11 - Climb

 

Grab the next stone with your right hand, the previous with your left. Move your right foot up one, the previous with your left. Right, left. Right, left.

 

Nazarius had no idea how long he had been climbing for: all he knew is that he wanted to stop. With every handle he grabbed, every rock he pushed off of, his limbs grew a little more exhausted. He could feel the skin on his fingers being rubbed off and his muscles aching almost as much as they did when he took a swim in that river. Yet, it was all worth it, for every time he grabbed a rock that was higher than he was, the light grew ever so closer, ever so brighter.

 

‘Damn it, I have to be close,’ Nazarius yelled to himself. ‘If I stop now, there’s no way I’ll be able to climb back down.’ Nazarius continued climbing. Handhold after handhold, nook after nook, until, finally, the light seemed close to Nazarius.

 

“Finally,” he cried, his anticipation bubbling over. A second wind came over Nazarius, causing him to climb faster than before despite his screaming body. The white light grew closer and closer. Even though Nazarius couldn’t see the sky, he knew that this had to be the way out. After all, if not this, then what?

 

Even as the handholds began to feel softer and slicker, Nazarius continued to climb. Until, Nazarius finally reached the source of light. It doesn’t look like an exit. Do I touch it,’ he pondered as he reached out his hand. However, just as Nazarius was about to grab the glowing orb, something caught his attention. Or, rather, somethings.

 

Lots and lots of sharp, deadly somethings.

Nazarius froze in place. He didn’t know why, but this situation reminded him of a word: something he’d only heard aunt Gyn say once.

 

“Shit.”

 

Nazarius tried to pull his hand off of the protrusion, but it hardly budged. It felt like he stuck his hand in a pond of syrup. He tried to lift his legs, however they were in a similar situation. Panicking, Nazarius pulled his hand harder, ending up with similar results. Nazarius’s breathing sped up and his eyebrows scrunched. Fear overtaking him, Nazarius grabbed onto his right arm with his left and pulled with all of his might.

 

Finally, the sticky substance could not hold his arm anymore, causing him to shoot backwards with a large amount of force. If not for his trapped legs, his entire body would have plummeted to its death.

 

However, before Nazarius could even celebrate this small victory, the pillar he was on began to rapidly accelerate towards the direction of the teeth.

 

Before even a second passed, Nazarius had once again vanished into the unknown.

 

…

 

“…And here we have the dining hall, where our members receive two meals a day. The chefs are mostly either orphans who we raised here or civilians who knew how to cook and had no interest in fighting. That door over there leads to the schoolhouse. Knowledge is important after all. If you keep going down that hallway, you’ll find the living quarters…”

 

Ándras could hardly process what was happening. Not only had he obtained the identity of the mythical rebellion leader, but he was being given a tour of their operation by said leader. From what he’d heard, no spy had even managed to arrive at the base before they were mercilessly ended, yet he was being given information the government would kill one hundred and seventeen men for.

 

‘And still counting from what Megálo told me,’ Ándras snorted, causing the whole group to look at him. “Is something wrong, Ándras,” Droserós asked kindly. After thinking for a moment, Ándras opened his mouth. “Why are you showing me all of this? You know damn well I’m a part of the military, and I know you’re not stupid enough to know that and show me all of this regardless. So, why?”

 

Droserós smirked. “Because, from what I’ve heard, you’d make a valuable member of our team.” Ándras grimaced. “But that would require me to be interested in being a member of your team. What makes you think I am?”

 

Again, Droserós smiled thinly. “Because you wouldn’t be here if you weren’t. Now then, that about wraps up the tour. Shall we go somewhere more… quiet?” Ándras scoffed. “Fine.”

 

Stone faced, the group walked through the somewhat rough looking building and approached a door. “Ah, everyone, would you mind if I talk with Ándras alone,” Droserós asked Agóri and Skyla. They looked at each other skeptically for a moment before walking away. “After you,” Droserós said as he beckoned towards the door. Suspicious, Ándras hesitated, but figured that he didn’t have much of a choice. After taking a deep breath, Ándras stepped into the room.

 

…

 

A castle.

 

No, a fortress.

 

A fortress made of steel. A fortress often called indestructible. It was ginormous, larger than the entire city of Ftochós, and maybe five times taller than the clock tower.

 

The days were sunny and beautiful. After all, not even rain would dare approach its intimidating walls.

 

Fortress.

 

But something happened. A storm bigger than any before had been seen. It approached the fortress with no intention of backing down.

 

Storm.

 

The fortress readied its armies, confident that it would be able to conquer the storm.

 

Armies.

 

But the storm continued closer anyway. Dozens of soldiers charged it, and, within moments, dozens of soldiers lay dead.

 

Dead.

 

The storm continued its march. The armies refused to back down. Soldier after soldier, wall after wall, the storm tore it all down, leaving nothing but the ground red.

 

Red.

 

Fíle’s eyes snapped open, drops of sweat leaking from every pore in his body. Before he could even think about what had just happened, nausea overcame him, as if his stomach demanded that it be emptied immediately.

 

Not strong enough to defy his own body, Fíle immediately fell onto all fours and heaved his guts all over the thick carpet of green grass. It wasn’t long before Fíle finished, though he still felt like he might vomit again any moment now. Perhaps he would, and the only reason he didn’t was because his stomach was already empty.

 

Darkness weaved its way into Fíle’s vision as he stood up, his head feeling lighter than it ever had before. “I need water,” he faintly whispered to himself. “Well, lucky for you, I’ve got plenty.” Startled, Fíle pivoted on his foot towards the location of the voice. “Mr. Pierre, please don’t scare me like that again,” Fíle weakly pleaded as he reached out his hand.

 

“My bad,” Pierre chuckled as he handed Fíle a water skin. Tired, the two sat down on the grassy hill that overlooked a barren wasteland together. “Mr. Pierre, what happened? How did I get here,” Fíle asked before taking a swig from the water skin. “You’d know better than me, kid,” Pierre admitted.

 

The two looked at the horizon as the sun started to fall below it. “…Did you tell aunt Gyn yet,” Fíle whispered. “No. I wanted to talk to you first,” Pierre responded. “About what?”

 

Pierre glanced at the horizon. “Having thought to have lost one child was hard enough for her. I wasn’t sure that telling her that the other two had disappeared would be good for her.” Fíle looked at Pierre while frowning. “Other two? Did something happen to Ándras?”

 

Pierre sighed. “Right now, I’ve labeled him as MIA. I’m pretty sure he got taken by the rebellion, so only the gods know what’s happening to him right now.” Fíle leaned back, processing the new information. “Mr. Pierre… why does life suck?”

 

Pierre looked over at Fíle, noticing the boy had tears streaming down his face. “…kid, have you ever heard of a guy named Sisyphus,” Pierre asked softly. Confused at the sudden change of topic, Fíle looked up at Pierre. “…No? Who is that?”

 

“He was a king once. Long ago. But he tricked the gods. Not only that, but the bastard cheated death twice. As punishment for his crimes, he was put in front of a mountain and was told to roll this boulder up it. Only then would his misdeeds be forgiven. But the gods are hardly so kind. They put a spell on the boulder that would cause it to fall to the bottom if Sisyphus managed to get it close to the top.” Pierre grabbed another water flask and took a sip. “Sisyphus knew this, and yet, he kept pushing that damned boulder up the mountain anyway. Do you know why?”

 

Fíle paused and thought for a moment. “I don’t know,” he eventually admitted. Pierre took another sip of water. “Because he knew the gods wanted him to give up. He knew the gods wanted to see him suffer, to yell in frustration. To cry out and scream about how unfair it all is. The only reason he kept pushing that boulder was to spite the gods, to not let them get the best of him. He knew it was impossible to win, and yet he played the god’s game anyway. Don’t you see kid,” Pierre looked over at Fíle, “we’re all stuck in some shitty game the gods put us in. No matter what we do, we can’t escape. The only things we can do are give up and resist.” Pierre took a big sip of water. “And I’ll be damned if I throw in the towel.” For the first time since Fíle met him, Pierre smiled. “We’re all pushing boulders, kid. Boulders we know won’t make it anywhere except back to the beginning, and yet we push them anyway. Why? Not because we think we’ll make it to the top, not because we think we can beat the gods, but because it’s the only thing we can do besides give up.”

 

Fíle looked at Pierre, stunned at the speech he just gave. “So, even though my boulder just fell down the mountain, I should start pushing it up again anyway,” he asked. “Damn right,” Pierre responded.

 

“Now, I’ve got something to ask you before we go back,” Pierre asked, his tone turning sober once more. “What is it,” Fíle questioned, slightly concerned. “Your aunt… gods know what she’ll do when she hears about your brothers,” Pierre continued, “but I have a method that could make it… easier for her to cope.”

 

Fíle downed the last bit of water in his water skin. “Then what’s the problem,” Fíle spoke. “The human brain is a fascinating thing. The only things that allow humans to have memory, aside from the complexity of its design, are electrical signals.” Pierre held up his hand. “I have a way to block those electrical signals. Or, rather, I scramble ‘em to make it near impossible to remember the objects of those signals without any direct reminder.” Catching on to what Pierre was hinting at, Fíle’s breath caught in his throat.

 

“…Do you want me to make your aunt forget?”

 

…

 

“Go on, take a seat.”

 

Not wanting to offend the most wanted man in the country, Ándras sat down on one of the two wooden chairs in the room. The room was small, having only two chairs, a wooden table, and a bookshelf filled with papyrus. The room was colored green and smelt faintly of ink.

 

“Tell me, Ándras, what led you here in the first place,” Droserós asked politely as he sat down in the other chair. “Don’t you already know? I doubt Skyla would’ve left that out in her report,” Ándras scoffed, partly bluffing. Chuckling to himself, Droserós reached under the table and pulled out a dark bottle followed by two cups. “I do, but I would’ve liked to hear it from you. It would create more trust. Care for some wine,” Droserós added. “I’ll pass.”

 

“Very well then,” Droserós coughed, “Ándras, what do you know of the gods?” Ándras’s eyebrows spiked from surprise. “Um… they made everything and blessed us with their powers?” Droserós snickered, a much cruder reaction than Ándras had seen from him all day. “Did you know,” Droserós continued while pouring himself some wine,” that it was not the gods who made the world?”

 

Ándras frowned, not expecting to hear this. “What do you mean?” Droserós took a sip of his wine. “Long ago, a species known as titans existed. They were the ones that truly made the earth, that made the gods. But their names have completely vanished from history. Do you know why?” Ándras shook his head in response. “It’s because the gods, their children, killed them.”

 

Ándras flinched backwards, not expecting such an answer. “Now, from the depths of the underworld, each titan can only assign one apostle at a time. Usually, if a titan apostle is found, they will be caged and kept alive as long as possible to prevent the next one from living.” Ándras thought about his words. “If what you say is true, then why did the gods slay the titans?”

 

Droserós sighed heavily. “A variety of reasons spanning from vengeance for getting eaten as babies and because they wanted to help humans. The main reason I brought this up wasn’t because the titans didn’t deserve it.” Droserós downed his cup. “It’s because I wanted to let you know that the gods aren’t as gracious as you think they are.”

 

“What do you mean by that,” Ándras quietly barked. “What I mean is that the gods are not all what they’ve cracked themselves up to be.” Droserós poured himself another cup of wine. “They’re lazy, incompetent, wrathful, and, most importantly, not omnipotent. Do you know what that means, Ándras?”

 

Ándras slowly shook his head. A wide grin appeared on Droserós’s face. “It means that they aren’t all that different from us. Just because they can shoot lightning or water out of their fingers and they live forever does not make them better than us; however our submission to them has caused them to think so.” Ándras looked at Droserós stunned.

 

“Now, as you’ve mentioned, I’m not foolish enough to believe that you’ll just think every word I’ve said is true, which is why I intend to prove it.” Droserós hunched over as he picked up the entire bottle of wine. “Do you know why the gods give us blessings, Ándras,” Droserós asked as he stuck the bottle in his mouth. “…After what you’ve said, I don’t have any idea,” Ándras confessed. “It’s simple; because they want us to like them, to worship them, to stroke their egos! Those rat bastards don’t care about us, they just want us to think they do! And I’ll prove it.”

 

Droserós put the bottle on the ground and stared at Ándras intently. “How are blessings strengthened, Ándras? What have we been told?” Ándras hunched over wearily. “By training them?” Droserós laughed bitterly. “I’ll tell you a little secret, Ándras. That’s fucking bullshit. The gods have all control over the power of blessings, so a human could not make one stronger alone. The way to become the strongest is simple: live the longest.”

 

Ándras’s mouth opened. “What do you mean,” he almost stuttered. “The gods are such lazy pricks that they couldn’t have even bothered deciding which humans deserved more strength than others. So, with no small help from Heptaseus, the gods created a way to delegate which apostle of theirs received the most power. Something like a leaderboard,” Droserós snickered. “And, instead of making it whoever trained the longest was the strongest, they simply made it age oriented. Which means that, no matter how much you use your blessing, it won’t get any better without aging. And, unfortunately for literally everyone, one of the powers bestowed to the top ten oldest of each group of apostles is biological immortality, which means that it should be impossible to enter those ranks without killing them.” Droserós’s smile grew further. “But, what would happen if one were to find the one person who decided how old someone is? Perhaps, an apostle of the titan of mortality?”

 

Ándras’s breath caught in his throat. “You don’t mean…” Droserós laughed. “Yes I do. However, mortality is tied to the body, which means that you’d die before he was able to make you one thousand and something,” Droserós continued, “which is why I also enlisted the apostle of the titan of humans. You met him earlier, remember?”

 

Ándras thought back to the white haired boy. “He has the ability to alter the bodies of humans any way he pleases, and that includes making them younger. The only problems are that it is incredibly messy and also very lethal. In fact, if he accidentally sneezes on you while he’s working, you're as good as dead.” Droserós stood up. “Don’t you see, Ándras? I can give you power. Power you’ve only dreamed of having.”

 

Ándras didn’t know what to do. “What do you want from me,” he scowled. Though, even though he looked tough on the outside, he was trembling like a toddler on the inside. “I want you to help me. Help me take this country from those false idols,” Droserós explained. “But won’t the gods try to stop us,” Ándras asked. Droserós sneered. “The gods don’t care about us ‘mere mortals.’ To them, our matters are no more than a play at the theatre: we are nothing but entertainment to them.”

 

A crack appeared in Ándras’s cold mask, his eyes quivering. “Is this all true? Can I really become stronger?” Droserós stood up while making eye contact with Ándras. “I’m not going to lie to you; odds are, you’ll die a painful death. Agóri’s not very good with his hands, after all. In fact, we’ve only succeeded once. Once out of a hundred times. Even then, the side effects that boy has suffered from are haunting, even to me.” Droserós chuckled one last time as he raised out his hand. “With all that now out in the open… Ándras, will you join me?”

 

…

 

It was tight.

 

Tight and wet. Really wet. The only upside to Nazarius’s situation was that he could still see due to his tunic that he soaked in the water. After being thrown around for a bit, Nazarius landed in a medium sized pink room. ‘Am I… in this thing’s stomach,’ Nazarius asked himself while barely resisting the urge to puke. Looking around, there wasn’t much; just the hole Nazarius came from, the room he was in, and… another hole leading down.

 

The thought of what horrors may lie beyond the second hole were enough to cause Nazarius to shiver. ‘So what do I do here? Am I about to be digested?” Nazarius looked around, however things were looking grim. He tried to pick up his leg, however he realized that the sticky substance hadn’t gone away, meaning that he was now stuck to the floor of a random creature’s gut. Tired and weary, Nazarius sat down inside of the creature’s stomach with a sickening squelch. Ignoring his hunger, Nazarius decided to stay alert and wait for any opportunity for escape to appear.

 

‘I don’t have time for this,’ Nazarius groaned, ‘I need to save Fíle and aunt Gyn!’ Suddenly, as if answering his prayers, the hole Nazarius came from suddenly opened up. Eager to leave, Nazarius tried his best to unstick his feet, but to no avail. However, it might have been a good thing that Nazarius hadn’t been able to climb into the esophagus since, seconds later, a growling beast shot into the monster’s stomach with him.