Hunted

[Ran Azshmatha]

May 14, 122PW

Eikos was dead.

That great mountain of a man, a solemn, humorless man in the hated uniform of Eyropa’s imperial army, let out a chortling laugh as he stared at the spearpoint protruding from his abdomen. That wound was not fatal, but the next one was, and Ran saw it from far away, glimpsed it briefly as a ravenous mastiff hound fell upon the dying man along with its rabid master.

That was one week ago. Ran had no idea why the old soldier had given up his life for the young alchemist, and the question nagged at him. Understanding was in the core of Ran’s being as an alchemist, but the young man had little time or leisure available to him to ponder this question; the bandits, at least the few who had been let loose to find and slay him, were surely hot on his trail.

So instead, Ran dreamt the unresolved riddle in his heart, watching--in the nights when he slept—the face of the Eyropan soldier moments before his death, the determined blue eyes Ran had to crane his neck to look into as the alchemist was ushered to safety, and some nights when Eikos died in Ran’s dreams his face turned old and wrinkled and dark, and Oruhan lay in a pool of blood, yellow speckled eyes open but unseeing, the color of the desert sand on a rare muggy morning.

But Ran didn’t have time to consider his dreams. The Hamil Kha alchemist knew that there was only enough energy left in him to maintain his failing body, and soon that little energy would leave him and there would be no more pain, no more cold aches numbing his body and no more invisible knives scraping the inside of his abdomen, no more of this cold and wet and miserable continent but then Ran thought about home and suddenly there was fire—an inner flame that mirrored Ran’s memories of the desert plains where he grew up and learned to be a man. He would die this man, he vowed, not a dog with a sorry leash around his neck. And so he pressed on.

On the third day since Eikos had died, Ran found the river; knew that it ran south and knew he needed to head north. On the sixth day, Ran saw in the distance, across the roaring river, the peripheral buildings of the city of Marn, and on the other side a small forest. By then the alchemist was struggling even to walk, and the wrenching, throbbing pain on the side of his abdomen had grown so great that it ran the breath of his body so that it took Ran over a day to reach the woodland.

By now Ran was delirious. A fever ran deep into the core of his being, and at the same time the chilling numbness had almost taken over his senses. Even in this state, Ran briefly entertained the thought of cleaning up his appearance.

Ran was filthy: his woolen cloak was ripped and ragged, smeared with the thick, uneven brown of the earth’s humus and dried blood. Dirt and grimier things covered his sand-yellow hair, which hung in thin threaded braids, many of which had unravelled and stuck to his sickly sallow skin. The smell of infection and rot creeped from a spearwound which Ran had dressed himself, without much skill or care.

But the young alchemist had reached the end of his reserves. Depleted, all Ran could do was to stagger to the edge of the town which he glimpsed through the woods. Light was fast fading from the sky, and soon it would be dark and Ran knew if he was not found and treated, he would be dead come morning. Perhaps whoever found him would not be as kind as he would have hoped; with him being as weak as he was, and looking like he did, Ran knew it was just as likely whoever found him would cut his throat and leave his body naked to the elements.

Either way he was dead, so Ran rolled the dice—dragging his body to where houses began to dot the sparely wooded land, the young man collapsed on the dirt. Night had fallen on the land, and perhaps for the alchemist as well.

[Saruna]

Deal with a Changer's get, that was what she'd done. Saruna could still smell Cal's foul body odor, the stink of alcohol on his breath and the look in his eyes. She'd tried to not look too deeply into those eyes, but even for the small space she'd seen them had seared them into her memory. She was unused to dealing with that sort of man. Those sort of people. Places. She tormented herself with it on the long walk home, scarcely noticing the long meandering path she took or the slow shuffle of her walk. She felt old. She was old, by anyone's reckoning.

Changers, she missed Derin. It was a sore, ripped-scab hurt right off the death of her husband. She'd not heard much from Rosemary, or Fayane, or even Kori. It was enough after the day she'd had to wonder at the memories; the circumstances that had brought her up to Cal's sorry attentions had become foggy and unreal.

Saruna was shaking by the time she saw her home. When she saw the body sprawled not too far away from her garden, she nearly stopped breathing. There was a difficulty in catching her breath, so she stood dumbstruck. The shaking doubled, and she hunched into a crone's posture as desperate sounds tore out of her. She wanted to cry and scream, but she was not so young as to have the energy for a full tantrum. She barely had the energy to bark out the strange sounds, those laughing sobs at fate's cruel ability to spit in her face right when she thought she couldn't take any more. Now a body? Maybe she would be thrown into Justice Hall again, and this time they wouldn't shoo her out with their scratching pens. No. Those thoughts were useless to her. There was work to be done, and Saruna Rischett had never been the kind of woman to cringe away from work. She simply would not think about what she was doing.

First was to check to see if the body was cold or warm. That settled, she went inside her home to collect a filled bucket of the water she'd fetched earlier that morning. Even if she was thirty years younger she doubted she could move the man. He was not exceptionally large, as Kori was, but he was the size of a man grown and she had never been a physically strong woman. She settled with a rag and her bucket before him, her own body protesting that it was long past the time she should be abed, and tried not to pay heed to his stink. The day seemed to be dedicated to foul smelling men with no care for personal appearance.

This stranger wasn't her business. She should turn him over to authorities used to dealing with washed up drunks and cut up gang members. But to give him to Marn. . .even with the betrayal of Gustel fresh in her mind, she couldn't send for the guard. She simply couldn't. She wet the rag and stared at him, all of him, and laughed bitterly at herself. She put her knuckles to the bridge of her nose, shook her head, and stood up with the bucket in hand. Saruna could not drag him into her home, and was unwilling to spend her night on her knees in the dim light of evening tending to some scalawag who'd decided just by coincidence to land himself and his problems at her already troubled doorstep. No. There was too much sickness in her heart to do so. Too much of Derin's presence.

She dumped the water over his head.

[Ran Azshmatha]

Ran was down, but not out. Not completely, anyway--it was like he was underwater, trying to hear what went on beyond the surface but hearing only muffled sounds, trying to see but seeing only shadows. He heard sounds he thought were animal noises, he wasn't sure. The noise reminded him of the desert coyotes crying at the death of their own, but he couldn't be sure. Ran was losing to the delirium and he began to see visions of his home. Vast, dry, and comfortable, full with the the unbearable but comforting heat of the fiery sun. Yes, dry--no more would he live, forever drenched in mud and rain and tears and blood, just the fine granules of sand and rock for miles and miles and the soft, dry embrace of a woman with dark skin and darker hair, eyes like sapphire and Ran felt peace.

Peace. Was that how his story ended? The young alchemist was suddenly unsure. He was floating in an infinite expanse of white, and he felt as if he was being embraced by his mother, his friends, all of his lovers that he had known, and Oruhan, his uncle. Ran stared at the cracked face of his uncle, weathered but intact. It was good, but it was not real. Not true.

"Oru... han," said Ran in the midst of his vision, his death throes. His uncle was smiling, and held out his small, calloused hands toward the young man.

"Ran Azshmatha," Oruhan's voice was as Ran remembered it as a young boy, deep with authority, gentle with wisdom, tempered by strength not yet robbed by age, "I name you my heir.

Ran, the prince of Hamil Kha," Oruhan had said this to him jokingly, years ago when they still lived in the desert, and Ran had laughed with glee and ran to his friends and to Sara and boasted and bragged, and he and his friends celebrated in their youthful joy.

"Uncle," cried Ran, his voice full of love and longing--in this vision, Oruhan was his home, the entire weight of Ran's diasporic grief made manifest, "Elder of our tribe, the Great Interpreter, Oruhan!

I feel that home is near, dear uncle. I feel the heat of the desert plains and the scent of our women's cooking. I can see old friends, now with children of their own, dancing under the desert stars--yet I feel like a wretched coward. Is this truly how my story ends?"

Oruhan's old and weathered face smiled at Ran kindly. He mouthed some words but Ran could not hear.

Then the alchemist's death throes receded in the most violent manner possible, his dream world shattering to a million fine fragments with the jarring sensation of water being upended on his head; Ran gasped as he instinctively pushed up against the ground, eyes flying open and in his mouth he tasted dirt and blood and bile.

A wet, gurgling sound escaped his throat and Ran began to cough, each cough sending spasms of pain originating from the wound on his abdomen. He felt like shit, but he was alive--the pain and discomfort was testament to that.

Through bleary eyes Ran saw a human figure, but struggled as he might, the alchemist lacked the mental focus to make out any details. Man? Woman? It did not matter. He bit through the pain and spoke in a rasping voice and his words were thick with an accent he could not mask in his condition:

"Help me."

[Saruna]

The wrinkles in Saruna's face bit deeply due to her stress and fatigue as she stared down at the pitiful form. It was good he was conscious, she told herself, good he could talk. Despite that she could not completely banish her deep sense of dismay.

"You will have to get up on your own. I am an old woman who lives alone, and I have not the strength to bring you inside. If you can get inside, I will help you."

He was foreign, a stranger to Marn and all of its sordid secrets. Somehow, that knowledge did not make her feel any better.

[Ran Azshmatha]

The alchemist slowly shook off the fog of pain and exhaustion. It was strange--the pain was still there, an alarmingly dull ache, but he no longer had the sensation of being underwater. A slight wind caused Ran to shudder. Though thoroughly uncomfortable, his vision and hearing were returning to him.

The human figure besides him spoke in a voice he recognized as an old woman. He felt better after hearing her words. In her voice there was a weariness that spoke of vulnerability; there was a measure of safety in those who were vulnerable, for they understood injustice and tended to dislike it. And there in her voice was the willingness to help, and Ran took strength from that.

With some effort, Ran slowly got on his hands and knees. Remaining in this position, the alchemist took a moment to catch his breath before using what strength he had left to drag his body to a semi-standing position. Ran was kneeling on one leg, but at least he was somewhat upright and would be able to drag and shuffle his way to the house, which he saw now was not far from where they were.

Ran took this chance to look at the old woman's face. He could not make out much in the dim light of evening, but somehow her wrinkled face reminded him of Oruhan's worn wisdom and the young alchemist managed to give the woman a wan smile.

"Thank you. I think I can manage to make it," and then the alchemist found the strength to add: "Ran. My name is Ran. Thank you."

With that, Ran began a slow shuffle towards the front of the house. For all the second wind he was getting, he knew he needed to rest and soon.

[Saruna]

Memories were such a heavy burden. Saruna held herself back as Ran struggled, hating the deep confliction within herself that at once strained towards and was repelled from him. Her hands shook where she had them clasped on the bucket and the rag, and she wanted to touch him and aid him. She knew better than that now. Lessons were not so easy to learn when you thought you had life figured out, but Saruna had fallen too often recently to pretend around them. She should have known better than to even try.

"I will prepare." She said before she could cave in, and hurried past him without acknowledging his name. Once upon a time, her children had brought rescued animals to her. They could not afford livestock of any sort, and a pet was a luxury their peasant income could not afford. Naming pets, or acknowledging their names, made giving them up a knife in the heart. When this latest pitiful person left, who would sit up with her at night stroking her hair and patting her back?

She left the door open behind her as she went inside and started lighting lamps and candles. She'd need light to see him well enough to address his wounds. Scrapes she could fix, some cuts she could sew. If anything was too badly damaged she'd have to readdress the situation, but in the meantime she started a fire and filled up one of her larger pans. She collected a bundle of rags, and draped an old blanket over the most comfortable cushioned chair her husband had made. After a thought she spread some of the larger rags around the bottom of it. She added another blanket to the chair, just in case.

She pulled out shears, fetched spindles that could -- in theory -- double as splints if those were needed, and brought a bolt of sturdy linen she could use for bandages. She filled a pot with room temperature water, and turned expectantly towards the doorway. She held ready to point Ran to the covered chair, all without the necessity of speaking. She'd helped wounded animals for her children. It only fit she would help a wounded man for her own loneliness and guilt.

[Ran Azshmatha]

The few moments it took for Ran to reach the front door were stretched out to an eternity by his discomfort. Nevertheless, Ran felt great relief as he pulled himself on the chair which the old woman had prepared for him. He sighed and felt his energy leave him. For the past four weeks, Ran had gotten little sleep for the fear of ambush; Ran had seen the city of Marn though, and although this town wasn't as well protected, a small party of bandits probably wouldn't attack such a large and well-organized settlement.

The alchemist reached into his cloak and with some struggle, freed the two fist-sized pouches he had hanging off a strap that went across his chest. Each pouch held 25 bishani. He held it out for the old woman, but his strength failed him and the alchemist settled for dropping them beside his chair. The pouches fell to the floor with a light jingle.

"Please, take these. For your kindness and for the cost of my care," Ran paused to take some breaths and undid his cloak; the tan woolskin cloak slid off Ran's body and fell to the floor. Darkness was descending on him quickly and the alchemist searched around his head for the thing he needed to say before he let sleep overtake him. Ran looked at the old woman and pointed to the side of his abdomen, where his shirt was torn. Dirty bandages could be seen through the tear.

"A wound on my side... from a spear. It's infected and needs to be cleaned. Please."

Finally out of steam, Ran fell into an uneasy sleep.

[Saruna]

Offer any boy, or man for that matter, a comfortable chair before a fire and the promise of motherly attentions and they melted before you. Saruna was almost bemused but for the matronly impatience she felt, and the ache in her bones. She left the money where it had fallen, and got to work.

Saruna had a good stomach. She'd mothered five children, and bought live animals at market to butcher for their meals. She was not shocked at the wound itself, but she was disgusted at its state. She cut away his clothes, holding them with the two-finger distaste she reserved for things she considered garbage. She was tempted to cut clothes until he sat nude before her like a baby. She wanted to dress him down for the lack of care shown to his own body, but that would imply she was growing feelings for him. She was not.

She squinted and dabbed, rubbed and pinched, sewed and dressed. When she had done all she could, the tremble in her hands was purely physical, and she was far too tired to wonder why she bothered. For once in her life, she simply hadn't the energy to tidy up. She left him and his ruined clothes, and everything she had used where they lay, and simply went to bed.

Morning came too soon. For the first time she could recall in ten years she slept past dawn. She uttered a prim curse when she saw the amount of light flooding her window, and got out of bed as quickly as she could. It was not as quick as it had been ten years ago, let alone one. Changers above she ached. Her body didn't want to move, but she made it. She shuffled out to the kitchen, one hand on her lower back and the other fingering the disorderly strands of hair she'd neglected to plait the night before. She surveyed the mess before her with muted horror, fingers automatically smoothing out and sorting her hair. Once it was in order, she started in on the disorderly state of her living area.

Midday came before she was ready for it to. She was all out of sorts. She'd meant to work on some sewing projects to earn herself more money for the things she needed done, the people she intended to pay a small salary. Instead she was barely getting breakfast into her small stone oven and hadn't had the time to fetch her daily water. She'd picked up most of the dirtiest remnants of the previous night's work, but so much moving around and bending had reawakened the fatigue from the night before, and the pots and clean linen she hadn't used were still scattered across the floor.

She found herself stopping to sit without wanting to, breathing deeply with her hands on her knees and her eyes on her unwelcome guest. Why did she do this to herself? Everyone left her. That was fact.

[Ran Azshmatha]

Ran slept.

He did not quite dream, yet neither was his slumber peaceful. Several weeks of desperate running punctuated by intense violence had habituated a certain state of mind in the young alchemist, and then it followed him to last night's sleep. It was a vague impression of running through thick and alien forests, slipping on undergrowth, the muffled sounds of chasing feet, a distant sensation of panic.

Ran slept until it was too light for him to sleep, and woke up with the distinct sensation that he had not slept enough. Yet he felt good, much better than he had felt in weeks. Maybe it was the smell? The smell of a clean house, all wood, fabric, and food. The alchemist kept his eyes closed and savored the scent for a while. When he did try to open them, he found that he had trouble lifting his lids. A heavy force pulled down on them and he blinked several times to chase some of it away.

Spotting the old woman, Ran attempted to speak to her. Only a dry rasp came out of his parched throat.

[Saruna]

Saruna jumped. Was her guest awake? She pushed herself up, slowly, pretending she hadn't just flinched like a little girl confronted with a frog. Good hosts did not allow themselves to be caught resting their laurels when there was still work to be done. Her home might be worn and stained in places from years of good living, but she'd be a Changer's apprentice before she allowed it to be seen in anything other than order. She steeled herself to the pain as she gathered up the remains of last night's work.

"Are you awake? Hungry? Thirsty? I shall have to fetch more water, but there should be enough from yesterday remaining for a morning drink."

[Ran Azshmatha]

Ran felt a small bit of shame at his helplessness, but weeks spent with his life on the line made him feel that such shame was trivial. He needed to get better first, and live, before he could repay anyone's kindness.

Ran tried to speak again, and to his embarrassment failed miserably; only the same dry rasping sound. The alchemist made something of a show of clearing his throat. Despite this difficulty, Ran's spirits were rising and he gave the old woman a wry smile as he whispered: "Yes... water is good."

[Saruna]

Saruna put the gathered objects in a neat pile onto the chair she'd been sitting on, using Ran's request as an excuse to delay the inevitable trip back to her work room. Changers, she didn't want to think of that short walk, much less the tiring effort of hauling water. There was a garden to prune, as well, and. . .

She fetched the water.

The cup Saruna handed him was wooden and old, sealed to rot and polished by the touch of many fingers. She watched him expectantly.

[Ran Azshmatha]

When Ran saw the old woman return with the cup, he realized just how thirsty he really was. An eager light glinted in his eyes as he took the cup. Ran drank deeply and slowly in measured gulps, without breathing until the final drop had been poured into his throat. He let out a sigh of satisfaction. The alchemist savored the feeling of rejuvenation, almost magical like one of the potions he had made in the past. Perhaps there was magic in the act of drinking water, a mundane but primal magic in the act. Certainly, it was possible.

He inspected his body, noting that most of his dirty clothing had been cut off and his wound cleaned and dressed with care. Suddenly, it was difficult to contain his joy. Yes, sadness--the dark images of blood and filth, those had not passed yet. Ran did not yet understand, but that could wait. Ran looked to the old woman and smiled. He had not done so in a long time, not the genuine kind, and it felt strange to be smiling so.

"Thank you. I feel much better. You have done a great service for me... I'd like to know your name," and just for good measure, Ran added: "My name is Ran. Ran Azshmatha."

As was his custom, Ran did not twist the pronunciation of his name but kept it true to the sound of his native language.

[Saruna]

There was some awkwardness in talking to Ran. Saruna hadn't the strength to roll him off the cut off clothes, so they were still beneath him. She'd draped a blanket over him -- she had an extensive supply of quilts and the like she'd deemed unworthy of sale -- so her hard work wouldn't be ruined by cold. It was good to be smiled at. She found herself smiling back before she could lecture him about the wound and its worryingly reddened surroundings.

His name cleared her smile. "So you told me last night." Manners interceded her intended rudeness of withholding her own name, and she lifted her chin at him. "You may call me Saruna. You are filthy and I intend to burn your clothing."

Hah. Let's see how he reacted to that. The slight edge of burnt flour reminded her she had bread and pastries to attend to, and she walked stiffly to the fire and contained oven above it that the sofas were positioned around. Her living space was small, as was to be expected, but she was well to do for a peasant woman. She had three small bedrooms as well as the workroom, not to mention the living space. The living space itself included the fire, oven, comfortable chairs, small table and the water barrel. A few pots and pans collected over several lifetimes from her mother's people were affixed neatly and orderly to the wall. A small, well built cabinet held implements for eating and cooking. She was downright wealthy compared to some, and she kept it all in neat order.

[Ran Azshmatha]

"Saruna," Ran said under his breath, feeling out the name. He rolled the name over his tongue and in his mind, some because she saved his life, but also because the alchemist had the idea that Saruna quite liked him and was trying not to show it. At least, that's what his gut instincts had told him, and over the years the man had honed his instincts for reading people, if not due to desire then to necessity.

For nine years, Ran had been forced to wander from place to place--never at home, never at ease. Even at Semerkhet, he had been a stranger due to appearance alone. To the north across the sea, the man and his tribal mates were perpetual outsiders. The itinerant group posed a challenge to the sheltered, uneducated and sedentary population of North Eyropa. Even the very few well-traveled or educated carried with them only ill-formed prejudices about the kind of people the Hamil Kha alchemists were. From the start, Ran learned to pay close attention to people for they were often suspicious, sometimes dangerous.

Ran was the youngest of the Hamil Kha alchemists who were displaced, with the two others younger than him being left with the tribe. Those two he simultaneously envied and pitied, for though left with their own people, the survival of the entire tribe weighed heavily upon the shoulders of the inexperienced apprentices.

Of the alchemists who were forced to leave, Ran adjusted the fastest and most ably to the alien culture of North Eyropa. The first few years were difficult, and Ran stuck to the company of his older companions. It was from his desire for passion and intimacy that the young man first decided to increase his social ability. In time, Ran developed a genuine aptitude for reading the subconscious signs a human being used to communicate their inner thoughts and emotions. And without being able to put it into words--and perhaps due largely to the language barrier that existed between him and the rest of the world--the alchemist could, with focus and a bit of luck, construct a somewhat accurate reading of a person.

Or quite simply, he had developed into a sensitive man, who paid attention to the details of his interaction with others.

Out of habit, Ran ran Saruna's words in his head; dissected and analyzed them, to extract from them potential implications. There was something there. A distaste? Disgust?

Suddenly, as he did so often, Ran felt the sting of rejection, a sensation which was reflexive and habitual, occurring any time the alchemist felt that he was in danger of being victim to it. But there was also that smile. A mystery. Unless... then as he had suspected, there was conflict in her. Ran felt a sudden solemn sense of realizing a deeper truth, of understanding: even in the peaceful confines of this house, within the heart of an old and kind woman, lay conflict. Certainly not the kind of conflict that drove him here, but conflict nevertheless.

Ran felt the weight of the past month reassert its colossal presence above his shoulders, and he felt the squeezing of a migraine. And he wasn't sure what it was that triggered it, but tears began to water his eyes and the man cried quietly, mourning exactly what, he could not tell.