Moss Moon and the Lunar Spring, Part 6

You are Boy, and you are having a nightmare.

Red earth.  The burning flesh.  Father is laughing.

“Do what you’re paid for, Boy.  We do what we’re paid for.”

He is a shadow in a crimson sea.  Tall, fat, wild-haired.  Still as a gravestone, zweihander held blade down.  His great mouth opens to bone-white teeth.

Golden coins.  The sword forgotten in your hand.  Father shoves you.

“Do what you’re paid for, Boy.  That’s all we’re good for.”

Overhead an infinity of bloody stars.  The moon is silent.  Everything is wide open and it is crushing you.

Pale, lanky, shaggy Cutter stands in the shade of Father, his hand moving like clockwork left to right.  He drones on and on and on.

“One cut, two cut.  One cut, two cut.  One cut, two cut.”

You stand there, Boy, waist-deep in shapes whose faces you cannot see.  You want to run.  You want to hide.  But there is nowhere to go.  You cannot escape the screaming of the foals.

“Do what you’re paid for, Boy,” Father says.  “Cutter does what he’s paid for.”

Cutter’s head revolves impossibly on his neck.  His eyes are dead and his hooked nose is splattered with blood.  His hand moves, and the knife with it.

“One cut, two cut.  One cut, two cut.  One cut, two cut.”

You have killed before.  You have killed from the day a sword was put into your hand.  But this is not what you want to be.  You step back and Father’s face darkens.

“Your birth was paid in blood,” Father says, growing larger and larger, ballooning into a vast and alien shadow.  “And you will pay for it, be it from your blade or from your veins.”

With a roar he rushes at you, a tidal void of impossible height, reaching toward you with a hundred knives.  Terror drives you.  Red, blinding terror guides your sword as it sinks into his heart.

The shadow is cut.

When Father is gone, only Cutter remains, watching you with his dull black gaze.  Fire burns in his eyes.  Blood washes over the plain, sweeping away the corpses, lapping at his feet.

“One cut, two cut.  One cut, two cut.  One cut, two cut.”

And then you are running, and the ground falls away, spinning into blackness, flying down, deep under the water, toward the moon.

---

You are Moss Moon, and it is morning.  Pale golden sunlight streams down through the canopy, and birds chirp from unseen places.

You stretch, groaning, pressing your front hooves into the ground to lift your hindquarters high into the air.  Your legs are starting to stiffen up now that it’s been nearly a week since you left the stronghold.

Looking around for Anon, you spot him sitting against a nearby tree, staring at nothing in particular.  An open parcel of dried fruit sits untouched beside him.

You smile a little.  He might be slow and noisy, but your friend has been growing on you of late.  Never before have you had a traveling companion.  Actually having someone to talk to is a welcome change of pace.  For the first time in a long while, you almost feel comfortable being near another living being.

Feeling mischievous, you decide to sneak up on Anon.  You creep along the forest floor, stepping carefully over the leaves and brush without making a sound.   You come up from behind, and after getting within a few meters – far enough that no panicked sword swings will hit you – you hail him.

“Good morning Anon!”

To your surprise, he doesn’t react, at least not at first.  After a moment he turns his head to look in your direction, but his eyes are strange, as if looking past you.  He then blinks and shakes his head, coming out of his daze.  He smiles.

“Hey.”

Curious, you step closer.  “You doing okay?”

He nods.  “Yeah.  I just didn’t sleep well last night.”

“If you want, I could make you a tincture for dreamless sleep… there’s some sunroot in my bag.”

“No thanks.”  He gets up and brushes himself off.  “Ready to leave?”

You hurriedly devour some of the dried fruit.  “Aren’t you gonna eat?” you ask, around mouthfuls.

“Later.  I’m not hungry right now.”

He stands off to the side of the clearing, his back to you, waiting for you to finish.  You take a few more bites before stuffing the food back into one of your saddlebags.

The two of you set off, and you quickly fall in step with him.  Something about his behavior seems off; he’s usually taciturn, sure, but something seems to be distracting him.  You watch him through the corner of your eye.

In previous days he has been good about following your every step, but now he meanders slightly, staring at the ground, only occasionally looking to you for reference.  He blunders blindly through the brush, apparently oblivious to the sound he’s making.

When he nearly walks into a tree, you finally muster the courage to speak up.

“You know it’s not good to go off on an empty stomach,” you say lightly.  You cringe inside, remembering  the beatings you received for chiding some of the other residents of the stronghold.  A bound’s words have little value.

But Anon simply runs a hand over his face.  “I’m sorry,” he says.  “I’m… not myself today.”

“What do you mean?”

He sighs and looks away.  For a long time he says nothing.  You are about to tell him that he doesn’t have to talk about it if he doesn’t want to, when he finally speaks up.

“It’s silly, but I had a nightmare last night.”

“Dreams have more power than you might think.  If it’s still with you, then it must be for a reason.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

Anon falls silent again, this time with an air of finality.  You’re not about to let this go, however.  You sense a weight about him that he needs to lift off.  After a few minutes go by, you pluck up the words to press him.

“Do you want to talk about it?” you ask.  “The dream?”

He blows out a long breath and looks everywhere but at you.  His mouth works as if he is about to speak, but then he closes it, and stares ahead.

You decide to shut up, and after a few moments your patience is rewarded.

“I was much younger in the dream,” he says.  “A boy.  It was a memory from a long time ago, but distorted.”

“And?” you ask brightly, smiling up at him.  You feel a strange excitement at uncovering this mystery, similar to what you feel when going through some of Grandmother’s old books.  An odd, mystic sense, as if what you are doing carries an importance that you cannot explain.  “What happened?”

Anon sighs.  “Ten years ago,” he said, “I was in the employ of one of the Asperi warlords.”

You freeze.  You meet Anon’s eyes, and see a face filled with remorse.  He shrugs slightly.  “We worked in the foothills of the Crystal Mountains.  I dreamt of what we did there.”

Your mouth is dry when you ask your next question.  “And what did you do there?”

“Whatever we were paid to do.”

For an instant you had felt numb, but suddenly sensation floods into you – hot, intense, and vile.  You feel the dried fruit turning in your stomach.  You feel unsteady on your feet as you turn and stumble away from him.

“Moss Moon –”

“No,” you say.  “No, no, no, no…”

You walk into the underbrush, then break into a run, slipping into the trees.  You hear Anon call after you, then the sound of him crashing through the forest as he tries to keep up.  You run harder and harder, your blood pumping in your ears, until the sounds of him fade behind you, and he is gone.

You don’t know how far you have gone when you finally stop.  You stand in some dark, unfamiliar section of the wood, thin shafts of light lancing through the canopy, birds chirping as if nothing had happened.

Your heart hammers in your chest.  Your breathing comes quick and labored.  Your eyes are wet with tears.

The forest spins slowly around you as you turn in place, looking at nothing, looking up toward the sky that you can’t see.  The same sky that was there on the day you were cut.

The memories come back unbidden.  The memories that you want to forget but never will, that just when you think they are gone will return one night, reminding you of just how weak and powerless you really are.

You are shaking when Anon crashes past you.  He slows and stops when he sees you.  He opens his mouth to speak, but closes it again when he sees your face.

You try to look at him, but it hurts and you can’t.  You stare into the darkness instead.

For a long time, neither of you says a word.  You don’t want to cry in front of him and it takes all of your energy to hold it back.  You finally force yourself to speak.

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

He stands there in the corner of your vision, a haggard shadow.  “I wanted to forget.”

“How – how could you forget?” you spit.  “You should never forget… what you did.  The ones you killed, the foals you… you –”

You trail off, unable to say it.  Anon doesn’t move.  You are vaguely aware of his aura of sadness, but your own emotion is making you tremble, making it difficult to concentrate.

“I was born a killer,” he says.  “A human is a mercenary who kills for money. That is what my life was.”

“Don’t make excuses for what you did.”  You choke, starting to lose it.  You immediately regret the words as they come out of your mouth.    “No matter who you are, your choices are yours alone.  And you chose to kill.”

Anon doesn’t seem to react.  He stares at the ground.  “That’s why when I was asked to make a bound, I gave up that life.”

You blink at him.

He shrugs and holds out his hands palms up, his expression subdued.  “That was what I dreamt of last night.”

“You… you didn’t…?”

Your companion shakes his head.  “The day that order came was the day I sheathed my sword and became a traveler.”  He smiles forlornly.  “I suppose you could say that was the day I gave up my humanity.”

You take some deep breaths, doing your best to calm yourself.  With a hoof you dab at your eyes.  You give a short, harried laugh.

“I’m… I’m sorry, I didn’t realize...”

“You are right to be upset.  There is no forgiveness for what I did.  Even if I left, I was still complicit in the Asperi rule.  I killed those who resisted them and did nothing to stop them.”

“No.”  You shake your head.  “No, you were young.  If you wanted to change things, leaving was the only choice you could make.  They would have killed you otherwise, wouldn't they?”

He is silent for a little while.  “Yes, they would have.”

You trot over and, not knowing what else to do, awkwardly poke him in the foot.  “I’m sorry for running off like that.”

He puts his hand on your head, an unexpected gesture that makes you jump.  You smile involuntarily, unused to the contact, but pleased by it.  “It’s fine,” he says.  “I'm sorry for keeping my past from you."  He pauses.  "Let’s keep going.”

The two of you set off again, heading southwest.  The great blue shadow of the Foal Mountain rises in the distance, poking above the treetops.  Beyond it lies your destination, and the waters of the Lunar Spring.