"Mono … please, forgive me …" said a man with a single arm as he mantled up his broken carriage. "I've brought shame to our kind. I let my find escape."
Failure to abstain from damage to property of the Black Empire was often punishable by death … but the carriage was, fortunately, his. He'd lost the battle from the time he fled, he'd lost the retrieved horses of the fallen comrades, he'd lost his carriage, and now, he'd lost his find.
He pulled a wooden splinter from his thigh and groaned softly. It was barely a groan for he had grown used to the pain since little. But to this day, it often pained him to see pain done unto others. "My wife and child must be suffering," he muttered. "They go so many dawns unfed."
In that moment, he realized why they warned him about conceiving. The Black Empire was simply not a place for family, much less children. Only the children of the dark, ones born to be soldiers, were to be and were forever to be of the Mono.
He sighed. "I should have listened."
His name was Gabbro. His parents didn't select this name, and as far as he could tell he didn't either. Members of the Cult were the ones who had named him; they were said to call upon Mono himself to name a newborn. Just like a mother, their god was responsible for names. But, of course, Mono was an ungendered prodigy.
Besides his name, he had not many belongings, this Gabbro. Just an old pack, which he slung across his shoulder, and a dagger he'd found lying there on the carriage, which he had probably stolen.
His kind, you see, weren't allowed to have more than one thing they'd use daily. No matter how rich one became, they were still able to merely have one house, one dominant hand, one weapon, one soul. However, certain ranks had certain privileges.
A few days ago, Gabbro was a part of the Uni, the regime of the one-handed Soldiers. After cowardice took to heart, he'd fled the battle, rendering himself as a deserter … a coward. One who had betrayed the Mono.
Today, a soldier he was no longer. He was back to his old days as a hoarder and the decision he'd made to scout for a find had highlighted it.
He freed his horse, which was formerly attached to the carriage, and it went scarpering away without him.
He scoffed. Everything was going horribly. He jumped down from the carriage and started toward the direction his horse went.
He was a single-handed man—now a hoarder—on a path without a carriage nor horse … nor a find for his lord, Mulak.
***
Chandrelle pointed. "Right there … a river. We will stop here for a brief. Though, to recuperate—not to talk."
Aran would have complained more about the walking had it not been for his new body. His endurance was on a whole other level, and he acknowledged this.
He also still acknowledged the agony he felt in his new, shorter legs. Well, it was still quite desirable—a win-win for him—as his old body would have fallen unconscious hours ago.
"Only a brief?" He asked, quickening his pace toward the river.
"Yes," she answered, "be sure to look at your reflection like you wanted to." Sauntering, she watched as he hurried past her and continued until he halted at the riverbank.
He dropped to his knees, neglecting the very fact that his throat was of thirst that begged to be quenched. His zeal lingered in but one objective: seeing his new body. Seeing what he had become.
Downed, he deliberately looked down at the water that flowed downstream. A face looked right back at him, peering into his eyes—piercing into his soul; plunging into his gut.
It was a pointy-eared boy, about thirteen summers, with pale skin, the lightest hair color Aran had ever seen, and light ambiguous eyes that said thirteen different things, barring Aran's apparent confusion.
He touched his face, his cheeks, his nose, and his ears. His cheeks barely had any flesh; they were chiseled and hard, his nose was almost free of flaws; not too long, not too large. And his ears, each protruding out right and left the length of a hand, simply were not what he would ever call 'human'.
Irrefutably, these weren't his. This was not his body and he'd known it from the start. But once he'd seen it with both his eyes—which were not his for that matter at all—he grew horror-struck. It was happening. The outlandishness ... the bizarreness …. it was all in effect. And it all started when 'she' showed up in his world.
Chandrelle stopped when she was no further than next to him on the riverbank. "Like your new body? Nice, isn't it?" Not at all. Barring a servant of the Mono, she knew this was the last body she wanted him to possess.
Aran furrowed his brows as he remained on his knees and hands. 'It's her fault. She did this to me.' He looked up at her and snarled. "Turn me back! I want back my body!"
"Your body is …" she trailed off, "dead. In that flash of light after which darkness ensued, there were few remnants of you beside cells. You think I deliberately changed you into your current form—but you're wrong."
"Dead?"
"Unfortunately," Chandrelle looked down at him. "I'm sorry. I tried to save it in time, but you ran off. However, I did manage to save your soul and that's how you're even alive right now. For that, you should at least be grateful."
Arching his brows, Aran clenched his teeth. "Grateful?"
"Yes. I'd be if I were you."
He furrowed his brows at her, scowling with absolute abhorrence for her emotional abstinence. "Grateful? For this? For all of this? For my world taken away from me? For me taken away … from me? For bits of my sanity—gone?"
She narrowed her eyes slightly and looked her nose down at him, listening.
"I should be grateful to be alive," he growled, rubbing aggressively at his temples, "when I'm nothing but dead? Grateful … for being a mistake who has no say in whether he becomes some … some 'Soul Warrior'?"
A multitude of wrinkles evinced upon his forehead and creased his nose as he glared up at Chandrelle again. "I should be grateful that a fate I can't stomach is being forced down my throat?"
Attentively, Chandrelle merely listened with apathetic eyes that said 'I couldn't care less'. But for a while—for but a moment, she saw … him. His face wasn't there. And usually, he'd show a smile rather than scorn—yet for some reason, she saw … him.
Still on his knees, Aran deflated as he sighed. His face softened and a frown manifested. "What am I?" He looked at his hands. "An elf?"
"I haven't heard of an 'Elf' before. But you're an Ulfon," Chandrelle crossed her arms over her chest, "It's a form that might be a bad omen. Despite its agility and enhanced senses, it's nothing short of trouble for us."
"An Ulfon …" the corners of his lips fell, "that's what I am now?"
Chandrelle watched as he looked at his reflection in the river again. "Mhmm."
"Chandrelle," he said her name in his mouth for the first time, "I have more questions."
"They can wait," she lowered her arms to her side and spun around, the cape of her cloak whooshing. "Now, quickly drink up some water, and let's get going again." He started toward a tree.
"You promise you'll take me back home once we're at 'Aradona', right?"
She stopped. "I said if you behave … yes."
Aran looked at his reflection again and sighed. He then cupped his hands and scooped up some of the water in them. Finally, he carried his hands to his mouth and began to drink. After the first, he'd drank himself seven more. And only then did he rise. He stood, sighing. Refreshed … at ease.
"Try not to think too much," he muttered to himself.
"Okay, we can get moving again but .... you"—he slowly turned around—"haven't consumed a drop of water. Aren't you thirs—" he paused, his pupils darting left and right. "Chandrelle?" She wasn't anywhere to be seen.
"Chandrelle, don't tell me you left me here alone …"
'She wouldn't, would she?' he muttered to himself. 'Where did she disappear to?'
"Chandrelle?" He called again, this time softer.
He heeded the environment. It was in the day. But darker. Darker than before. It could have just been the falling sun—but no, it was darker. He felt like the trees were looking at him. He began turning around constantly. The shadows and shades were invigorated. He no longer heard the flow of the river behind him. Darker. Chills ran down his spine. Colder.
"Chandre—"
"Behind you," whispered a voice into his right ear.