In Vain

The gemstone had shattered by the touch of her hands, sending streams of light flashing across the small brick-walled room. Halamous had told us that this should not be the case--that the gem should gravitate towards her if it were ready. But before I could warn her with even a muffled screech, her hand grazed the polished stone without the gemstone’s comfort signal.

We walk back to Halamous’ tent now, our shame disguising our internal confusion. Halamous must have known that the gem wasn’t ready or that Varitha was not the one to be chosen for its grace. He knows all in these forests--all of the ancient structures and tales of the gems. But why didn’t he tell us before he went? Is it possible that Halamous was mistaken?

I contemplate this as the sun slowly begins to fall behind the trees, preparing for its journey passing under the horizon line. This will soon fill the sky with black, and unless we are back with Halamous in time, we will be in the biggest trouble of our lives.

Although, I sense that we will be in trouble either way. 

I break the unnerving silence between us with a snap of a branch under my feet and a question.“What are we to say to him when we return?” I ask Varitha, since she seems to be wiser in regards to information about Halamous. She was the first one to be chosen for this task, after all. I am just here to protect her, now. After her and Rythos arrived, it seems like Halamous and I’s five year partnership had been devoid of meaning.

“I don’t know,” she says. Three words I have never heard uttered from her mouth, even in the year that we have known each other. “I have no idea.” 

A year ago, Varitha and I first met when her and Rythos were saved by Halamous from a Mallowith that had been patrolling the area. Rythos and her were already sickly and weak from the month they had been living in the forest--malnourished and dehydrated, they stood no chance against the beast. I had been an assistant to Halamous for five years already: since I was around ten years old.

They quickly became the new favorites, always listening to what Halamous had to say without opposition. It was respectable--after all, he had directly saved their lives. But they were also naturals in the wilderness. They seemed to know everything about the woods already, whether it be conscious or not. And the connection they had with Halamous was not superficial--they seemed to understand each other on a level that I did not have the capacity for. I have begun to think they are all Gemen.

But now, she is holding her axe--her weapon bestowed to her at her Gemen ceremony--in both hands, crossed in front of her like a closed gate. Draped over her back is a blanket, tattered and brown, that she had taken from Halamous’ tent before we departed. She shivers, although it is not cold outside: I assume she is still spooked from the failed mission. She looks young and child-like, despite being a year older than I.

I see the brown fabric of Halamous’ tent peeking above the wooded path. It is dark against the blazing sun in the background, looming over the equally shadowed ground. We begin to slow our step, as if anything could save us from the certain wrath of Halamous.

A few paces later, I stand in front of the threadbare material and stare. But my hand moves without my conscious control, and I lift the flap up. Varitha draws in behind me, slowly and unsurely. Inside of the tent there are the faces of Rythos and Halamous against the dim lightning of lamplight. 

The quiet chatter coming from the two of them comes to a halt and disperses into complete silence. Rythos is leaning against the wooden support casually with his hands wrapped around a mug of tea. On the other side of the small room, Halamous sits on a short wooden stool, hands clasped together over his lap. They look like they have been talking for hours.

“Hello.”

Halamous stands up and meanders towards us with his hands clasped behind his back. His graying hair falls against his tense face, covered partially with a comparably gray beard. Other than each of our breaths, the only sound in the room is his piercing step.

“Have you retrieved it?”

Varitha steps forward, as if something has suddenly possessed her with a blessing of confidence. “No, Sir Halamous. It crumbled by the touch of my hand.”

He lifts a suspicious eyebrow. His forehead creases into a delta of deep thought lines. 

“Is that so?” There is a hollow astonishment to his voice.

I look at Rythos, who is smiling as if Halamous is a teacher that has caught Varitha in a despicable act. An urge to slap his flawless face washes over to me, before I hear the sound of Varitha’s voice again. “Yes, Sir Halamous.” She hangs her head low in an act of respect. “I am so sorry for my failure.”

Halamous looks past Varitha for a moment and folds his hands across his chest. I cannot catch what he is feeling at the moment, but his words will reveal his thoughts.

“It is okay,” he says. I almost gasp from surprise. “Are you hurt? You look tired.” 

He says this as if he is a father tending to their hurt child, and I grimace. He has never spoken to me with such tenderness before. I did not think that he had the capacity for such emotions. 

“Yes,” Varitha answers. She takes the blanket off of her back and reveals lacerations that I had not been aware of. They ooze of a translucent liquid and are beginning to scar over already. I catch a disappointed glance from Rythos. “Just a few scratches over my back.” She coughs. “And I think I may have a fever.”

I’m disappointed in myself for not noticing her illness because I thought she was simply too afraid to speak--as I was. I look down at my hands, fiddling with the hangnail on my thumb.

Halamous opens the closet and takes one of the plush stool pillows from the top shelf. He places it on the top of our newest stool; it is one that I made a week ago. As he motions for her to sit down on it, I see Rythos open his mouth.

“Can I do anything for you?”

I feel a rage build inside of me: the bricks are stacking higher than they ever have before. Why would he ask now, after he refused to accompany her on the trip? After he refused to protect her, knowing very well that I would not be able to in a dangerous situation. I am not as skilled, nor as strong or swift as him. 

Varitha shakes her head in rejection and Rythos seems to slump. I am happy about this, but I know that Varitha does not pay me any attention regardless. I am simply happy because  

I smell something that I have not since Halamous was forced to execute one of the people he held hostage during the invasion of the Barbarotians--a toxin. I wonder what he could possibly be using it for, since the only task I could fathom at the moment is to heal 

But within a few seconds, my thoughts are interrupted by a loud sound coming from outside the tent. Rythos draws his sword, confident and unphased. I know the sound of the stomping from the day that Varitha and Rythos first arrived last year--a Mallowith.

Halamous must sense the beast, as well. He looks at me with expecting and watchful eyes, as if he knows what I am thinking. “Rythos--accompany Willon outside. I think there will be something worth engaging out there.” He looks back down at his boiling pot of herbs and spices. I’d like to ask him what the toxic substance is for, but I must first attend to the problem circling us.

Rythos and I step out of the tent into the humid night. The stomping has ended, but our fast-beating hearts replace it. The beast must have stopped for a break--or it has sensed our presence. Either way, we know what we must do.

“You take the other side,” he suggests. “I’ll stay here.”

I do not dare oppose Rythos’ suggestion. I turn the left corner, having to force my legs to move forward. My limbs feel like boulders; I hope that they do not also sound like them. As I weave my way around the branches that surround our home, I hear loud rustles come from in front of me. My eyes meet the beast’s, glowing red irises with yellow scleras.

I hear a screech, piercing my ears and fading the light in my eyes. I do not realize that it comes from my own vocal chords until I see Rythos leaping over fallen branches and bushes in the midst of drawing his sword. His face is serious and intimidating, and my primitive and unreasonable fear first thinks that he is coming to kill me. Then, my attention returns to the Mallowith, charging towards me. I stand in place, stunned, and unable to defend myself.

I feel my heart racing, but my legs are frozen in place. I’m doomed, I think in between my unsuccessful efforts to slow my breath. It stands before me, claws raised, craving to slash down at me. They start to fly down, and I close my eyes tightly to lessen the hurt.

There is a metallic slicing sound, penetrating my consciousness and my sense of reality. My eyes immediately open and gravitate down to my body, searching where the fatal scar might be. I expect a ruptured internal organ system, a severed limb, along with a river of gushing blood. I find nothing--only the few scars that I sustained long before I even met Halamous.

I look up. Through the neck of the Mallowith I see a metallic shine visible through the thick clumps of brown fur--Rythos’ sword. It protrudes like a beacon of civility in the deep wild forest. 

And Rythos stands there, hand on the grip of the sword with one foot stood forward as if he’s lunging towards the beast. He yanks the blade out of the punctured skin and blood begins to splatter over him, soaking his gray robes with dark red splotches. 

“Thank me later,” he says. “Go inside for now. I’m gonna make sure this thing is dead.”

In a delirious daze, I hobble back inside the tent, traumatized from the experience I just had. Unfortunately, I must shake my bewilderment off of my face, for Varitha and Halamous are waiting inattentively on either side of the table.

I knew that Rythos was a skilled fighter--but how could he muster enough courage to face the Mallowith head on? He has only been in the forest for about a month, yet he demonstrates more expertise and insight than I. And certainly 

It is only after my prolonged period stood gawking in my inner consciousness in the middle of the room that Halamous notices me. “Willon? Have you figured out the problem outside?”

I hollowly gaze at him for a moment before realizing his question. “Y-yes, sir,” my mouth stumbles. “It’s been solved.” It is not a lie, but it does imply that I was the hero.

He stares at me as if he can see through my feeble state: my words mean nothing to him, only his intuition. His eyes divert back to Varitha, as if deciding something. 

Varitha is solemn yet distracted, sipping quietly her ‘healing’ potion that Halamous has prepared for her. She seems to sit slightly lower in her chair, eyes drooping slightly. Sleep seems to evade her, though, for her limbs twitch whenever those tired eyelids decide to fall.

“Take care of her while I go inspect the beast with Rythos,” Halamous demands before I have the chance to review with him the events of the past twenty minutes. If I hadn’t understood his tone of voice, authoritative and serious, I would have thought he had been joking. He stands up, pushes in the chair under the table before him, and slips past me.

As soon as he leaves, I take it upon myself to tend to Varitha. If something terrible happens while Halamous is gone, I will be in the deepest trouble of my life. “Are you feeling any better, Varitha?”

Her eyes open a small bit and she tries to hoist herself up using the chair’s armrests. She must be too weak, because she only moves up about an inch. “Ok.”

“You are? That’s good,” I sigh with relief.

I figure that she is tired--probably in need of a nap--so I walk to the closet to try and see what I should prepare for supper. Two options fight in my mind--potatoes and squash soup or barley and pumpkin? There are only enough supplies for one potato and squash soup dinner, which happens to be Varitha and I’s favorite.

I collect the necessary ingredients and strike fire to the stove to begin cooking. The sudden warmth comforts me, until I look back over my shoulder to check on Varitha. Her head hangs backwards over the back of the chair and her mouth hangs open as if she is asleep. 

“Where is the stone…”

Her words fall on top of eachother like dominoes, each one cracking into the next. I am almost too stunned to move, but I force my reluctant limbs to jolt towards her. 

“Stone…”

She’s falling now, and I sprint forward to catch her. “Varitha?” 

As I lift her drowsy, limp head to face mine, her soft voice lingers in my mind. My brain cells begin to race to determine which will be able to spook me the most. Was gibberish rummaging through her brain, or did her words actually have substance? 

I hear the rustle of the wind and look to my right to see the flaps opening, allowing cool swishing of air into the room. It is in that moment that I realize I must find Halamous regardless of my fear, for my fear of what Varitha’s ill health will bring is greater than my anxieties surrounding Halamous. 

Leaving Varitha’s limp body over the wooden chair, I shuffle to the outside world again, neglecting to even strap on my shoes. Every ounce of pain that I experienced on our walk from the temple has vanished along with my integrity. 

The sounds of the forest are a lullaby against the dark and uncertain atmosphere. MY voice breaches them both, an industrial screech against the dangers of nature.

“Halamous?”

The only answer is the singing crickets. I wish I could see them. I wish I could silence them. But they are imperceptible to my humble and unskilled eye, much like Halamous is to my desperate self.

“Halamous?” I call again. “Rythos?”

I move around the barren woods like a wolf patrolling its territory, except my goal is to find somebody to help me. Each time I circle around our camp, which is an incalculable amount, my exhaustion weaves further into my body and unease further into my mind.

Eventually, I must accept defeat. Defeat of not only this small battle, of trying to find Halamous and Rythos as if playing hide-and-seek, but defeat in the war of proving myself to Halamous. My worst fears have come true--that I wasn’t good enough for him. My suspicions have proven themself true, despite hours of convincing myself otherwise.

It was all in vain. Everything we ever did was in vain. And equally, the blood in my veins boils from my fire of regret. My flame of failure. Do they not care about Varitha and I? Did they ever care about Varitha and I?