gatherings — not to celebrate the dead, but to reward us, the living."
"A toast to that." Glasses clink.
How despicably ignorant.
My fists tighten against my palm.
Bastards the lot of you. You're nothing but small, brittle cact in my eyesi, loitering around their starving niche of stagnant personality. Your words roll off your parched tongues like rolling tumble-weeds; aimless, dry and hollow. For a place meant for grieving, this is truly a desert. At least a cemetery carries the liveliness of the deceased, but here everything seems vicious. Only made worse by the hypocrisy. It is evident, almost everyone here I can see carries around their own buried roots, masked by coarse, thorny exteriors, hoarding all that personality and emotion inward, afraid to be seen. To be noticed for being different or interesting. So inside it is, they hide. A festering poison growing first from the smallest concentrations, a mounting dosage equal only in measurement to the depth of their own untended growth of insecurity. They lash out in contemptuous envy, a most tribal defence mechanism to protect their own unraveling instability.
I am aware of my privilege, yes, with the experience of my previous life as a reference can I really judge them fairly. Of course not, but this. To a child no less, not even that he's a child but that he's a person, living in clear struggle… and that's your response This is too much for me to bare. It's sad to see them all like this, scared beasts cowering in corners poised to strike, but I suppose I have to adapt, don't I?
Jim, it is only now I realise how much of an oasis you were in this scarce desert. Truely, with every passing revelation and memory I have of you, your absence. I am reminded of something unattainable.
'Be the change you want to see in the world' huh, why do those words pop in my head now, it seems your passing is the burden that keeps on giving. A belief is pointless unless you take action to live by it, yet another lesson you want to pass onto me. Or I pass onto me, shit doesn't make sense.
I lament, paralysing my unbridled rage as I further hear their venom-laced chatter.
"They say he made Zeke cry."
"That bastard won't last long here with that attitude."
"They also say Jiord is covering for him — that he convinced the boys not to attack."
"Never liked that priest anyway. He always seems… I don't know how to explain it."
"Hush. You might not like him, but he's done so much for the community."
My teeth chatter against each other. Who here has some empathy, is it really so rare Jimson.
Another thread of conversation pierces through the hum:
"Are children supposed to cry like that? I didn't when my old man died."
"Some grief is allowed. This… this is extravagant and pathetic. Like he wants more from us than we already gave."
"He's just a child. Give him his space."
"He's almost an adult — almost looks fifteen. If he stays soft like this, I worry for his future."
I feel a hot strike of anger rising temper— then a soft-gripped hand taps at my shoulder's tense ligaments, disarming my thoughts.
"Ah, Desmond! Just the man I wanted to talk to." a voice lets out.
He takes off his ceremonial pointed black hat and gives a slight but considerate bow.
I take a second to calm down, and think of a response.
"That was quite the speech, Father. I must say, in the little time I knew Jimson, he too touched my heart in various unasked-for ways, and now I carry his little burden. Not that I'm complaining."
I look down at Tim and put my hand on his mangled hair.
"He was like that. I offer my condolences to your family and hope you can look past yesterday's… incident."
"What is it that you said? 'Is all in the past now'? Truer words couldn't have been said at that moment. So, Father… how can I help you here?" I keep my arms open in a gesture to hide my shaking revulsion.
"Well, two things we need first is a phrase to carve into the stone and immortalise the memory of your father. We thought about asking you yesterday but we as a group decided that you two needed that day to grieve so, we chose to prolong it to after the ceremony, and carve the words while everyone is present."
"Well we seem preoccupied with that for the moment, could you please reconsider the timing" I chip through clenched teeth.
"Certainly it is times like these that the world hits the hardest but we must persevere for our goals!"
At that I let out a fake smile and nod at my strained neck.
"Wise words from a wise man, now tell me what's the second thing"
Jiord, very attentively wipes away at some dusty discolouration off of his hat, his tone shifting deeper.
"it goes like this… People think this is a haven free from the influence of the Transcended. It isn't. The Heavenly Protection Board and Heavenly Sky Palace still have sway here. We sit between their jurisdictions; belonging to both, yet officially claimed by neither.
It's good for mobility and freedom… but bureaucracy buried under further bureaucracy, all that writing and documenting that's where we struggle. And people talk. Every so often, those who plan rebellions suddenly disappear. There are few trustworthy folk left to help manage things — you catch my drift?
Jimson — God rest his soul — was a pillar of our organisation: the Office of Good Order. We handle logistics, disputes, and finances. He was one of the few who could write in the Power of Word."
"What now?" I ask.
"A semi-ascended inheritance that is usually passed on by blood. Some say there's another way to share it. Little is known, but it's said all who possess it descend from an Eastern calligrapher who once served an ancient emperor and the Lord Almighty alike.
After he ended the Holy War between our two nations, he was granted one wish by the emperor. He asked for religious freedom — for the right to spread God's word. The Power of Word, they say, was God's reward to him for those two heavenly-reverent acts."
Jiord's eyes glint.
"With this sacred ability? You can hide, transport, and share information of all sorts. To speak truths — and supposedly, even speak to God himself. But that is yet to be seen.
You see, the Messages written in the Power of Word can't be intercepted. They don't travel through paper, nor mana, but through voice itself. Only another wielder — or one who bears the inheritance of one of the Three Spiritual Parts, has the ability to intercept it.
That's why his role mattered. His work kept this camp alive. Without it, foul play, political leverage, and bureaucratic collapse would follow."
He leans closer.
"Tell me, does the boy have it? If we can't find a substitute soon, a messenger from the Board will come — and that will turn ugly. We could educate him, guide him into the role, all with your supervision."
"How would you tell?" I ask.
"A mark manifests on the skin, like some sort of divine image drawn in ink."
I wave him off. "Now's not the time for this perhaps, later"
"Wait — that's it! On your palm! 'One Promise' says it in black. By the Great Khan's Oath… you actually have it. You've helped me a solid, Desmond. Otherwise, I'd have struggled for many sleepless nights.
To answer your doubts, yes, they want us to fail. But they need a legitimate reason to take over. Saves their face. You'll find out soon enough.
Come meet me tomorrow at the church, midday. I'll help you find your feet here, and show you your new job. I must go now — matters to attend to. We'll talk further tomorrow."
He glances around, catching a suspicious gaze and runs off toward another man with too luxurious of an attire.
After his departure two figures big and one small slowly approach us and introduce themselves.
I glance at Tim, still standing over him, and sigh. "So… who exactly are you two guys, Marcus and Marsley? Did I get It right"
A gruff chuckle echoes from the nearby bench from the small one. "That's right. How was the hankie? Did it help you when you snatched it? Marcus says, tipping his brown sock-like hat, revealing a head of orange tinged hair as he bows in mock ceremony.
"That was yours" I reply.
"Well of course, why else would we be here, other than to return stolen property?" he says with a wry grin, slamming his chest.
"You look way too dangerous and lonely out here, why else would we risk approaching you" He straightens up, letting the hat wobble back onto his head, as he jumps off the table.
Finally some real fucken people.
"Sorry for that. This is all just so new to me… Wait, Marcus?" That name seems familiar. Oh, I remember too—that Marcus. The one I owe a drink to.
"You knew him, didn't you?" I guess.
"You figured it out small guy, what gave it away"
Of course it's your friend Jim.
"He said I had to pick his tab up for you" I reply.
"HAHAHA that's so him, pawning off his debt to you." He continues to chuckle holding Marsley's waist for stability as he chuckles, "that made my day thanks for that" he adds, wiping his face and blowing a dump of snot from one nostril onto the ground, treading it in.
"So, Marsley, right? Nice to meet you too." I put out my hand. He grabs it, but his grip is too firm—I wince and pull back.
Marcus notices. "Ah, forgot to mention—he's mute. Can't speak a word, but he can hold his liquor, trust me." He gestures with a thumb at the towering silent figure beside him.
"Been my lifelong brother since way back, even before we came to this town. Had his tongue ripped out for… well, let's just say an indiscretion with a senior disciple of a righteous house. Hehe."
I blink. "That's… horrible. What about the other guy? Did he get any punishment?"
Marcus laughs, a deep, rough sound. "Hahaha, funny, right? Us unrelated trainees don't have rights. Ain't that right, Mars?" He pats Marsley's bald head, now standing on a chair he dragged over.
"Get this—the senior even stood up for him! Must've really been in love. He was all like, 'No, don't execute him—on my name just please only cut out the tongue, so that he can't tell anyone.' Really nice bloke, that one."
"Nice, huh," I snort.
"Ha! Happens all the time. People get worse for less, and we actually prefer it here. Country airs freedom, though the jobs are a bit dusty."
"So you're a couple then?" I ask cautiously.
"What! Oh no, no, not like that." Marcus waves a dismissive hand, face flushed. He trips over the chair and falls into Marsley's embrace. " He saved my life once. I decided to stick with him to the end. That's all it's about."
"Right," I narrow my eyes, incredulous at the irony before me.
"What's with that doubt? You like pairing couples in your head and fantasizing about them? I can play that game too—like you and Jimmy's boy, bonded through tragedy. Who knows what terrible and forbidden things you did last night by yourselves. I bet you even used a copy of his father's book, you creepy little scum!"
"Fuck no, he's a child! don't even joke about that. Where are your limits? That blow was low even for someone of your stature!
"See? Not so fun now, is it! Baseless accusations!" Marcus throws his hat on the ground and stamps it in with his boot, jumping erratically as he does so. Marsley then picks him up by his collar, resets the chair, and plops him back down.
"So where were we at matey, ah that's right, what's yer name"
"Desmond now tell me just how much do you know about this world"
"I may be the tallest and most handsome man you've ever seen but that doesn't mean I don't get around. Many people can't hold their liquor and thus I know a thing or two
I frown. "So… what is the Heavenly Protection Board anyway?"
Marcus shrugs. "What? Did Jiord not just tell you this?"
"No, he rushed off after mentioning it."
"Coward. Talks big about the ascendors, and his workload, but when push comes to shove, buries his head in the dirt. Few see past the exterior—they just see the charismatic fella steering the ship from the front. Hopeless at actually manning it from the back."
I lean forward. "But what is it?"
Marcus leans back, eyes glinting. Staring at me in silence. He gestures his finger for me to come closer.
I lean further in his face, his breath tickles my skin.
"Why should I tell you, buckeroo?" He whispers back.
No way I'm this dumb. He got me with the second oldest trick in the book.
"How about this, if anyone gifts you any alcohol, save some for me"
"Deal, now spill the drink for me brother!"
"That's a good one. I'll use that next time I win a drinking contest. Where do I even begin… Right. Many years ago, there was a revolutionary, a man with brains, steel abs, a golden heart, and heavenly status. Butch—or Guttman Butch, as he was called—executed corrupt leaders, liberated his people, stole resources, even went toe-to-toe with the Heavenly Sky Palace. Ascendors needed their resources, see, but mort workers? They bloated the prices. Even the simplest herb was expensive. That was his strategy."
"What happened to him then?"
Marcus's voice lowers. "Ten days, ten nights. They fought a prophet from the Sky Palace's Crimson Order. Emergency stuff—usually they fight demons up north, even using the renowned demon-extinguishing punch. Nothing survives that, well except him, he did, and it was for that action that they commended his bravery. In recognition, they even formed the Democratic Board for Protection and Management of Non-Cultivators—officially the Heavenly Protection Board. Each town and city could elect a mortal leader, called the Title Holder, to govern us non-ascendors. Morts govern the secular world; transcendents traverse the heavenly plains—or so it was meant to be."
"That sounds reasonable," I say thoughtfully.
Marcus snorts. "Tsk. Pigs. In service to the Righteous Association. You think they'd actually give us power? Worst part—they titled Guttman a figurehead. Good excuse to take more. Refugees fled, camps like this were set up after the civil war. Discontent is still rising. We're already slaves, but at least we still have dignity."
I frown. "What makes them so bad?"
Marcus counts on his fingers. "Let's see: protection fees, things called tariffs on local trade, stockpiling necessities to drive up prices, forced indirect marriages to pay off fees related to burrowing, containing dissent… and, of course, mandatory yearly contributions to your local representatives. Want coverage under the act? They remove your mana core 'for safety.' Rare, but sometimes you're left deficient for the rest of your life—unable to walk, diseased, you name it. Supposedly it's all due to the nine detrimental cursed physiques you could be born with."
I wince. "Sounds… awful."
"No way, really!" He retorts, slapping his forehead and looking confused.
Marsley looks away, covering his grin with a hand as a rough puff of air escapes his throat — half laugh, half growl. He leans back, returning to his usual stoic self.
"You little shit. If you think you're so great, come show me that drinker's spirit."
I grab a bottle from the table and toss it at him.
"Oh, you're on, Twinkle Bell!" he growls, hurling one back—hard, aimed straight for my head. I just barely manage to just catch it.
For the next hour, Marcus and I trade insults and bottles, drinking each other under the table. Tim cheers me on, letting out a pure, unrestrained laughter every time I manage to balance a bottle on my head and break into a clumsy adaptation of the Cossack dance.