IN THE BUSHES where the boy in white lay, the hammock praised Death, whom he served, and though it confined him with utter discomfort, his weariness closed his eyes and lulled him into a dream. He yearned to forget that he had no ring. But some slight tremor shook the ground, and an echoing groan disturbed even his hammock. It was dawn, and some kind of Eidolon was still being fought by an Heir with some parasite called an Orphan, and he had not cared a bit. How could he forget he was ringless, and therefore keyless, when he was reminded of the trial?
He originally wanted to visit the Land of Frost, but he knew none of Time. The next land after that was designated for the Children of Sufferance, which, compared to the Land of Drought, was filled with random Children, one of which was the lone Heir. If there were some Heirs who might not give him attention and belittle him, that would be the Land of Springfield, where a known star, an Heir of the Anchor, could be found, perhaps also succeeding to defeat the Father Darkness in that area.
Before he found the place for rest, he met some Heirs from Hope who had rings, but they ignored him, and so he ignored them as well. This confirmed his assumption that the land was cleared when he went there, but a seed of doubt had grown in him. He tried to roam the land by himself but could not find a single key. To his disappointment, he grew weary, and thus there came sleep; so he indeed slept, and slept some more, and it went long. From then on, it became longer, too much longer —
". . . you . . . wish to . . . such a Father . . . ?"
Westershire slowly opened his eyes, as he was woken by some distorted voices.
At first, he was a clueless Child that had never wanted to harken the discussion unveiling. He was unfamiliar with the voices, but he knew that one belonged to a female and one to a male. Only then could he distinguish that both were in a tensed argument.
"Wait," said a deep and mellow voice of a man, that Westershire deemed as soothing and warm, even when it was low. It seemed to not be from a boy, but from a man. But there was no man in such land except boys that had aged for seventeen years. Perhaps he exaggerated his guess and made a fool out of himself.
It was quiet for a while, and the stupefied Westershire had not moved a bit to accidentally create noise and be found prying over someone else's conversation. He still had decency, for this was incidental, but whatever rumor he could create upon listening, that was their mistake, and not his.
"A clue," the seemingly man-sounding voice proposed. "I will try to understand. Only when you give me a clue."
"What kind of clue?" This time, it was a female voice who asked. It was a grim voice of a girl, or perhaps, a woman who seemed to have matured for ages, and it sounded dull pitched, but still could be called demure.
"In this trial, what do I have to know?"
"There are many that you might have to attend to, Flower-face."
"Then, something that an Orphan holds no idea of."
When Westershire heard the word Orphan, his ears rang, and his face fumed in irritation. When he thought about it, an Orphan talking to someone was rather strange, knowing that he was merely a group of one in this trial. This was indicative that whoever was the recipient of his words was someone who was from Yonder — an Heir who dared to talk to a parasite.
The other one scoffed. "You hold no idea of everything."
"Anything." The other heaved a sigh. "Must we waste time? Even you as an Heir of Time must treasure it while it lasts."
Heir of Time? Now, it was clear for Westershire. There was one who might dare to do so, the girl from the single Heir Path from the Sect of Time.
"I have so much time." She paused. "But let me tell you about a privilege of an Heir."
And so she revealed the directive, including the precepts given to each "star" in Yonder, which, unfortunately, included the girl who informed the sacred matter to someone who did not belong to their kind.
"As I have said, neither of us is a pawn, but that is what we believe to be true." The lone Heir's tone had become weighted. "For the Directors, that might not be the case at all. Some bigger truth, like a truth that the help that I gave — you obtaining a key — was predetermined. Do you believe me now?"
"I . . ." The Orphan hesitated. ". . . Where is this sword allocated?"
"Let us talk on the way."
⠀
FOR WESTERSHIRE, it was still vivid. When he was brought to the central land, it was due to the fact that Gareth had let him follow behind, and when they were in the middle of the swamp, they took notice of the others. But Gareth was preoccupied during that moment, so Westershire had not felt guilt nor remorse for what he confessed. It was the right decision to come clean, for it addressed such matter regarding an Orphan and an Heir.
But even when he was proud, in a sea of Heirs without any ring in possession, what did being clean mean? He failed to kill a Father Darkness, whom an Orphan defeated in his stead. His partner was killed, a Sibling who told him that he should have killed the Father Darkness. This Sibling had faced death and was possibly in the arms of his god, the God of Death, who might have regarded this girl with such a curse for slapping her own Sibling. He stood by this belief, that his Sibling was deserving of it, and the only guilt that ever crept in was that he tried to act like he fainted, which led to the Orphan's opportunity to slaughter a weak Father Darkness.
There were sixteen Heirs who kept on murmuring; while there were some of Death, they were of different Heritages, such as from the Pale Horse, Red Horse, and the White Horse who were beside Westershire, appearing to be in deep thought. There were no Heirs from the Heritage of the Black Horse around, excluding Westershire and the corpse of the girl that might have been feasted on by crows.
One among the Heirs was a girl in a gold uniform, clutched her knees to her chest. Her eyes, which should have carried the light of her god, were hauled by a growing and conscious dread.
"My God has forgotten about us," she whispered, her voice barely a susurrus against the wind. "I prayed for a sign . . . but so what?" As if the remaining flicker of hope had been killed. "We are abandoned!"
A girl in white leaned her head against her shoulder. As a Child of Death, she should have found peace in the end, but her hands trembled with a very mortal fear. "In the end, I simply do not want to die," the girl rasped. "The very same ending for each of us is death."
For the one who was supposed to be pestilent, Westershire might have to agree.