THE APOSTATE SAINT

The world outside the City was far different than Fridok had imagined. Rather than the sparse desert badlands he expected, he found the wilds to be overflowing with green life. In a word, it was breathtaking. He had lived his whole life within the confines of the City's white walls, and none but the rich and the guards were permitted to even view the outside world. Now, he could see for himself what the ruling class had selfishly kept from him for all these years, and it made Fridok hate them even more. The Senate consul's righteous stunt right before their departure made Fridok even more certain that change must come at any cost. All of Fridok's hopes now rested in the Son being the bringer of change that the City, and he, so desperately needed.

As far as the eye could see, Fridok saw that vegetation had not only survived the Fall of Man but was seemingly thriving in the absence of humanity. Trees, tall grasses, and all kinds of wildflowers sprouted up everywhere in patches of defiant life, particularly surrounding small oases dotting the otherwise arid landscape in the dry southern Caelish climate. He had always been told that the land outside the great City was nothing more than sand and dry, cracked dirt, a place unfit for all living things to roam or settle. They were wrong—all of them—and that made Fridok wonder what other lies he had been fed over the years that he had swallowed willingly.

Fridok felt the urge to say something to the Son, perhaps words of encouragement or support, but that kind of thing was simply not something Fridok knew how to do. The harsh reality of Solumian life in the City was that encouragement burdened them with a false hope, a debt that life never, ever paid. His people were better to accept their fate and do their work without complaint. Then, they might be able to at least keep their bellies filled and a roof over their heads. Happiness was a resource that was commerced only by the rich to themselves.

Since their silent departure, things had been especially awkward between Geilamir and the rest of the party. Geilamir’s father being at odds with the Son swept Geilamir up in that drama by proxy. Fridok understood the feeling of being an outcast, and he saw it in the way Geilamir kept himself aloof from the rest of the party. If Geilamir hadn’t already proven himself to be such a jackass, Fridok might have sympathized with the boy. At least Geilamir still had Alaric by his side, showing him some attention.

While they marched onward, everyone in the party rode horses except for the two young boys and Fridok who were forced to walk. Alaric rode side by side with Geilamir, talking with him at a low volume that Fridok couldn’t hear well enough to discern what they were saying. Fridok guessed that they were the consul’s speech and Geilamir’s father’s role in it. If there was one thing Fridok saw in Alaric's character, it was that he was an optimist, someone who couldn't help himself but to bring comfort to others. Fridok admired the boy's kindness, and thought about him often.

Calix Sibylla, ward to Isidore Maritium, approached Fridok early on their journey. “I saw your fight,” he said. The boy, who seemed confident despite his disfigurement, was apparently the son of some Senate consul from years prior and therefore was well above Fridok’s station, like everyone else there. Despite the fact that the boy’s family likely owned many horses, he was forced to walk along with the other neophyte, Xanthus Serapio, at the urging of the two older men in the party. This was apparently the way the nobles liked to handle young aspirants - breaking them down in order to build them back up to their liking.

“Yeah?” Fridok said in return. “So you saw me lose, then.”

“Only after I saw you doing a whole lot of winning,” Calix said with sincerity. Fridok decided to give the boy an honest look—up until this point he hadn’t regarded him for more than a few brief glimpses. He wanted to believe it was because of his own reserved personality and not because of the visceral reaction he had to the boy’s appearance. Now that he had taken the time to really take in the sight of him, Fridok got a better sense of the boy’s features.

The first things that stuck out, literally, were the boy’s eyeballs. They were off-puttingly wide-set, slightly cross-eyed, and bulged outward as if something was inside his head trying to get out through his eye sockets. His lower jaw protruded to a great extent and his teeth were crowded in his mouth. The boy's nose was unnaturally large and curved downward, somewhat resembling the beak of a bird. Had it not been for these overwhelming features, the boy might have been considered in good physical health by anybody with eyes. Fridok had to stop himself from staring, but also tried not to look away, as he felt like it might be rude of him to do so.

“It’s not going to hurt my feelings if you don’t look me in the eye,” the boy said. Clearly, he had to have tough skin to look the way he did and still try to make a name for himself. “I’d rather have you turn away in disgust than pretend like there’s nothing wrong with me at all, like everybody else does. They try to act like it’s normal for me to look the way I do and always make sure to say something about how handsome I’m getting while in the presence of my father. ‘See how his features are improving as he ages,’ or ‘he is really starting to bear a resemblance to Publius Veneratus.’ My name literally means beautiful. You don't know how often they like to point that little fact out.”

It was shameful for Fridok to think that getting a good look at the boy somehow took bravery on his part, when the boy was the one trying to survive in a society so consumed with vanity and perfection. He immediately felt regret at his prior judgment of the boy and was inspired by his boldness.

“You’re never going to be Publius Veneratus, kid,” Fridok said. “You might pass for one of his goats, though.” He had gone too far with that comment, and he knew it. The boy stared at him, mouth agape for a good, solid five seconds. Fridok needed to start making some allies in the group and here he was pushing away the very first one who gave him the time of day, aside from Alaric.

“I like you,” said Calix, to Fridok’s complete surprise. “You don’t really put on airs for anyone, do you?”

“No,” Fridok responded, with his typical stern brevity he showed to strangers. He pulled back a little from that tone of voice and said, “Never really saw any point in trying to pretty up words. I say what I mean and I speak only when I need to. Other people just like listening to the sound of their voice. Not me.”

“I can’t deny that.” Calix continued to walk alongside Fridok for a time. Fridok could tell that the boy was trying to come up with something to say, but perhaps didn’t want to annoy him, considering everything Fridok had just said. Fridok felt an ounce of pity for the boy and decided he would be the one to break the silence.

“So, you wanted to prove something to the whole world by coming along, is that right?” The boy remained silent after Fridok’s question. “I suppose you figured that you might as well do something honorable so people would start talking about that rather than that face of yours, am I right?”

“And what about you?” Calix countered. “Nobody talks about you at all, do they? You’re invisible to the world, so aren’t you just doing the same thing I am?”

The boy had hit a nerve, but Fridok knew better than to show it. He pondered the best way to reply, but then he realized he was still dealing with a child and boys were bound to do things intentionally to get a rise out of their victims. Fridok chucked and then clapped the boy on his back, impressed that he had been so quick-witted and perceptive.

“I think we will do just fine out here, you and I,” Fridok said amicably. "Until the demons rip us apart, of course."

Calix wore an uneasy smile, obviously bothered by Fridok’s casual premonition of their impending doom.

“Nobody’s going to die,” said a voice from behind. The voice belonged to Xanthus Serapio, the other young boy in the company. He must have been listening to the whole conversation, but the boy was so petite that he moved about very quietly, so quietly that Fridok hadn't noticed him.

“We’ve got the power of the Namer on our side,” Xanthus said with confidence. “You saw what happened in the arena. We can’t die as long as we’ve got the Son on our side.”

“We can still die,” said Calix. “Even if he brings us back, we still experience death. We still feel pain. I don’t know if it's wise to be as cavalier about it as you are. Seems like you’re skipping over the ugly part of all of this.”

“I am not afraid of death,” Xanthus again boasted. “I’ve seen the other side, you know.”

“No you haven’t,” said Calix.

“I sure have. I know for a fact we’ve got nothing to fear, and that there’s a better place awaiting us when we die. But that’s beyond the point I’m trying to make. We will not die. Not in the truest sense as long as we have Gifts on our side. That counts for way more than you are giving it credit.”

“It’s so easy to feel like everything is going to be alright when you’re born rich and handsome, isn’t it?” Calix added. Fridok was really starting to like the disfigured one.

“You’re handsomely rich, at least,” Xanthus quipped. “So I think you can get off your high horse, now.” “What horse?” Calix just had to add. It was about this time that Fridok realized that he would rather be walking by himself than stuck in the middle of a battle of childish bickering. He turned his attention forward in the caravan in the hopes that he could perhaps walk alongside Alaric. Unfortunately for Fridok, Alaric was still in the midst of private conversation with Geilamir. It was at this moment that Fridok felt entirely stupid now that his pride had rejected Alaric's offer to let him borrow one of his family’s many horses.

Not only was Alaric paired up with Geilamir, everyone else in the party was paired up with someone else as they walked. Isidore and Ervig were side-by-side, Euric and Bulgar were together, and Gailavira had taken to the side of the Son as they rode on into the mysterious wilderness. Fridok immediately regretted leaving Art behind in the City. Given some more time with him, a great friendship could have grown between the two of them. No battles would change the fact that Solumians had no place in a company of Primisian aristocrats.

Fridok walked at a small distance behind the rest of the caravan. He convinced himself he was guarding the rear, and would stick to that explanation if anyone bothered to ask him why he trailed so far behind. They walked like this for the greater part of the day, setting out northwest from the City which was settled on the southern coastline. He had sometimes heard the sound of the waves from within the City, and now understood what ocean waves actually looked like. The lands around the City were also loosely bordered by a large mountain range that spanned from the north out into the northeast. Supposedly they were going this way because the Son said would be worthless to venture east to the desolate wasteland where he had apparently come from.

As they continued their march, Fridok began to feel rather crestfallen about the whole expedition. He had imagined that their journey would consist of fighting tooth and nail through waves upon waves of monsters as they fulfilled their quest for glory. He hadn’t expected the trip to be so uneventful and full of mindless walking. He began spending a lot of time in the prison of his own head – a dark place that Fridok tried to avoid whenever possible. Yet, here he was again.

The caravan finally settled in the evening hours alongside a ridge that would offer some protection and cover. It was a good spot, and from the looks of the rubble, it might have been the location of some ancient ruin prior to the Fall of Man. There were no structures left standing, but there were slight hints of habitation from countless years before in the rocks that remained.

As they laid out their bedrolls and hitched their horses together against a lonely tree, the group got to enjoy their first meal together that day. The entire landscape, though teeming with plant life and birds, was rather devoid of anything they might have been able to hunt – much to the chagrin of Euric and Bulgar who apparently really wanted to shoot something. Everyone settled for the still-fresh breads and dried meats they had stashed in their saddlebags. Alaric shared his with Fridok, who didn’t have as much capacity in his packs as any of the horsemen, so only carried perish-resistant hard bread he had gotten from a Solumian baker that morning.

“I really wish you would have let me give you one of our horses,” Alaric said to Fridok. It was the first real bit of conversation that Alaric had made with Fridok on the first day, and Fridok wasn’t really in the mood to chat at this point. “How am I supposed to keep in good shape if I sit on my ass all day?” he said, half-sarcastically, half-accusatory and wholly jealous. “Fair enough,” Alaric said. “But maybe we should have a race to settle the matter of whose legs are in better shape?”

Fridok snorted. He knew Alaric was just feeding him back the same line of snark that he had dished out, but something in him leapt at the opportunity to challenge Alaric to another competition again, even if it was just a foot race. “You'll look like a fool running bowlegged like that, rich boy,” Fridok said. Alaric seemed rather delighted at the prospect that Fridok was actually willing to race him. The competitive nature of both could not be stopped.

“Geil, come adjudicate.”

Fridok wasn’t thrilled that Alaric had invited Geilamir into their private event. If Fridok lost, he could live with it because he had already lost to Alaric once before, and Alaric was at least a graceful winner. Geilamir, on the other hand, really didn’t need to be armed with any more ammunition against Fridok.

“What are we measuring?” Geilamir said, almost too excited. “How long until Beardo goes bald up top? I might make a terrible judge on that, on account of the fact that I sometimes blink, you know. Might miss it.”

Fridok, fueled with hot anger he did his best to conceal, stretched his legs and shed his traveling coat. He was determined to win to spite both of them. That drew the attention of the two boys, who quickly gathered nearby to watch the competition that was about to unfold.

“He can’t be serious,” said Xanthus to Calix, who was presently giving his own legs a rubdown, worn out from the long day of walking. “There is no way he isn’t exhausted.” Calix laughed excitedly. Fridok could hear everything they said. “You didn’t see this guy fight,” Calix said. “If anyone can win a race after walking for the entire day, I bet he can. He can. He's pretty fit.”

Fridok’s morale was boosted by the disfigured boy’s sudden vote of confidence. He had never had a fan before, so this was an entirely new feeling for him. It felt like a trick, even though he detected no ill will from the boy. That wasn’t to say that Xanthus was wrong, however. It was true that Fridok’s job of transporting rocks gave him thick, lean muscles on his thighs and calves, but he could not deny that they weren’t specifically conditioned to long distance travel. Just then the spectacle started to gather a bit larger of a crowd.

Euric and Bulgar had taken notice of Fridok and Alaric preparing to race, and stood nearby to watch the feat. Fridok suddenly felt like quite a fool, destined to fail spectacularly if he went through with the race.

“We don’t actually need to do this,” Alaric said under his breath to Fridok. It was an extension of mercy, which Fridok took to mean that Alaric saw no victory possible for Fridok.

“Would you like to yield, then?” Fridok said, smugly. He was over-playing his confidence and they both knew it. “If you put it like that, then, no. I’m pretty happy to be 'off my ass' right now, if I’m being honest. I just don’t know about how your feet are doing. That’s all I’m saying. If you really wanna do it, we can wait until the morning.”

“Don’t you worry about me, young man.”

Alaric grimaced. He clearly felt confident in his ability. Fridok was ready to put everything on the line to win, and nothing was going to stand in his way of winning this competition. Fridok was tired, but his legs were at least warmed up.

“I love all of this,” said Geilamir, overjoyed in what he must have detected as an overplayed hand on the part of Fridok. “Well, shall we get this demonstration started?”

Fridok nodded, eyebrows furrowed, at Alaric, who clearly regretted suggesting the challenge.

“Alright, men,” Geilamir announced so that the whole camp could hear. “Ready yourselves. The finish mark is that line of shrubs over there. Whosoever touches a bush first shall be proclaimed the victor. Five. Four. Three. Two. One…"

With that, the two were off, much to the excitement of the onlookers. Fridok committed himself fully to the endeavor despite having to push through the pain of the acid running through his leg muscles. Alaric was still younger and far better rested, so he pulled ahead fairly soon after they began. Knowing what shame awaited him if he lost, Fridok pressed his legs forward with wild instability – a kind of run that could quickly end in catastrophe if he stepped wrongly but one time. But Fridok didn’t miss a single step, and he soon caught up to Alaric and even surpassed him in the race. He was so excited to have his efforts pay off, that he threw all caution to the wind in an all-in attempt to crash into the finish mark.

Except it wasn’t only a bush that Fridok would crash into that day. Just out of their sight, directly behind the line of bushes, was a small chasm in the ground that was completely hidden to all except the two runners as they drew nearer. Fridok simply had no chance to react fast enough to stop himself from an inevitable tumble directly into the hole. So, instead, he did his best to turn his body so that his back would hit the side of the crevasse rather than his ribs, which would have likely cracked with the momentum of the sudden stop.

The last thing Fridok saw before he bounced off the rock and down into the dark place below was Alaric, watching in horror from above as Fridok plummeted uncontrollably to uncertain depths. Fridok did what he could to brace for impact, but his head bounced hard against the rock wall, rendering him unconscious just before hitting the ground below.