12 – Brewing trouble

The old days felt so distant and simple right now.

It was almost two decades ago, back in the Capital, that Turmion met the person who eventually became his wife. It was barely a necessary stop, a place where his caravan had to set up shop. A caravan… barely a single cart with a horse to pull it, the caravan was back in the day.

Simpler days indeed. He was just one merchant, stopping for the night in the capital in hopes to sell his most exotic of wares to the multifaceted populace of the beating heart of the kingdom. When his sole worry was making through the day with enough money to eat, he didn’t have time to think about heroes and doomsday, about the end of the world brought forth by the forces of evil.

His stall was modest. His wagon opened up to the side, and a few of the crates served as makeshift shelves. Surfaces that were barely flat enough so that the round and plum Rubis fruits didn’t roll away in the middle of the road. He always put the fresh and ripe fruit in the middle, right where he sat. he enjoyed the smell of nature and of life that came out of them, infused with the little magic and vitality from lands far away.

Even here, in the busy and smelly streets of the capital, the fragrance of the fruit made his mind wonder to when he was roaming the tilled lands and the rolling hills. To when he was exploring the deep dark forests in search of Eyòl: a rare herb that only grew in a dark cave, from which one single flower bloomed at midnight.

His guide had only gone so far as to the entrance of the cave, refusing to go in with him. But he was undeterred, and entered alone; armed with a torch and a small sword that trembled in his inexpert hand. He shook with fear and excitement, and felt the rush of adventure. For one day, he was among the names of those who called adventure their home, even though he was but a peddler.

His lips curled into a smile as he remembered his own face when he saw a wild boar munching at the precious flower. Back in the day, he almost entertained the idea of fighting the beast. Out of spite and pettiness, maybe, because the pig had dared eat something that it didn’t deserve.

In the middle of the road, where the hundreds of people walked by, ignoring his presence, such memories were fond. He was young, back then, unburdened.

It was during one of those trips down the memory lane that he saw her. An angelic visage, as soon as she appeared in his eyes he was smitten. But, he also knew that she was unreachable. To her, he was just another filthy peasant. A peddler, selling his wares among the sea of fretting people, never to be seen again.

He too would never see her again. But she smiled at him, and he got lost in those twin petals that revealed, for an instant, a sea of white pearls that glimmered in the sunlight.

Never had he seen such riches. Not even in the hoards of dragons, not even in caves full of diamonds. He felt his heart flutter, and his cheeks grow hot and red. The woman began to examine the fruit, then the cheap jewels to the sides, the few trinkets and tribal carved woods from the demi-human villages.

She played with the little gems, toyed with the glassy beads in his slender fingers, and Turmion felt like she was grasping his heart and making it beat in sync with her actions. Like a necromancer, she had him on strings, and should she cut them, then he would fall dead to the floor, a smile on his face.

Never had he thought that they would roam the country together. Never had he even imagined that he would come to be the one she chose to love. That his own love was reciprocated, twice as much, tenfold. So much that it was overwhelming, intoxicating, addicting.

Like the sweet nectar of the elves, like the golden mead from their magical trees, of which he only heard in legend but whose taste he now knew from the lips of his wife.

And so they travelled together. Selling, buying, but only as a tool to call themselves free, to be wanderers, to feed their hunger for sights and new things. The months turned into years, then a decade. It felt like a dream, and like all dreams, Turmion felt that it had to end.

He dreaded the moment of retribution, the moment when the world decided to take away his ill-gotten gift. The balance of all things had to be restored, and he was underserving of his gift, therefore his gift would be taken away from him.

He laid awake at night. Rosaline, his wife, would always know when something was wrong. She would come to him, kiss him in the cheek, and whisper in his ear. “I’m here, honey.” Her words were like ambrosia, sweet and delicate. Little flowers coming from the twin petals of pink, smelling like a blooming meadow.

But the blooming meadow seduce and intoxicate. With their deceiving sands, they trap their prey and eat it alive. He felt his chest constrict. But then, the gentle caress of his woman lulled him to sleep.

Until that day. The fire, he remembered, the smoke. The acrid smell, pungent and asphyxiating swallowed his mind and heart. He watched the blood, listened to the panicked screams. The dangerous edges of blades glinted in the dark of night. He was still wearing the little soft blanket she made for him, to fend off the cold of night.

But he turned the other way, and ran. He ran and ran into the forest, then across the mountain range, his feet swelling and bleeding against the hard stones. The sun was hot, the air growing distorted and calling at him with sweet mirages.

At night, he trembled and shook. He saw her head roll on the ground, her open eyes staring at him. He heard the evil laughter of the men who came from the trees, weapons and magic raining down on the defenseless woman. He saw himself as he watched from afar.

He screamed. “No, NO!” He yelled, and scratched and cursed the gods he didn’t even believe in.

“NO! GO BACK!” But his sinister figure, a face bathed in blood and evil sin, ran away.

And now, all that was left, was a blanket she made for him.

Money. Money would wash the evil away. Time spun itself around Turmion, as years passed and his fortunes increased. The more he earned, the more he craved, for the could not fill the void in his heart with gold and fortunes, and yet his soul knew of nothing else.

Every night, he dreamt of the nightmare. In time, he grew accustomed to his personal hell. In time, he grew to need it, so that his day could be dictated by his one end goal. So that he would know what to do. And what not to do.

He would not forgive himself. That was his rule.

But he would prosper, and accumulate riches. Make her proud, the sweet Rosaline.

He would become famous and successful, commandeer a slew of underling under him, at his beck and call. Rosaline would be happy. His accomplishments were many, his riches grew with each passing month. Rosaline would be proud.

***

Mateus stared at the twin orbs of burning anger and resolve in the merchant’s eyes. His whole body was paralyzed with fear, every single nanite screaming, his vision inundated with warnings.

He stared at the crystalline protrusion coming out of the merchant’s weapon. The irregular end of the deep blue crystal was sharp, and hummed with dangerous power. That magic, he recognized, that was imprisoned in the crystal was the same one that threatened to extinguish the nanites. The same one that drove them back to the mountain, where they almost met their demise.

The same one that made all nanites detached from his body, he understood, disintegrate into inert matter. What Turmion held in his hand, was a miniature Tower. The same magic, just localized and imbued into an item. This, he understood, was going to hurt.

He felt like facepalming. He realized just now, in the heat of the moment, that he was deep in Tower territory. By his estimation the Towers should still be active. This meant that, for some reason he had survived even if he was deep in Tower territory. For some reason nobody had come after his ass as soon as he left the mountain.

He didn’t understand it. The nanites that made up his body seemed to be able to survive the Tower’s magic. For some reason he was given a second chance. Maybe he could survive, then, even if the merchant—

The magic struck.

Shield generator critical.

Shit.

WARNING! MASSIVE NANITE LOSS. 38% MASS REMAINING.

He was wrong. He was not safe, not from a blast coming at him from this close. His second chance… a merchant with a magic weapon was about to extinguish that chance.

Mateus felt the anger swell.