The Aethretics Saga, Arc II: Chapter One
July 9, 2018The Aethretics Saga, Arc II: Chapter Three
November 1, 2018[blank_spacer height=”30px” width=”1/6″ el_position=”first”] [spb_single_image image=”14446″ image_size=”full” frame=”noframe” intro_animation=”none” full_width=”no” lightbox=”yes” link_target=”_self” width=”2/3″ el_position=”last”] [blank_spacer height=”30px” width=”1/1″ el_position=”first last”] [spb_text_block pb_margin_bottom=”no” pb_border_bottom=”no” width=”1/1″ el_position=”first last”]
(A little lost? Read the Intro, the Prelude, and if you’re game, Chapter One)
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Arc II, Chapter Two
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The village of Donnegal acquires a mysterious and serene quality once night falls.
At least, some would describe it that way. Others would consider it more dangerous and forbidding.
The surrounding lands are exorbitantly lush and green, providing the region with an abundance of moisture.
The cool air from the mountains pours down most formidably once the sun makes its exit.
As a result, this moisture is speedily chilled from a vapor to a dense fog. Powerful mists engulfed the village each and every night, even in the summer.
Locals have adjusted to these conditions by employing an intellectually solid two step program.
Step one: locate a source of light
Step two: move towards the source of light
Donnegal, eager to keep Its villagers from moving to a locale with nighttime visibility, designed its lamppost layout so they would lead to one another. The distance between them was to be equidistant and none too far.
If you can locate a light, even just one, you can find your way.
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This night in particular possessed an opacity most vigorous.
Mists such as these were not unheard of. Though they were certainly rare.
Sight became extremely limited. The swirling soup of wet, heavy air readily swallowed up the smaller lamps used by most homes and buildings. Even the lampposts were only effective at short distances.
Only the brightest of lights could be seen from afar.
In a instance of historic brilliance, a Mr. Shpealig (the tavern’s founder) spent the remainder of his savings on the installation of an overly comprehensive system of lanterns. One lantern for each and every window.
There was no shortage of windows at the Grievous Glen. The tavern had once been an small inn with a cozy myriad of rooms. Once the inn had been transferred to Shpealig’s name, he hired a few locals to tear down all the interior walls, making way for a grand barroom that commanded an impressive two thousand square feet. This extent of real estate —designed solely for one’s inebriation — was unheard of for the region.
This vast system of illumination required tremendous upkeep. It was a fortunate outcome for the current owner, Stollin, that Maedoc showed up when he did. There were no others who had any desire to spend the best hours of the night shuffling candles and scrubbing wax. All they had to do was hole him up in their old stockroom, which everyone was fairly certain was haunted anyways.
This broad and dependably bright light, in turn, served as an alluring whirlpool for any traveler wishing to make his or her way through the region. For the sake of one’s safety, stopping by the Glen was essentially mandatory.
All sorts of individuals found their way to this place on nights like these. There was no telling what might be lulled in.
Those present on this particular night were witness to a spectacle.
Burly man. A narrow youth. Two arms and ten seconds of fierce table-based combat.
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The boy drew a breath and closed his eyes.
This action lasted only a moment. But in times such as these, there is much that can happen within the scope of a breath.
Time can become slippery. Almost anything can transpire in one’s mind.
What Maedoc required was a complete reset. Were he to begin this absurd test of strength now, the man would certainly feel him shake. It goes without saying that the boy was currently quite anxious.
The last thing he wanted was a proclamation of this to the bar. People already saw him as perpetually on edge. Timid, even.
In this single moment he allotted himself, he was careful to take the cleanest, surest breath he could muster. His lashes were closed with utmost fluidity and care, as if ferried on water. The eyes were “shut down,” momentarily dead — this way the muscles would slacken. They had incrementally tightened as the evening had worn on, for reasons not entirely mysterious.
This ritual had been done verbatim a thousand times before. And a thousand times before that.
Each of those times, its effect on stress was minimal, but palpable. Limbs loosened, a few knots were combed out of his innards. His heart slowed down a beat. It did what it could, and he was thankful for whatever he could get.
But this
time
was
different.
He found himself kicked into another gear, which is the opposite effect hoped for when one deadens his or her body.
It was as though the muscles in his face and head had slackened to the point of snapping apart entirely. There was nothing holding him together. He felt himself falling.
Falling into himself.
And he was a terrifyingly deep pit, as it turned out.
Maedoc squeezed his eyes open wide, arms flailing out to his sides as he tried to catch himself. Looking around, he saw that he was still sitting firmly in his provided chair.
From the way everyone had their eyes glued to him — dumbstruck by his spontaneous flapping episode — he would be hard pressed to fall off of anything.
Thinking quick, he put a hand on his right shoulder and gave his arm a wide, vertical spin. He then did the same to his left.
“Ahhhh that’s a g-good stretch! Yup.”
Maedoc stretched his vision to the corner of his eye, curious if anyone had bought it. The slowly encroaching tunnel vision didn’t make this very feasible, so he gave it up and simply hoped for the best.
The boy could still feel his core on the cusp of shivering. His “reset” did little to quell this, likely due to its mortally terrifying nature. He may have to hold off on the reset rituals for a little while…
Thinking quick, he came up with an idea. He decided to give the Aether a chance to do its work.
If Cynwrig was right about people like Bearnard, then perhaps he was right about Aether’s effect on them, too.
But for this to happen, he had to buy time.
“So, Bearnard,” Maedoc queried, “do you two really tie all the time? I mean, one of you has to win a little more often, right?”
As he spoke, he eyed the Ray resting in his left palm. Was there perhaps a special, advantageous way to hold it?
“Wellllllll!” the man drawled through an even larger smile, leaning back in his chair. “We have our good days. And our b-bad days.”
“Yeah! By that he means I have the guh… the good days, and he takes all the bad days,” Frang chimed in, maintaining this eerie, cheery energy that they, for whatever reason, were determined to keep.
As they carried on with their banter, Maedoc swiveled the Ray in his palm. The tapered end spun around, now facing away from him. Wrapping his fingers around the reversed geometry, he gave it a squeeze and drew a breath.
This simple act brought about serious results.
Bearnard’s smile quickly died down to a hard, forced grin. His eyes widened, but not in shock.
It felt as though he wanted to devour the boy with nothing more than a look.
“Put up your arm, Maedy.”
All semblance of mirth had faded from his voice. The air surrounding the table seemed to double in density. Maedoc found it difficult to breathe. His lungs simply refused to do the work.
Heart racing, he forced himself to choke the air down, widening his mouth and elongating his neck.
This was just too much. He had to get out. Get away.
Nausea was beginning to set in alongside a ripening headache.
As fear and panic trickled in, a lone image brought itself front and center in Maedoc’s mind.
Of all the things it could have been, all he could see before him was that blasted furnace.
Maedoc groaned inwardly. What fortunate timing this was. It wasn’t enough to burden him with this fiasco; he had to be reminded of his other trauma to boot.
The tall, dark silhouette loomed starkly before him. Its viewing panel shone blood red across his vision.
The shudder that Maedoc had resisted so proficiently could no longer be held back. It began in his stomach as a menacing purr, threatening to collapse him from the inside out. It grew slowly along the length of his spine, which had began to sway like a spindly pine in a windstorm.
He felt just about ready to be uprooted.
As his physical vision began to dim, another image ripped through his head like lightning.
He saw himself approach the furnace without a second’s hesitation.
Flash.
He saw himself drive his arm deep into the heart of the contraption, sealing his entry with the other hand.
Flash.
He saw himself persist as his body felt ready to combust.
Flash.
One after another, these scenes burned into his brain. Yet they did not irk him.
Quite the opposite. They provided a sense of genuine awe.
That was him doing these acts. Doing what he had to. For himself. For another.
Doing what he knew he had to.
Even if he had to go straight through.
“ALRIGHT!” Maedoc bellowed, driving his arm across the table to meet Bearnard’s palm. The man’s hand dwarfed his, but the boy’s vision couldn’t tell shadow from light at this point.
Bearnard was visibly startled, as was most everyone witnessing the spectacle. Where had this sudden change sprouted from?
“Ready?” Maedoc grunted, securing his positioning on the table. Bearnard, mouth agape, closed it and nodded. He quickly regained composure.
The boy’s left hand found itself nestled against his right bicep, though he couldn’t say he knew why.
It was the stance he took to take the furnace down, so maybe it was simple muscle memory. Or maybe it was to stop his arm from shaking.
“3, 2, 1…” the boy counted aloud, flexing his arm muscles early to prepare for the oncoming strain. It was then that he felt the Ray pressing against his arm, sandwiched underneath his left hand. He had forgotten it was there.
Not surprisingly, Bearnard began his advancement right as the number one had been uttered. If Maedoc had not been expecting it, his arm would have certainly ended up sprained from wrist to shoulder.
The man opposite him did not hold back. A large vein popped up across his forehead, and the humidity in the bar began to climb steadily. It was all Maedoc could do to simply hold his position. He knew it would be near impossible to push Bearnard’s arm back, even a few inches.
Luckily for Maedoc, his years of digging irrigation and hauling heavy bags of mulch did a body good. While his wiry frame was not what anyone would consider an impressive physique, his tendons and ligaments were built to last. Continuous strain was the name of the game when it came to fieldwork, and it was this which fortified his stance. Much to the consternation of Bearnard.
“You’re a little… less wimpy… than expected,” the man grunted through grit teeth.
“…but not by much.”
Bearnard’s grip tightened as he began twisting Maedoc’s wrist backwards.
The boy winced aloud through ragged breath. It was beginning to hurt.
He started thinking to himself: why continue?
Bearnard only wanted a match. Once it was over, he would leave everyone alone and likely go home.
There was no need to take it any further. No need to endure any more pain.
Just let it go. The rest will take care of itself. Everyone goes home happy.
This was an alluring train of thought. Maedoc closed his eyes, accepting that his resignation from this struggle would take place the instant they opened.
It felt good, to quit. It was such a relief.
But before he could make his exit, a scene blasted itself across the inside of Maedoc’s skull. Within the scope of an instant, a probable future presented itself.
Bearnard wouldn’t stop here. He would come back the next day, and the next. The man practically lived here.
By obliging him this once, he had paved the way for innumerable matches to take place in the days, months and years that awaited him.
All Bearnard had to do was threaten to go after the customers, and he’d have Maedoc right where he wanted him. Day in and day out.
It would never end. This would be his new life.
As the scene faded from his mind, another scene took its place. Making its return once more, the furnace crept across his field of vision. As before, the images so very familiar to him flashed in sequence.
He saw himself drive his arm deep inside.
Flash.
His hand felt the intense wind whistle past it once more, as he pressed into the very core of the contraption.
Flash.
Maedoc couldn’t place it, but something about this felt correct. This was the way out.
“…so it’s begun.”
A dreamy sort of stupor befell him. A unique numbness. Perhaps it was a lack of circulation. It must have been, for Maedoc’s hand was feeling less like it was smashed against a sweaty slab of a palm.
It was as though his grasp had reached through it.
Past Bearnard’s palm. Past his wrist. Even the elbow and shoulder no longer felt like body parts sovereign to him.
The man’s arm felt like an extension. A continuation of Maedoc’s own.
The vision of an invisible branch sprouted in his mind, intrinsic to it a robust eagerness to advance beyond its container. To grow blindly into new directions, heights and depths. All these new and unknowable places to occupy space in. Yet there was no need to know. Only to press forward.
He pushed further still, as far into Bearnard’s core as this newborn phantom limb would go.
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As had been done before, he would reach into the deepest source of that which threatened him.
With everything that he was, Maedoc would take it in his hand and extinguish it.
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Shock ran through the boy’s body, ripping his eyelids open.
What was this feeling?
Dark. Cold. Sharp. Still.
Where was it coming from?
Isolated. Silent. Unfeeling.
Was it…?
Maedoc looked at the man across from him, whose face was contorted with an uncomfortable sort of horror.
This mysterious sense of “monsterhood” felt as though it emanated directly from Bearnard’s heart!
Unfortunately for the boy’s other senses, this was steadily becoming all he could perceive. His own body felt far away, distant and forgotten. As each second stretched to the scope of an eternity, his own heart began to succumb. Little by little its foundation loosened as it threatened to drift away entirely.
I can’t let this happen!
Not my heart!
*THUMP*
The boy’s arm slammed against the table as he immediately withdrew all resistance. He didn’t care anymore. Maedoc would rather wrestle Bearnard a thousand times than feel that again.
“Hyuh! That was a good match! Maedoc, you a-ain’t too bad. Now do the other arm!” Frang grinned.
Maedoc didn’t have it in him to protest. Words failed to approach his lips when summoned. He felt drained in ways he didn’t know a boy could.
Luckily, he didn’t have to.
“No, no, Frang… we’re leaving,” Bearnard squawked, his voice cracking slightly. He arose from the table slowly, all the while keeping his eyes firmly locked on Maedoc.
Frang shot his brother a puzzled look. Having been a spectator, he was utterly unaware of what had transpired.
“C’mon, we have places to be. Let’s g-g-get out of this dump,” Bearnard muttered. He fished some coins out of his shirt pocket, plopping it on the table in a squat pile.
With his brows furrowed deeper than they had ever been, Frang shuffled over to join his brother, slowly shaking his head.
“Things were just getting fun…”
Bearnard gave Maedoc one last lingering stare, eyes void of emotion, before turning to leave.
Once they stepped through the doorway, it seemed like the entire bar exhaled at once. Nervous chatter and a few guffaws were heard as the patrons relaxed and regained their liveliness.
For Maedoc, recovery would take a little longer. He looked off at a dim corner of the bar, seeing nothing in particular as he let his focus slacken. His entire body felt jittery and loosely knit as it continued to shake ever so slightly. After being invaded and eroded and seemingly stretched beyond his skin, he felt he had every right to shiver as he pleased.
A small clinking of metal on metal woke him from his stupor. He blinked, lowering his gaze to the two copper coins that laid freshly stacked before him. As his vision slowly widened, he became aware of old Clay Eyes standing next to him, his wrinkled face beaming.
“What you did back there. It was brave.”
Maedoc was stunned into silence. Not that he could have spoken much either way. It would be more correct to say that he was silent, and at the same time stunned.
The man ruffled the hair on the back of his head, dislodging further clay from his person.
“I don’t see that much these days. Thank you, young man.”
Maedoc, having never experienced gratitude from anyone besides Cynwrig, felt his heart do a somersault. This maneuvering of organs freed up his speech, and allowed him to croak a response.
“You’re welcome…”
The old man nodded and slowly made his way out of the bar.
Before the youth had a chance to breathe, he felt a hand come down on his shoulder. Pins and needles cascaded down his body, for he believed a MacRath had snuck back in to finish him off. Fortunately it belonged to another man.
“That wasn’t half bad, Maedoc.”
He looked up to see Stollin, looking down at him with the right side of his lips curling upward, eyes soft. Maedoc wasn’t positive if this was technically a smile, but it warmed him up nevertheless.
“I imagine you’re a little worn out. I’ll clean up down here. Go ahead and get some shuteye. Enjoy your night off. Just don’t get used to it,” Stollin said with a small wink.
A smile and a wink? Everything was so very surreal this evening. Maedoc nodded once, his head threatening to roll right off his shoulders if he dared to continue.
“Thanks, Stollin. I’ll do that.”
The man gave his shoulder a final pat before heading back to the bar. Steadying his legs, Maedoc eased his way out of the chair. The sudden change in elevation made his head a little woozy, but he managed to remain upright.
Stuffing the two copper coins in his pocket, he slowly made his way to the stairs. A few other patrons waved their hands at him silently, a friendly look in their eye. Maedoc waved back, unable to hold back a smile.
Not a bad development, given that all they had ever spoke of until now was beer and peanuts.
Upon summiting the final step, Maedoc bumped his head against the door to open it. His arms were entirely spent. They had no intention of doing anything other than sway in place, loose and limp as pallid leaves.
Shuffling over to his bed, he leaned forward and fell face first into its depths. The boy was asleep before he had even landed.
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End of Arc II, Chapter Two
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[sf_button colour=”black” type=”standard” size=”standard” link=”https://aetheric.org/a-r-arc-ii-ch-1-2/” target=”_self” icon=”” dropshadow=”no” extraclass=””]Analysis and Review: Arc II, Ch One & Two[/sf_button]
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[sf_button colour=”black” type=”standard” size=”standard” link=”https://aetheric.org/the-aethretics-saga-arc-2-chapter-three/” target=”_self” icon=”” dropshadow=”no” extraclass=””]Arc II, Chapter Three[/sf_button]
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