One Last Meal

Some days later, following the discovery of the second front, Avii had been invited to sit with the soldiers for supper. Though he initially attempted to talk his way out of it, insisting that a slave not sit with those who hold standing over him, Ostave made it an order for the mule to join them around the campfire. Begrudgingly, he slipped himself free of his armour and took a seat at the farthest edge of the group. While he enjoyed the warmth of the crackling fire, especially now that the seasons had started to shift and Maldain began its slow march into winter, the situation bothered the mule.

“Here,” Ostave ordered, handing Avii a filled bowl of hearty porridge. “Take your fill, mule. You need your energy too.”

Hesitating, Avii looked at the faces around the orange glow of flames. Everyone had been served before him and, with the exception of Sebastian, who had excused himself from the meal, looked his way expectantly. Not wanting to anger the group, he nervously took the bowl into his hands and stared down at its contents. Meat and root vegetables clung to the thick porridge as the delicious scent of food meant for humanoid consumption caused his mouth to water. But still he waited.

With a glance back to the group, he noticed how they had already relaxed their guard and eagerly begun their eating. Using their hardtack, they scooped at the meal, drawing food to their lips before immediately reaching for more. Yet still, Avii couldn’t bring himself to eat in their presence. He knew well the reason he was given a full meal. Afterall, with two fewer mouths to feed, they had enough rations to include him now. But still, he feared that it was some cruel joke and the moment he began to enjoy himself, they would beat him and take his food. So, instead of eating, he allowed the warmth of the meal to heat his tired hands.

Looking over his shoulder in the direction that Sebastian had departed, he stared into the darkness nervously. The man was nowhere to be seen, with the glow of the campfire quickly disappearing as it reached the edge of the forested thicket. There, at the extent of the light, where the carriage had been parked, Avii caught sight of his dormant armour. The MULE stood idle. A tool waiting to be used while its operator sat and ate, playing human with those who just weeks before had seen him as less than.

A chill raced down Avii’s spine at the thought of being separated from his armour. Being considered a man amongst similar beings. For so long he had been just as the suit. A tool, used and abused, meant to exist for service. Yet, in the past week, he had slowly begun to feel as though something was changing. As though, for the first time in thirty years, he could be something more than an object.

“Mule,” The voice of Aindes drew his attention back to the fire. “May I ask you a question?”

The elf sat with his shoulders back, his long brown hair slicked behind sharp-pointed ears. His gaze was locked on Avii, fiercely curious, like a predator sizing up what it could call prey.

This made Avii’s heart drop as he feared the time had finally come. That any moment the comfort he had been given in recent days would be ripped from him. So, gripping his food firmly, allowing the warmth of the bowl to soak past his skin into the tired bones for however long he was granted, he swallowed his nerves.

“Of course,” He replied softly, averting his gaze. “Caster Aindes.”

“No need to fear, mule, I have no interest in your porridge.” The elf reassured the man before clearing his throat and continuing. “I am merely curious about your accent.”

“My…accent?”

“Yes,” The elf asked, adjusting himself before reaching up to touch his throat as he explained. “That notable Maldainian intonation that your people once had, it was unique and relatively diverse across your nation. But I hear none of it when you speak.”

“You seem to know a lot about mules,” Avii replied cautiously. "Do you harbour a fascination with the damned?"

“Indeed, I do. Your nation’s magical prowess fascinated me long before you were born. Though I may not look it, I am nearly a hundred and thirty years of age—”

At this, Vivat spat out her meal and began to cough. Avii watched as she choked on the porridge, slowly regaining control over her breathing long enough to look at Aindes. She inspected him closely, disbelief plastering her face as she turned to Ostave for confirmation.

“Is this true?” She gasped. “Is he really a hundred—Aindes, are you really a hundred and thirty?”

“It's true.” The orc laughed, lowering his food as he glanced between the two. “Aindes loves to bring up his childhood in the light.”

“The light?” Vivat muttered as she reached for her holy pendant. “You mean, you got to see the skies before they were razed?”

“Like a vast blue ocean with clouds whiter than seafoam. I used to lounge on hillsides with my sister, making shapes out of them until the bright yellow sun dipped to the horizon and the sky faded to orange and purple.”

“Beautiful. It sounds simply magical. How I wish I could have seen it. But I was born after the great purge—”

At this, Vivat lowered her voice. Timidly, she turned her head to Avii and gave him a sympathetic smile.

He knew what she was speaking of, as it had been beaten into him over the years. For him, the death of Maldain and his people had been a holocaust. The worst loss of life since the scriptural cataclysm that broke the world in Estarian faith. But to the people of Kovika and Estaria, it was nothing more than a purge. The world correcting itself by removing the filth that tainted its purity. The greed of Maldain needed to be cleansed, and one day, when the skies were again blue, the world would be free of their sins. A world inherited by the righteous. The deserving.

“Sorry,” Vivat whispered. “Mule.”

“It’s fine. And it was beautiful, the sun and the sky. I only wish I hadn’t spent my days toiling beneath the earth.”

“Y-you saw it too? The sky?”

“I did. For some twenty years I took it for granted, as though it would always be there. Until, one day, it wasn’t.”

With this, Avii turned his attention to Aindes. The elf had not removed his gaze from the mule, his original question still left unanswered. Prying his stare away, Avii looked down at the porridge as he prepared himself. The story was not one he enjoyed, but it was, at the very least, the truth.

After a short moment of quiet, he cleared his throat to answer.

“The accent was the first thing I learned to let go of...” Avii spoke, looking to the elf. “Did you know that Koviks despise the Maldainian accent? That they find it grating on the ears? So much so that they found pleasure removing the tongues of my kinfolk so that they didn’t have to hear the mules talk. Didn’t have to listen to them cry.”

“Oh my Gods,” Vivat gasped, drawing a hand before her mouth. “Heinous devils. I’m so sorry—”

“Do not place yourself above them—” Avii snapped, quickly catching himself with a grunt. “My apologies, priestess. I simply mean to say that Estarian torturers are not too different a breed. They may not have put me through the same pain, but they found pleasure in torturing me all the same.”

Looking down at his lap, Avii breathed as he attempted to calm himself enough to continue. With a single hand, he reached up and rubbed at his jawline, remembering the long nights of torture he endured. How his captor, the Butcher himself, used him to settle his curiosity. The way he would take gore-coated pliers, holding Avii’s tongue as far out as he could without ripping it from his throat. How he would then sharpen his dagger before him in the moments leading up to cutting away slivers of his tongue. Bit by agonizing bit, he removed it, just to sate the curiosity of how much he could remove before Avii stopped speaking like a Maldainian.

A chill raced through Avii’s body as the memories flooded back to him. The thought of one torture revealed the pain of others. Worse things had been done to him than the butchering of his native tongue. Things that he could never forget no matter how hard he tried. Moments that lived in the back of his mind, stalking his sanity like a hungry beast.

The sound of wood snapping pulled him back to reality. The crack of wood in the fire splitting under the heat, or at least, it could have been easily mistaken for that. But when Avii looked up at the flames and the engaged looks of his companions, something felt wrong.

“Avii,” The voice of Harbinger spoke for the first time in weeks. “Danger incoming.”

Dropping the bowl, Avii stood with a start. But as he turned to retake his armoured form, purple blasts cut through the darkened woods. They tore through his jumpsuit, spraying blood into the crisp night air as his body was thrown back onto the flames.

He wouldn’t have time to feel himself burning alive as a moment later, a massive sigil lit up the darkened sky above him. A familiar shape, its runes jagged and its glyphs many. It was a subduing spell, a powerful one at that, meant to take down an entire yard of slaves at once. A spell meant for control. For domination. A ritual mastered by the Kovika nation.

Before he knew it, his vision blurred and darkness took him.