The Price of A Life

Stunned for a heartbeat, survival instincts finally kick in as I take a step aside to hide behind the closest wall.

    The streets are silent, devoid of any townsfolk. Almost as if the tense air in here beckons people to stay away. Aside from silly me. I didn’t even notice something was off, too focused on my heroic woes.

    Tempted as I am to flee, I don’t want to risk making a sound that would betray me. Hence, barely daring to breathe, I keep listening to the discussion. Fufu shivering against me.

    A rustle of paper.

“Anything among these will do.” The first man sighs. “I need to finish the artifact I’m working on. If the order isn’t ready in time…”

    The craftsman trails off, abandoning the superfluous intent to explain hardships no one cares about.

    A brief moment of silence, most likely the second individual examining a grim list.

“Make sure not to damage the gem,” the craftsman adds, “I want it in a single piece.”

“Fine.” The second man replies after a while. “You’ll have it in your atelier in due time.”

“They’re… planning a murder? They are, right? I shouldn’t hear this, but…”

    With a gulp, I decide to lean to the side. Inch by inch. Just enough for the eye to see, hoping my heart beating wildly can’t be heard.

    One of the men is a middle-aged man, a beard and moustache lining his chin and upper lip. I can’t see clearly enough to tell the colour of his eyes, though. Clothes… Perhaps an orangey fabric, part loosely falling over his shoulders, covering to his forearms.

    The other man… By his voice I could tell before seeing him that he’s still rather young. Adult, but not the old kind. Given how he melts into the alley’s shadows, I bet he’s dressed all in black. With his large glasses, his hair is all that sticks out, a few short strands of a vivid blue catching the light.

“I’m counting on you.” The craftsman concludes. “Even with the Guild of Craftsmen’s backing, lately it has become rugged to acquire hearts, quickly enough, in conventional ways.” He sighs. “As if taking hold of the ones of the people they execute wasn’t sufficient, lately the Militia is rivalling the Guild in buying those available on the market. Cursed be the greediness of these men.”

    And shaking his head in a reproving way, he turns away and takes a backdoor, probably leading to his atelier. This said, he pauses one last time.

“Labradorite…” He ponders, glancing at his interlocutor. “If you’re ever in dire need of funds, I’ll gladly offer you a good price.”

“I’d rather keep my own heart nestled within my chest.” The blue-haired man replies, his tone betraying no worry. “This said, I’ll keep your offer in mind.”

    With that, the craftsman’s gaze lingers only briefly. Soon, he returns to his atelier.

    Silence returns.

    Before the mercenary has time to turn his head in my direction, I straighten up. Colour draining from my face as if to match the bone wall.

“…Over the past centuries, our craftsmen developed powerful artifacts powered by precious stones.” Rosa Di Amethyst’s words echo in my mind. “Heirs fighting one another to obtain a fragment of the hearts of their deceased ones, mercenaries engaged to harvest some; never questioned about their origin,…”

    Without making the faintest sound, my hand pressed to my lips, I let myself slide along the wall until seated.

“A mercenary…”

    Terror seizes me at the thought of getting caught. Unable to shake off that feeling, all I can do is listen to the footsteps of the mercenary crossing the town square. The crystal sand crush beneath his boots like, I suspect, so many lives do in his tracks.

    I shouldn’t have heard this.

    From the corner of my eyes, I see him take an adjacent street. Royal blue strands of hair reach his shoulders. Black gloves cover his hands, leaving his fingertips visible.

    I really really shouldn’t have heard this.

    Without double thinking it, as the shadows intrude to claim dominance over the streets, I hurry and rush in the opposite direction, Fufu securely wrapped around my waist in his pouch form.

𖢻 𖢻 𖢻

    The plate placed before me steaming and exhaling a scent of perfectly grilled meat, I can’t help but gulp with appetite. Yesterday, despite this body of mine losing its content, the numbness silenced the hunger. Or, shortly speaking, for once in my life I wasn’t in the mood to eat.

    Today, though, is quite different. After spending the whole day attempting to be helpful, I can’t ignore any longer the primal source of pleasure in any world. Food.

“And here you are.” Ameline comments, placing a drink next to my meal. “Another glass of apalpa cider with your grilled bozual ribs.”

    As if driven by instinct, I returned to The Merry King after fleeing those cursed streets. It is, after all, the only place I’m somewhat familiar with in Felbalia.

    A geman is about to get murdered, unless the mercenary already struck, but that’s okay. Why would I care for someone I don’t even know? For sure, this person is no different from the others. One that would be prompt to despise me.

    Feeling bad for strangers, or worse, wanting to save them, is utter nonsense. How would it even make sense when said stranger might as well be a worse person than you are? Nonsense, I say! This is but a selfish way to feed the need for validation in people’s eyes, or to avoid being prey to their united hatred. People want to hate, they want to despise. When they feel like others would agree with them to hate, they are more than happy to indulge.

    Am I not living proof? This is why Peccelotte was wrong thinking that trying to save her would have crossed my mind in the first place.

    Pecce…

“But a hero would have tried to save the mercenary’s target, wouldn’t they? Is to become a hero to become dumb?”

    I shake my head, trying to chase the intrusive thoughts away.

    Deciding to honour my meal, the monster ribs so huge they barely fit on the plate, I take hold of the sacred weapons that are my knife and fork.

“Allowed to meet your daughter soon?” Ameline sat on the chair opposite mine.

    Her cheek pressed to her palm, her elbow against the table, she stares at me.

“My daughter?” I frown.

“I have a daughter?” My brain freezes, knife stuck where the juicy juice begins pearling from the meat. “Ohh. Gryffin. Wait. Gryffin has?”

“Never mind.” Ameline cuts short my inner turmoil. “You don’t have to answer. I just thought so.”

    A pause.

“Hit by an incurable disease?” She probes again.

“Do you wish to see me dead so hard? You could redirect this passion into something more pleasant for us both.” I counter.

    To which she snorts.

“I don’t. You’re a steady source of income.” Ameline notes, her pinkish, crystalline eyes still directed at me. As she adjusts her position, she lets her hand settle on the table. “But it’s rare to see you order anything other than alcohol. And this, twice.”

    Well, staying in character sure isn’t my forte. I’m probably not giving off the same personality either, though at this rate I guess I can pretend that it’s my sober one.

“I… things happened.”

    Ameline raises an eyebrow. She should probably return to work, and I would’ve probably retorted about it, were she not such a stunning woman.

“Don’t tell me you’re mourning the prince.” She mocks.

    I pretend I didn’t barely choke on my apalpa cider. My inexistent dignity shall be preserved.

“Mourning the prince, humm… yeah. You see through me.”

“So you don’t even know about it.” Ameline sighs. “It’s been announced earlier. Prince Razzel Od Mithril tragically died. He got lost during a stroll and was killed by a monster.”

    Internally, I wince. While not entirely false, turning the desperate escape from the grim fate awaiting me into a stroll is bold of them. At least, it sounds like that militiaman’s threat remained what it was. Words. Pecce hasn’t been turned into my murderer.

“Ameline, work!” A voice calls.

    The main interested party rolls her eyes. She stands up. She turns a last glance at me, squinting, but ends up adding no extra comments. And leaves.

“Razzel died, yes. He even died more than once.”

    Before I can help it, my thoughts wander to yesterday, the day when I was executed. Among the gathered crowd and curious passersby, I remember locking gaze with that man… that was Gryffin, wasn’t it?

    As I focus on this memory, my vision begins to blur.

𖢻 𖢻 𖢻

    Gryffin had just finished completing his task of the day, a short-lived work which, at last, would allow him to put some Orlofflesia, or monster’s heart powder, aside. When he reached the public square, he wasn’t expecting an execution to occur. Well, not that it was uncommon. It wasn’t. They always found someone to execute, as if the Militia would grow bored otherwise.

    But what struck him was how young she was. Barely an adult.

    As they prepared to voice the sentence, the girl began looking frantically for someone in the crowd. Their gazes locked at that moment. Despair was what he sensed in her eyes. Family? Friends? Whoever she looked for, she did not find.

“Peccelotte Di Amethyst.” The executioner uttered, a man with straight, long black hair. Partly tied, his shorter strands almost hid his silver eyes from where Gryffin stood. But he had already seen him so many times. Gryffin recognised his figure at once, and yet, he still couldn’t place a name on his face. “As reported by the Militia, a stupendous emanation of magic has been found in the crystal forest to the east of the castle. The emanation having been proven to be yours, you were condemned for your abusive use of magic. Hence, to ensure the safety of the kingdom, you are hereby sentenced to death.”

    She still had something to say, she should have had still many years to live. But this world was rotten, life had no value here… They were but tools in the eyes of other tools lucky enough to decide first who had to die. And the worst?

    This seemed normal to everyone.

“Do our lives truly have no more value than a monster’s?” Gryffin thought to himself. “What makes us different from them?”

    The girl tried to turn around.

    She tried.

“Poor young one.”

    She reminded Gryffin of his daughter, even if they weren’t the same age. One day she would be, tough. He hoped she would.

    The vision of Peccelotte’s body bursting into shreds in response to the executioner’s spell was the last thing Gryffin saw.

𖢻 𖢻 𖢻

    My breath hitches in my throat as the images dissipate, leaving me dizzy.

“Were these his thoughts?” I press a hand to my forehead, the tinnitus-adjacent noise weakening. “Why?! Why… Even a man like him. Even a man hated by the others.”

    I curled my fingers into a fist.

“He is kind.”

    If it were me, at this moment, I would’ve doubtlessly turned my back to that horrid sight. I wouldn’t have cared.

“Gryffin is a better man than I am.”

    With a scoff, I realise he was closer to becoming a hero than I am.

    Blessed be food, able to dull my discomfort as I end up resuming my meal. Isn’t it the most valuable thing in life, truly? It gives energy, it procures pleasure and contentment without distinction.

    Is foodphilia a thing?

    Before I can ponder on that any longer, a chair rattling catches my attention.

“Can I have a seat?”

    The sound of that voice is enough to give me shivers.

“It seems that all the other tables are taken.”

    Slowly, I raise my tiger-eye gaze at a man with royal blue hair, a few locks of a vivid blue. Wearing big, hexagonal glasses, his labradorite eyes are directed at me.

    The mercenary…