WHEN THE VEXED Gareth had realized that a certain Child of Sufferance had imbued in him a seed of anxiety, his concern impulsed him to steer a boat and return to the Land of Springfield where he once defeated a Father Darkness. Cursed be such Child, and lest he suffer, that boredom might visit him as he would make haste to open the Door. The very hideous wishful thinking had begun to rot his bothered mind, and if not for the God of Hope, he would have cursed that Child to death.
He flinched upon such thought as he almost prayed to the God of Death, which was not even the god upon whom he devoted his name in the Book of Heirs, his vow being toward the God of Hope. He almost sinned. Had he done so, the Anchor by which Heritage he belonged to would be put in vain.
But he did want him to suffer!
Gareth put his thumb on his chin, then drew a vertical curve on his chest.
His praise be to his god.
And yet roaming the land, what was present were mosses, vines, and flowers, without a single trace of mortal to ever be sought. Even with the moon slipping in, as the crows only feasted on the land and the swamp surrounding it, Gareth had not lost a single flicker of hope. He had put faith upon his fellow Siblings, that they might find a key if they trusted the god they pledged their life to.
However, as he went deeper, there was truly not a single Child of Hope.
Until he heard a crinkle.
From behind a tree ahead, there it revealed the silhouette of a boy. As he slitted his eyes like a hawk, Gareth saw that his uniform was white, and his countenance was not someone he knew. A stranger that walked alone in this area.
When the boy in white appeared to notice someone was keeping watch on him, he looked before him, then he stiffened with widened eyes. It somewhat took a matter of minutes when they finally approached one another. This boy was only the height of Gareth's shoulders, whose frame held a smugness, with a freckle of irritation. His shoulders were weighed down, as if he were carrying the entire world.
"What are you doing here, Gareth?" asked the boy in white, who appeared to be familiar with him, as he looked behind Gareth and sighted nobody.
"What is your name, little one?" Gareth first asked sternly. "Do you happen to encounter my Siblings? I instructed to have them wait here — there were about two of them — before I left for some unforeseen circumstance."
"The name is Westershire." The boy named Westershire shrugged. "And I did see them leave this land about some time ago. I also happen to be here much earlier." Westershire grinned. "I presume that the unforeseen circumstance is the Father Darkness in the swamp?" Westershire almost admitted that he witnessed the duel between Stavros and the Father Darkness, yet he had a second thought.
"Well, yes, it is an Eidolon."
"An Eidolon?"
"Indeed, we studied about them, the four of us. It was after the briefing was done." Gareth did not blink for a while. "I guess it was due to the fact that we were curious about the tier system of the Father Darkness, and how they differed to a Child Darkness." He nodded. "Yes, yes, that might be it." Then he averted his gaze down to the boy. "Anyway, Westershire, why are you all alone in this place? You said you have been in this place much earlier, perhaps at dawn?" He looked at Westershire's hands, but he could not find any ring.
He grew silent after that.
Westershire noticed where the star was looking, and so he hid his hands behind him and cleared his throat. "I could not seem to find a key when I got here. It was at dawn, indeed."
"Then you came late. Some Children, including myself, had already cleared this place before then." He wanted to add that during that moment, he and two of his Siblings had defeated the Father Darkness of this land, but he deemed it was unnecessary.
How come he could not find one? Gareth itched to probe, but then again, why would he pry into someone's affairs who was not even from Hope, but of Death?
When this Westershire did not utter another word, Gareth turned his back and began to walk back. "Well then, I must get going."
He waved his hand.
He must simply not waste time as he must find the others, before it was too late for them to find a key.
However —
"I watched quite a good show earlier." The voice was loud, but not to an extent that was a scream.
Gareth did not falter.
"I deem she is with the same value as you."
He did not want gossip above anything else.
"She seems to stand with a certain Children of the Below!" It echoed throughout the forest, with the boy's desperation for attention.
Gareth halted. Then, there was no implication of sound, such that even the branches could not find a chance to sway themselves with a gust.
"You know, that blind fool who damned the directive and caused chaos." Westershire added.
Gareth retraced his steps toward the boy in white and held him by his garments.
"What in the heavens do you mean?" He gritted his teeth. "Who caused chaos?"
Westershire's feet had lifted off the ground, but whether he was coerced to speak, his vicious chuckle proved he was more intrigued than intimidated. "Who else but those bastards?"
Gareth had to be certain. "You mean, the lone Heir and the Orphan?"
It was not necessary to speak for confirmation.
The Child of Hope freed him. "What have you truly heard?"
"Many things." His smile widened.
"Get to the point."
Westershire's lips began to move, and before Gareth knew it, his knuckles had turned white as he almost bled from the force of his clenching.
⠀
WITH THE BOAT stopping at the edge of the land, which soil was earthed with moss and little shrooms, as the faint mist was already visible in the air, it was no doubt that Maze and Athelstan had come to the right land, the Land of the Mists. As their boots leaped out of the boat, Athelstan dusted off her garments before she proceeded to enter the mouth of the forest ahead. Meanwhile, Maze was following behind.
"Why are you not afraid that others will see you with me?" It was Maze who initiated. He had been meaning to ask it about some time, but he could not seem to lay it on the table, as the timing was not perfect, and he had not a sliver of chance to be personal with his inquiries.
"What is it to you?" She kicked a stone before her, as though she hated whatever question was spewed.
Several more seconds and not a single one among them had desired for a topic shift.
Not until the woman was brave enough to answer.
"Is it not obvious that I do not have a Sibling, nor do I have a faction, even when I am a part of a sect?" Athelstan, who was in her grey uniform, appeared to be in a mood of grey, but whatever she was feeling, perhaps, it was not for Maze to understand. "How many times must this answer be given?"
Either way, they were both outcasts.
Only that this one was much more cunning than him.
"But to help an Orphan who is not supposed to have a key . . . "
"Begin to doubt whether you truly do not have one."
It was something that Maze did not want to ponder about.
"It is utterly ridiculous."
"There is nothing ridiculous by the fact that even I have been doubting from the very moment I came in this trial." Something in her voice seemed to trail a hint of a conscious dread. "Knowledge is some kind of power, but what is knowledge if not for the truest form of power?" She heavily sighed. "What do you believe is the truth here? We are fools left in the dark."
Maze could not respond to such verity. His heart was saying otherwise at that moment, his mind was thinking otherwise at the same time. If belief was indeed a part of chase for misery and mystery in this battlefield, what else would they be armed for?
Maze had seen some stage plays when he was a shepherd. Those were held in the manor sometimes, and he would watch a glimpse, and he would hear what those were for, and what stories they seemed to be for. It was some kind of act with some sort of script, by which everything was planned out, from beginning to end. Some were heroes, some were rivals, foes, sidekicks, and they would do it with songs, as though the tales were told with such grandeur. Maze did not grow fond of such plays, but he had an inkling that they implied purpose, golden morals, and meanings that were significant to the whole event. Some fell, some won, and some watched. However, in this game of pawns, who was who and which was which?
His arrow that had stricken him was a poison, and the Heirs were stricken by burning fire. Both had the same fate of being blessed, but why was it that death for them was a mere act from the higher ones? Such was . . . fearsome.
When they went further and stumbled upon a stone where a sword was pierced on, Maze could only ask whatever road was prepared for him.