THE APOSTATE SAINT

“I look like a complete fool, and you know it,” Fridok said, fully exposing the shame he felt for embarrassing himself in front of the warriors he was supposed to be in league with. Alaric didn’t try to deny Fridok’s feelings, though he likely wanted to comfort him. Kind words couldn’t change the fact that Fridok had nearly died due to his lack of spatial awareness. The chasm he fell into was well-hidden from their starting point, but that was an excuse for ordinary men, not the City’s finest. The world was filled with demons lurking around every corner; a warrior who didn’t prepare for every danger was a liability to the entire group.

“If it makes you feel any better, you were beating me in the race,” Alaric said, though it was little consolation. Fridok wanted to be better than Alaric, but his brush with death made him reconsider his priorities. It was a low point for Fridok, and that said a lot considering his life’s hardships.

“Just look at them. See how they talk among themselves? They know I don’t belong here. Now I’ve given them all the justification they need to shut me out. It doesn’t matter how good I am with a sword. To them, I’m just another Solum, and worse, a liability—an untrained, unsophisticated nobody who shouldn’t even be here.”

“But you do deserve to be here,” Alaric said softly.

“No, I don’t.”

Fridok knew how pathetic he must sound to Alaric. He wasn’t giving his new friend much reason to stay by his side. Fridok never shared his feelings, which was a problem because he could use a good venting of his frustrations. He hoped he wouldn’t be too overbearing and drive Alaric away. He needed a friend now more than ever but couldn’t bring himself to expose any vulnerabilities.

Alaric looked as if he had an idea but then stopped himself, rubbing his ears with his palms as he often did after the supposed attack by the screaming demon. It was easier to attend to his own problems than to struggle to understand Fridok’s. Fridok desperately wanted to crawl out of the figurative hole he had fallen into, but he looked to Alaric for rescue. Alaric seemed to recognize his plight, even though no words could convince Fridok of his self-worth. Fridok was a realist; he needed proof.

The fire crackled as Isidore poked at it. As the last bit of sunlight fled beyond the western horizon, Fridok realized it would get cold if he didn’t find a place near the others sitting in a circle. He couldn’t bring himself to join them, though. Instead, he thought about Alaric and how the cold might affect his damaged eardrums after the demon attack.

“Head to the fire,” Fridok said sternly. “I’ll be over shortly.”

Alaric, still unable to find the right words, walked over to join the others. As he did, Fridok caught Geilamir peering back to see if he was also coming. Fridok took a deep breath and rubbed his arms. He knew he should bite his lip and go over there, but his feeling of estrangement only widened as he saw Alaric join the conversation, even laughing at a joke Fridok was too far away to hear. So, he languished in his self-pity.

Every time Alaric looked back at him, Fridok turned away, pretending to be interested in something else. Tiring of the game, he decided to at least appear useful. He hated his behavior and decided to put on airs that he was keeping away from the group for a practical reason. Fridok saw an opportunity in a large rock nearby and decided to use it as a lookout post. He didn’t realize the rock was already manned by a sentry.

“Oh, I didn’t see you were already at the lookout,” Fridok said to Bulgar, who was watching the distance, bow at the ready. “I’ll leave you to it.” Fridok started back toward the camp but was halted.

“Why don’t you join me?” Bulgar said, with a tone of pain Fridok recognized. “You can watch the East; I’ll watch the West.”

Fridok hesitated but decided that being with one person he didn’t belong with was better than being around nine others. He swallowed his pride and climbed up to sit next to Bulgar, facing the opposite way. Fridok was thankful Bulgar had asked him to watch the East, so he didn’t have to look at the camp. For a few minutes, they watched for any signs of movement in the dark, giving Fridok a chance to focus on something else.

Settling into a comfortable level of discomfort, Fridok realized how little he could see. Inside the City, there was always some light at night. Here, the only light was from the Great Band in the sky, the wide twinkling river of wonder that had captivated him during his hardest moments. It was a thing of beauty, hampered by the obfuscation of city lights. In the wilderness, the Band’s glory reigned unfettered. It made Fridok consider his place in the vast, unconquered world.

By the time Bulgar spoke, Fridok had begun to loosen his grip on the shame from his embarrassing encounter with fate. How small his problems seemed against the vastness of the night sky.

“Does it still hurt?” Bulgar asked. “The injuries from your fall, I mean.”

Fridok thought about it. Beyond the psychological reverberance from where his body had hit the cave walls, no physical pain remained. The Son’s Gifts had taken away all of that, leaving him with the burden of knowing he had proven himself a liability. He was still working through those emotions, mostly feeling angry and ashamed.

“No,” Fridok said. He thought about revealing his feelings but stopped. Bulgar and his cousin Euric were likable, but Fridok wasn’t interested in talking about his feelings, especially when they were only half-formed. He had learned after his mother’s death that sharing feelings was lowering a shield, something enemies delighted in.

“It looked like it must have hurt like hell,” Bulgar noted. Fridok dwelt on the fall, remembering the fear but not the impact. He knew he had lost the assurance of the ground under his feet and nothing more before being woken by the Son. Fridok decided not to withhold information in case Bulgar proved trustworthy. “I don’t remember anything. One second I was mid-sprint, and the next I was falling. Then, nothing. I don’t remember hitting the bottom at all.”

“So you don’t remember the screamer, then?”

“No. Only what I’ve been told.”

“Did your ears hurt when you came to?” The question gave Fridok pause. If the demon’s shrieking was as bad as they said, his eardrums must have sustained similar damage to Alaric’s. But Fridok felt no discomfort in his ears. So why was Alaric still rubbing his ears as if they were still ringing?

“No. I felt like nothing had happened at all. I even woke up rested, and my legs don’t ache from the day’s travels.”

Bulgar’s silence for the next ten seconds clued Fridok in that the quiet archer had something he wanted to ask but hesitated. Fridok decided to make it easier.

“Go ahead and say what you want to say.”

“Did you see it?” Bulgar asked. “The afterlife?”

Fridok stared into Bulgar’s eyes, seeing a hopeful longing he recognized. He had gone through the same thought process, full of grief and anger. Fridok knew what answer Bulgar wanted and thought carefully before responding.

Fridok was usually straightforward and honest. He hated liars and cheats, especially among his own people. So, his response to Bulgar’s question went against his principles. He would regret it later, but for a moment, he gave Bulgar the assurance he had once wished for during his mourning.

“It was brief,” he started, unsure if he should continue. “But I know exactly what I saw.” It was too late to stop. “My mother.” Bulgar prostrated himself, still facing the West. Fridok heard Bulgar exhale, knowing he had given the young man hope to see his dead sister again. Bulgar’s revitalization came at the cost of Fridok’s integrity. He didn’t remember anything between his fall and waking. There was no epiphany. For all he knew, nothing awaited him after death. The end would be just that—the end.

The two men allowed the chilly air to pass over them in silence. Bulgar had gotten what he needed, and Fridok didn’t ruin that comfort. They remained in their respective solitudes, staring into the dark for over an hour until their peace was shattered by a terrible sound near the camp.

A scream, inhuman and intolerable even from a distance, arose like an alarm bell. Fridok finally understood why Alaric acted as if he could still hear the demon’s voice. To make matters worse, the demon wasn’t alone.

The stillness of the black night was gone. Crawling over the land like a bloodthirsty swarm, hundreds of twinkling eyes darted toward the camp like sharks to chummed waters. It was as if the Great Band had fallen upon them, separating Fridok and Bulgar from their group. The demons, it seemed, controlled the wilderness just as the stories said. There would be no chance for any of them to escape this conflict.