"Master!" a voice calls. My eyes reluctantly open, heavy with a brief intermission into the dark. "Master Anima Diggory!"
"Yes, Cyril?" the words come out dry and gravelly. I drink from my waterskin.
"We have arrived, master."
"In Yarim?" I asked, doubtfully. It had not been long since we set out for the ancient city. It was my only hope to be cured of the dreadful disease that had infected me; and the trip was not without its difficulties as we almost died twice, from bandits and orcs. However, it was much better than being burned alive—a solution proposed by my father ("It's easier and cost-effective,") which was, thankfully, vetoed by Luna, one of my sisters, who hurried me in leaving for Yarim lest my Father carries on with his plans.
"Yes, my Lord," he said. I step out of the carriage; the pain in my abdomen burns as it did three years ago. I was nineteen now, of age to leave Livila and the manor, and brave the world. I remember my father's words No pride in that pathetic body of yours. My knuckles tighten. My jaw tenses. The burning grows hotter.
"Cyril."
"Yes, my Lord."
"You," I paused and take a deep breath, "are now permitted to return to the palace."
"But, my Lord—"
"Cyril," I said, hoping to sound as authoritative as my father. I do not think I succeeded. Still I continued. "My father does not care if I come back—in fact, he wishes for me not to come back anymore and I would be doing him a favor. As for my sister, tell her that…" I stagger. I did not know what to say. She was one of the only people who has treated me like I mattered. Like I was a person. Why must I leave her like this? I paused for a moment, leaves I had not noticed earlier fell around me, muted oranges and yellows. I find resolve. "Tell her that her brother is going on a journey and that he will return soon. And thank her. Tell her I love her."
"Master!" the young man cried out. "I will not be forgiven by the other servants and your brothers if I let you go."
"Then I shall give you my blessing,"
He bowed his head. "My Lord, I am not wor—"
"Hush, Cyril, no more words." I walk up to him and draw the Diggory clan's mark: the letter D cut vertically. He kneels, puts his hand on his heart. "You are now my retainer, Cyril of Livila. Promise me that you will obey my every order." Yes. "Promise me that you will seek to preserve my own honor and the honor of the Diggory clan." Yes. "Promise me that you will serve only I until death." Yes. "Stand up." The young man stood. He was shorter than me and it had just struck that I had made a young boy my servant. But as it stood, this was the greatest protection I could have given to him.
"Go, now, take care." I said after gathering the little equipment I had inside the carriage. The retainer salutes me, a hand to the heart, and rides the carriage, its wooden frame boisterously travelling the rough and craggy path we had just travelled. The sun fell the same color as the leaves: muted orange and yellow and the silhouette of my retainer fell out of view.
I carry on, to Yarim. The city that has long been the focus of myths and folktales. It housed an ancient medicine said to cure each and every disease that has ever existed, some say. It houses demons and ghouls and demented people that become ghouls and monsters at night, other say. Some have travelled, most say, and have never returned. My father had long been an avid disbeliever of myths and folktales ("That's why you can't grow up properly; you fill your heads with fairy tales.") and scolded me if I ever dared mention one in front of him. Now, my life depended on that fairy tale.
However, when I saw the city, not once did the image of a fairy tale come to mind. It was gloomy and decadent, grim edges of the buildings that blew smog suturing into the dark sky. Moonlight above swallowed by clouds of darkness were as worthless as trinkles. Below, the same craggy path we entered was now a worn-out pavement that entered the city that sprawled with the unknown.
I pussyfooted down the road and set foot inside: Turrets, towers, smog, faded lamps loomed ahead, harboring a countenance just as grim as the outside, which I had hoped was not the case. The streets were emptier than my father's heart and seemed to house cannibals that would spring forth, knife in hand, and try to kill me.
Dimmed lights appeared on both sides, a welcome companion in the shadows that Yarim sprawled with. I peered inside houses, no figure coming into view. One: a building with three arches at the base. Just wooden furniture and teacups. Two: four arches at the base. No luck again. Three. Empty again. Four. The same. I did not try for a five as I knew when to give up; I plodded around, searching for anything that looked remotely close to a clinic when my abdomen scorched.
It was worse than anything I had ever experienced. It felt like being stabbed with a piping hot blade over and over again. Intense was an understatement. It seemed to drag my soul farther and farther down, into the Nether. The world went hazy, streets filled with moans, and a silhouette walked into view. Thank God, I thought that moment.
I leaned on the cold bricks once again and approached the man. He was only a few feet away when his face was illuminated by one of the gas lamps. In that instant narrow cut of light, a face that belonged to the stories and nightmares of my childhood. Its eyes swam in a bloody red, skin a sinewy sallow green that were covered in linen pads. I froze. I could not move. The pain grew stronger. This was it, I thought. This was how I was going to die. I closed my eyes, hoping to die as the ghoul approached but a voice called, "Hey, Beardsplitter!"
I heard the unmistakable slice of a blade and guttural whimpering. Still, I closed my eyes. Tighter. So I wouldn't have to see anything. Curiosity won over and a stout, wild-looking man stood in front of me. His eyes were narrowed at me, contempt painted on his face, "Kid, why are you here?"
You don't belong here was all I heard from him. I have gotten used to implications as my father was one who did not speak directly when visitors arrived, his scoldings often used that I have perfected reading in into a situation, perhaps too much sometimes. My abdomen scorched still, my nails digging into skin, "I come from outside. I come for the cure, sir."
"Cure, huh," the shaggy man repeated. He looked at the blade, now dripping purple liquid. "And why should the doctor cure you?"
I did not answer. I could not answer. All feeling in my legs were leaving and I mumbled something incomprehensible before I hit the ground. Only flashes of what happened were memorable: being carried by the wild-looking man, a princess with rubies for eyes, being laid on an uncomfortable and prickling pallet, a dark-skinned woman who wore a cleric's hat. No more. No less.