He enters the coffee shop just after five and nods toward the other patrons on his way to the counter. Diversity is rare this early, and he’s seen them all before. Three of the usual four are there, each having risen prior to the rest of the city for their own unique purpose. He’s never spoken to them, the motives behind their shared predawn ritual left undisclosed, but over time they’ve developed a certain kinship that means some tiny gesture is at least obligatory. They respond in kind. It’s acknowledgment, not invitation for dialogue. None are there for mindless chatter.

He stops in the soft light of the refrigerated display case. Susan, beautiful and somehow stuck working as a barista from 4 A.M. to Noon at thirty-five, greets him warmly. She pours his coffee and stabs an unnecessary splash stick into the spout. It’s habitual. He’s never taken his coffee to go. She knows this, but he’s never corrected the oversight. Her convivial nature allows these minor transgressions. She runs through her usual set of questions, eventually inquiring about his story. He’s not asked about his writing often, so he prattles on too long about plot, subplots, conflict, and theme. She listens carefully, as if it all truly matters to her. He’d like to think she’s really interested. Of course, this may only be an appeal for tips, or perhaps she’s taking the opportunity to hone her customer service skills. Regardless, the smile she flashes throughout his monologue gives a welcome stroke to his ego, and three of his quarters clang into the tip vase. They say their goodbyes, and, after tossing away the splash stick and doctoring his dark roast with cream and sugar, he claims his usual worn leather love seat and melts quietly away.

He stretches and glances at his phone’s cracked display. 7:30. The time has passed quickly. It always does. He packs up, the zest he began the day with fading, and embarks on an interminable three minute drive to the office.

He arrives and swipes his ID card across the front entrance security box. He’s half hoping it doesn’t recognize him and bars him from the building, but a bolt snaps open. He considers leaving his laptop at the door and running for the hills, but he doesn’t have the courage to follow through. Instead, complete apathy sets in, and he enters. The lock snaps shut behind him, trapping him inside with all the other nine-to-fivers. He zigzags through endless halls, trudging bitterly toward his workspace. He reaches it and collapses into his ergonomic feaux leather office chair–his tiny, confined, soft-walled haven sad but welcome. Others pass on the way to their own cubicles. They’re well-rested, ready for work, and excited about the prospects of a new day. Customary greetings and salutations are exchanged. Questions are asked whose answers mean nothing and are often ignored. He smiles and plays along, abhorring this routine. Some, he knows, are sincere. There’s a pervasive glee emanating from them he can’t understand, but he won’t begrudge them their joviality. He hopes they’re all truly happy, but knows there are others out there like him, adrift and treading water in this sea of office minions, business casual bureaucrats, and spike-heeled corporate ladder climbers. Even more appalling are the ones who’ve abandoned themselves to this fate, the ones who think that this is it, that if they can just push through to the weekend, they’ll be okay, the short two-day respite all they ever have to look forward to. It’s a sad and miserable microcosm. He tosses out one last “good morning” and turns toward his computer before anyone else approaches. He places headphones over his ears, shutting everything out but the despair.

_

She wakes at 7:30, as late as she can sleep and still make it to work by 9:00. She permits herself one snooze, then rises, uncertain what good the extra nine minutes has done her. She washes her face, brushes the knots out of her hair, and pulls it back into a ponytail. She knows, at forty, it’s worn its welcome, but she can’t seem to let it go. She examines her neck and jowls in the mirror, scanning for a new crease, sag, or blemish, and grins when she finds none. The reflection isn’t what it used to be, but it appears younger than it is. More importantly, it disguises her threadbare soul. She applies only a bit of make-up, highlighting her better features and masking the imperfections only she notices. She again inspects herself and is pleased with the improvement. One day, maybe soon, she won’t be so easily satisfied.

It takes her ten minutes to decide on an outfit. Like the snooze, she’s allowed for this in her carefully regimented day. She picks through her wardrobe, running her fingers across fabric she knows like her own skin. There’s a solace here, surrounded by the things she had once carefully chosen and found so necessary. She isn’t sure why. A large part of her is shamed by the excess. She flips off the light and stands alone in the dark, the chosen ensemble folded neatly over her arm. Eventually, she exits.

_

He followed along with the conversation, not really listening, but hearing just enough to understand the situation. It sounded like a job for programming, thank God, but he knew they’d ask his opinion at some point, he being the client’s data management contact. His answer is prepared, but he mock-listens another eight minutes before he’s consulted. He clears his throat.

“Have them transfer the data via email. Programming, make this priority until the issue has been resolved. I’ll be in constant contact with MGC, so it’s imperative that you keep me abreast of your progress. MGC is an important client. Let’s be cognizant of this.”

Imperative. Abreast. Cognizant. The higher-ups in the room would eat that up. He was the consummate professional. Consummate. That was good, too. He stowed it away for later.

He glances at the project manager, hoping the answer provided is sufficient. He longs to escape this shiny corporate chamber and wander back to his low-lit cave. Meetings are the one thing all in the office despise. They await the PM’s reply with bated breath, anxious to be granted release. For a brief moment, he almost feels a part of them.

Eventually, the PM nods and speaks. “It’s a start.”

Meeting adjourned.

_

She is content with her day. She enjoys her job. It’s not what she envisioned doing with her life, but, really, looking back, what did she ever envision? She never lent a career much thought. All she ever wanted was to be a good mother and wife, to maintain a happy home. She hoped to find a man who desired the same. Together they’d share that old-fashioned American dream. She sorted through the masses until she found him—at least she thought she had. He was talented, driven. He would do great things, things that would allow her to be what she desired. He had worked so hard, toiling away daily at this story and that script, refining his skills often with classes and workshops. She waited patiently, hoping he would catch a break. He was chasing a ghost. He hadn’t a modicum of success. Now, years later, he languished away at a desk job he despised. Though exhausted, he still managed to write daily, his path somehow still clear before him. He carried on through years of disappointment and heartbreak. She marveled at his tenacity and determination, yet towards her, he had floundered. Why? Marriage took effort he was clearly capable of, but he had relegated their relationship to the periphery. She thought often about where she would be if she’d passed him over and continued her search, or selected another option prior. Had she considered the possibility or probability of their lives together? Though she was doubtless to blame for some of what they had become, it was his cold selfish nature that finally severed the little connection that was there to begin with. She could have walked away a long time ago. Maybe she should have. That’s not what she did.

Instead, she became more career minded. The change in tactics eventually landed her here. This place challenges her. It allows her analytical talents to, if not shine, at least shimmer. Maybe someday she’ll head in another direction, but until then, and, even if things never change, she’ll be okay here. It’s the one place she feels necessary. Leaving is always difficult. Today, like every other day, she chats with a few co-workers on the way out, stalling as long as possible. When she can dither no more, she boards one of the four glass elevators and sinks back down to reality.

_

They’d gone a long way toward resolving the client’s problems by the close of business. Everyone agreed a happy hour had been earned. He found it necessary. The first and second shot relax him. The third and fourth allow him to become an active member of the group. The beers in between cause him to forget, even if briefly, the things that constantly weigh on him.

_

She nearly makes it to the onramp before traffic slows to a stop. Not bad, considering the usual downtown gridlock. She speaks with her mother to pass the time. They have the same conversation four days a week. Only the most rudimentary information passes between them. Her mom eventually asks about him, granting her the opportunity to open up. She tells her he’s okay. The answer is always satisfactory.

“Great, honey. That’s good to hear. Tell him I said hello.”

Her mother digs no further, though the truth is just below the surface. He’s not well. She’s not well. Her mother knows, but she doesn’t want the responsibility of that conversation. Her mother wants grandchildren, though it’s been made clear they aren’t an acceptable topic of discussion. To fight back, her mother reprimands her with a feigned ignorance about everything else going on. There’s an uncomfortable silence before they continue, the truths that teeter precariously between them nudged aside but not forgotten. Mercifully, the call ends after four more minutes of minutiae.

She slips a CD into the dash slot. Something inside snatches it from her and draws it all the way in. Music begins to play as she settles into her seat, readying herself for the long haul. A truck thumps up beside her, its muffler clearly having seen better days. Inside is a man ten years her junior. He’s already noticed her, a sly grin plastered across his face. She smiles back. The ponytail has earned itself another day. Traffic begins to inch forward. She turns her attention back to the road, aware of and enjoying her neighbor’s continued ogling. Something near the steering wheel sparkles in the sun, reminding her who she is. She drops her hand into her lap and peeks down at it. After all these years, it still takes her breath away. He’d hired a jeweler to design the exact ring she wanted. The diamond, an heirloom given to them with the blessing of his family, fit perfectly into the white and yellow gold setting she had sketched out. It was a perfect union. She remembers how often she used to show it off. It gave her such pride. Now it had lost its luster.

_

He arrives home having consumed a false sense of enthusiasm. The alcohol’s clearly been good to him. He grabs a beer from the fridge, lingering a moment in the cool air before retreating. The quiet of the house is deafening. Dread begins to set in, despite his effort to avoid it. He snatches another beer, heads for the den, and scans the room for the remote control. When he doesn’t immediately see it, he leans over the sofa and tosses decorative pillows around until he finds it smashed between two cushions. He falls into his recliner, turns on the TV, and flips through the prime time selections. A subliminal-like montage of everything wrong with America flashes in front of him—reality nobodies made rich (or richer) by their penchant for lunacy and absence of dignity, celebrities who take the podium at award shows and force-feed their opinions to the masses, news stations unabashedly biased and laced with agendas, talk shows that exploit the destitute for amusement, manipulative advertisements that placate our desire to have it all for the low, low price of whatever. Eventually, he gives up trying to find something of substance and stops on a football game. It provides just the sort of distraction he had been hoping for. He wants to eat, having only had an appetizer at the bar, but he fears sobering up. He’s walking a tightrope. It’s a delicate balance, one he’s developed carefully that will allow him, when he finally lies down, to slip through the fingers of introspection and fall gently asleep.

_

She eats alone in the kitchen, the TV in the background airing a program about rich housewives. It provides a welcome white noise. She enjoys a second helping from the family-sized casserole she’s made. She drinks a second glass of wine as well, and, for good measure, gulps down a third for dessert. After placing the leftovers in the fridge, she pours herself a fourth glass, but thinks better of it and leaves it on the counter. She wants to be okay if he arrives for her tonight. It’s why she still wears the ring, why she still prepares such large meals. She stares into the television a moment before turning it off. For years she wondered why anyone would need a TV in the kitchen. Now she knows. She flips off the kitchen light, fleeing the darkness there for that of her bedroom.

_

The post-game interviews begin at 11:30. The losing, eight-million-dollar-a-year quarterback talks about how hard the loss will be to swallow, how he won’t be able to sleep that night thinking about it, and how the pain will stick with him for some time. Such bullshit. He turns the television off. The game had been a rout and provided only the smallest of diversions, but it had been enough. The sudden silence is dense, constricting. He despises it. It reminds him that soon he’ll have to wake up and do all this again. He rises, moonlight guiding him toward a familiar destination. He opens the door and again stands in the cold light. He reaches for another icy can, but decides against it, closes the door, and heads to the bedroom. The darkness there is complete. He sprawls across the duvet, fully clothed. He’ll sleep, but not until his troubled mind has exhausted itself. He doesn’t want this life, and is unsure why it’s become what it has. It’s bent, broken. There’s a bitterness that seethes under the surface. He holds no sway over it. It renders him powerless. He sits up, intending to get that beer after all. It’s his usual defense and would put a stop to this. He reconsiders and lies back down.

_

She doesn’t sleep. She remembers everything-every word spoken and left unspoken. She remembers begging and pleading, the counseling they both attended, the counseling she drug herself to when he refused. She recalls his yelling, something she had resorted to on occasion as well. She’s long since abandoned her efforts. When he went silent, she knew he was finished. Nothing would make a difference. His first blank, wordless stare had been a punch in the gut she’d feel forever. He had a way with words. She used to beam at his well-timed compliments and impromptu terms of endearment. When he declared his love, she always asked “why?” and eagerly awaited his response. It was never disappointing. For years now, they had spoken only when necessary. She knows the next real conversation they have will be devastating. The inevitability keeps her up at night. Respite used to be so easy, but now she tirelessly awaits their fate, her bed a lonely haunted place.

_

He was still awake an hour later, that last beer he didn’t drink solely responsible. She was miles away, in her own little world, probably not sleeping either. He had been unable to speak candidly with her for some time now. It had been years since his needs had been nurtured or considered. He pled for them to be met often, vociferously when required, but the results were always temporary. The desire to speak still reared its head on occasion, but what could he say? They’d both made an oath years ago to take one another ’til death parted them. Had he been too quick to judge others? Was the life they lived another example of a fraudulent America? They had been a sham for years. Theirs had become a false union, the truth bundled up and hidden from the rest of the world. Should he just end things for good? If he spoke, would she even hear? Would it matter? A familiar knot hardens in his chest. If he doesn’t speak soon, even if only to the surrounding all-knowing walls, his bitterness will defeat him again, and maybe for good.

But the words won’t come.

Minutes later he rises, tugs the covers aside, and slips beneath them. He wants to speak, but he’s not done punishing himself. He hates himself for what he’s become. The knot in his chest tightens, nearly incapacitating him. Tears form in his eyes. He gives in to the pain and, somehow, the words escape him. His voice cracks as he speaks.

“I’m sorry.”

The knot loosens. He turns onto his side, wondering if she’s heard.

She has. Something catches in her throat. His words haven’t affected her this way in some time. She closes her eyes, takes a deep breath to calm herself. She knows she won’t cry. She had dried up, her supply of tears exhausted long ago, when she thought they could still make a difference. So many things had been said for so long, but never this. Now it was her turn. What did she want? Did she want to continue down this path, as difficult as it may be to traverse? The answer, she realizes, has never changed. She replies calmly to the darkness.

“Me, too.”

The stillness overtakes them again. The fan in the neighbor’s outdoor AC unit kicks on, its familiar rattle welcome. It gives them both a chance to recover. They know more should be said, but the words will have to wait for another time.

He reaches for her in the dark. His fingers brush against the inside of her thigh, just below her panty line. In better times, his fingers would linger there, but it’s not a place he feels welcome anymore. He pulls them away to signal his error. Now that he has his bearings, he moves his hand higher, resting his palm on the slope of her thigh. It’s cold there, but familiar. He feels, just for a moment, something he hasn’t felt in a long time. He’s unsure exactly what it is, but it’s a welcome departure. He closes his eyes.

His fingers feel foreign to her. She had nearly jumped at that first touch. More surprising, it made her feel something she didn’t think possible, something vaguely sexual. Odd. She had used that against him for so long—giving and withholding it as it suited her—that she’d forgotten her own longings. She was shamed and was glad his hand retreated, but pleased when it came to rest elsewhere. Though she finds his touch cold, she allows it. Her dry eyes become wet, but she stubbornly wills the would-be tears away. His touch, his words—what do they really mean? She considers briefly before realizing she’s forgotten to take out her ponytail. She tugs out the band, slips it over her wrist, and, after shaking her hair out, rests her head back on the pillow. She shuts her eyes.

Eventually, they sleep. His hand never strays from her, the coldness between them slowly growing warmer. The AC unit clicks off, and the silence returns. They don’t hear.

Fact:

Within three hours of consuming my first cup o' joe, a bowel movement is guaranteed.

Every coffee drinker knows, a mug in the a.m. means a sojourn in the loo awaits. Wanna know something else? You’ll look forward to it. I know I do. There are few pleasures in life greater than a nice, not too soft, not too hard, a little dab at the end’ll do ya, BM. A few sentences in and I’ve lost some of you already, but isn’t this completely natural? Books have been written to remind our children that the experience binds us all – the aptly named and wonderfully literal story about how all animals defecate, Everyone Poops, comes immediately to mind. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. It's a common everyday (ideally) occurrence for each of us.

Anyway…

One night recently, slumber, that fickle son of a bitch, was being particularly evasive. I woke up at 2:00, tossed and turned for a couple hours, gave up at 3:45, laid there 15 minutes cursing the world, then dragged myself out of bed at 4:00. I Keurigged my first cup of coffee at 4:01. I knew my daily routine would be thrown off, but so what if things got moving earlier than expected. In our modern world, a somewhat clean restroom is always near. I finished the coffee, got dressed, and headed to an all-night coffee shop. I read for a little while over a second delightful brew and headed into the office at about 6:30. I had been working 30 minutes or so when the urge hit. I grabbed the book I had been reading (The Brothers Karamazov, for all you book geeks), meaning to take it with me. This is what I do at home. Why not here? It’s early anyway, no one else is in the office yet. Eh. I reconsidered and dropped the book back on my desk. But I do wash my hands. I picked it up again and stared at it a few seconds before begrudgingly placing it once more on my desktop. I turned to walk away.

Maybe next time.

I moseyed through the quiet halls, the new pop song I hated but was whistling anyway echoing off the what-must-have-been-carefully-chosen-to-allow-for-a-peaceful-and-encouraging-work-environment periwinkle blue walls. I arrived and entered, the timed lights clicking on to signal they had witnessed my entry. (Swanky. My company had gone green even in the bathroom.) The soft white light welcomed me. The shiny clean tile and orange scent of industrial strength cleaner (could not have been green) invited me to come in and stay a while, to relish being the first to use the facilities that day. I was honored to do so. I headed for the spacious confines of the handicapped stall, shut myself in, and got down to business.

To my surprise, the bathroom door swooshed open. A co-worker (to this day I’m not sure who this was) entered and made his way to the handicapped stall. He realized it was occupied (Ha!) and swivelled around, locating his second best option. (Advice–always have a second option.)

So there we were, each of us quietly going about our business, respectful of the other’s right to privacy. It was an altogether pleasant experience. There were scents and smells that accompanied his work, sure, but nothing too egregious. I was appreciative. I’d like to think I extended him the same courtesy. Then, about ten minutes in, it happened.

Those lights I had been impressed by earlier clicked off. I became angry that the company was going green. How dare they! The silence, like the sudden dark, was complete. Not a word was spoken. It makes sense now to have said something, or to have at least chuckled at out predicament–you know, to break the ice. But that didn’t happen. I think we were both too terrified. He was thinking the same thing I was. What do we do now?

There were only four possible solutions, one in particular that neither of us wanted any part of. I pushed that one immediately aside, and considered the others.

I could launch a roll of toilet paper toward the sensor and hope it triggered the lights. I looked at the ultra sized toilet paper roll. If there was one out there that could do the trick, it was this one. It bore a close resemblance to a wound up fireman’s hose. I slid the “this side of the dispenser has run out of paper” access door over to make sure there was a second roll. Of course not. I could throw something else–a shoe perhaps. Who was I kidding? The sensor only worries itself with human-sized objects. I could launch the roll at the switch, hoping for a miracle. But that was too risky. I did file the idea away as a last-resort option though.

On to option two...

I could give it a few minutes to see if my eyes would adjust and allow me to finish up in the semi-dark. I waited. My sight got no better. You had to walk through two doors to get into the room, and the privacy they afforded was luxurious, but they allowed no light from outside world. I was, in effect, in a cave miles below the surface of the earth. I almost reached for the toilet paper anyway, but thought better of it. Too many things could go wrong. (In retrospect, I’m not sure why I didn’t choose this alternative. It was probably the wisest solution. But I don’t always choose the wisest solution.)

The third option, and the one we both apparently decided upon, was to wait and hope that someone else would enter and trigger the sensor. A savior would most certainly come, but when? It was ~7:12 am. He could step in any minute, but there was a very real possibility that it would be 8:00 before someone rescued us. We waited. The time ticked by. It felt like hours passed. No one came.

Sometime during this silence, it occurred to me that, had I actually brought my book, I could have ripped out a page or two of those unnecessary blank pages in the back and finished up with those. Though they might have been scratchy and jagged-edged irritant, they certainly would have sufficed. I smiled at my resourcefulness. Then I considered the possibility of a paper cut, and immediately struck the idea from memory.

After about 10 minutes, I decided to rethink things.

I, again, considered my previous options and, again, convinced myself they wouldn’t work. I thought of asking my cohort if he had any bright ideas, but decided this would be a breach of etiquette. If he had one, I assumed he would have given it a shot. He was, no doubt, scrambling for a solution, but, ultimately, sat there useless and defeated, just like me. It became inevitable. One of us had to do the unthinkable. I consider myself a man of action, a man willing to do what must be done in the direst of circumstances. I closed my eyes and walked myself through the process, step by step. I didn’t want to mess this up. When I was confident I had it down, I opened my eyes (not that it mattered). I breathed deeply, swallowed my pride, and began.

First, I grabbed some toilet paper and used it exactly how it was intended. I was thankful this was a “little dab’ll do ya” trip and not a splatterfest (which would have surely changed my decision). This was to properly prepare me for step two–standing up. I stood gingerly, just in case, since step one had not been exactly thorough. Then I pulled up my boxers, careful to not let them cling too tightly to my bum, just in case. (Actually, most of what I did over the next two paragraphs was done extremely carefully, just so you're aware.) I grabbed my belt and cinched my pants around my waist. I didn’t realize it until I tried to take that first step, but my feet were asleep. Having no desire to risk collapse, I waited another minute for the blood to re-circulate through my legs, then tried again. I waddled over to the side of the stall and threw my hand up over the top, waving it around in desperation. Nothing. I waved more vehemently. Still nothing. When I stopped I was gasping for breath. My cohort was silent, but must have wondered what was going on on the other side of the wall. I didn’t care. I cinched things up again and shimmied over to the stall door. It was closer to the sensor, but guess what? My closer range waving made not a difference.

It was time to take things a bit further. I unlatched the plastic door and moved it back and forth, like I was trying to rid my stall of a particularly offensive odor. The breeze I created was nice, but the light sensor took no notice. That’s when I knew all hope was lost. I would have to resort to the last possible option. I squeezed my belt tighter, and swung the door open. I waddled slowly (just in case) out of the privacy of my stall and shuffled toward the sinks. Nothing! The sensor was somehow laughing at me, mocking me. I could... sense... it. I waved my arm again. Nothing! Ahhh! I wanted to cry. I fought back tears.

The indignity of the situation reached its boiling point. Decorum no longer mattered. Good sense was tossed away. Consequences were damned. I ran at the sensor, both hands waving maniacally. Somehow, I managed to control the urge to scream. My belt buckle clanged to the floor as the light burst forth in a brilliant spectacle. That was it. For all the build-up, the end felt terribly anticlimactic. It’s like all the sensor wanted was for my pants to drop. When they did, it was satisfied.

I stopped and stared at it, its little HAL-like eye staring back lifelessly. I had sacrificed much, but I had won. (Hadn’t I?) I gathered my wits and my belt and pants, and hurried back to my stall. I shut the door and returned to the business I had started long before.

My quiet neighbor nonchalantly pulled some paper from his dispenser. I had nearly forgotten about him. Seconds later, his toilet flushed. He exited the stall, washed his hands, and walked out of the room without properly thanking me. That’s okay. He knows I got him out of a jam. Not sure if he actually saw my face, but he knows he was the lesser man that day. I know the truth. Alone, I laughed.

As a final insult, the toilet spritzed my undercarriage with cold water as it flushed. I guess the bathroom thought it would have the last laugh. I thought it would, too, but as I was drying my hands a very large sweaty man hurried into the room. He meant business. I believe he had an emergency situation on his hands. I’m not sure. I didn’t stick around to find out. You see, sensor, I can leave the room. I smiled up at it again and winked as I walked out the door, what was occurring on the other side no longer any of my concern. I had, quite literally, washed my hands of it. I even stopped for another cup of coffee on the way back to my desk. I wasn’t scared.

The ancient mountains of the Baranthan range dominated the horizon, their vast peaks shrouded in cloud and mystery. They ran unbroken north to south as far as the eye could see, threatening the sky with jagged snow-capped fangs. Few men had dared ascend their considerable heights, and no man could survive their pinnacles, but the tales of what did dwell there were many. Etherna’s children had long been plagued by stories of the aberrant monstrosities residing in the crags, biding their time until an obstinate youngling required their attention and forced their descent. These fables proved to be more than adequate disciplinarians. The Ethernean path to adulthood was rife with psychiatric ills. Prepubescent sleep deprivation and adolescent anxiety were rampant. Acrophobia was not uncommon. Etherna’s youth, for the most part, were kept in check, and the great range’s rugged beauty remained intact and unsoiled by foreign contaminants.

Kroba, the mountain that ruled them all, dwarfed his Baranthan siblings. His summit rose through the highest clouds and was an enigmatic blur even on the clearest of days. It’s rumored that deep in the earth, miles below Kroba’s rocky core, lies the resting place of the ancient ones. They won’t be disturbed there. When they do wake from their lengthy slumber, Kroba’s rumbling will signal their stirring. He won’t give them up quietly. Their struggle will shake the world, warning all that the brief rule of those above is coming to a close.

Another of Etherna’s great wonders, this one made of flesh and blood, moved silently through the pre-dawn darkness below. A mere mortal, he was insignificant to Kroba, but no less extraordinary. Most young men, at 23, were only just beginning to discover who they were. Not this one. A son of Brawn, he was  a battle-hardened warrior, already having experienced a lifetime of adventure. He had feared not the foreboding fables of his forefathers. They had, instead, sparked in him a sense of adventure, steering him not from the paths of the unknown, but inspiring him to flee the confines of the familiar. The tingle of trepidation, chill of consternation, flurry of fret so common to others were foreign to him. Though his life’s journey had only just begun, he had an inkling of his import, and was determined to leave an indelible mark upon a world fraught with peril. It was his hope that tales of his deeds would live on long after he had breathed his last, uplifting and inspiring generation after generation. This needn’t be a concern. Accounts of his exploits had already begun to spread.

He travelled upon the back of a great steed, the tattered cloak draped across his shoulders his only defense against the night’s chill. His silhouette, long and broad, heaved gently as he rode, a boulder-like chin knocking against his chest with each stride. Though enveloped in darkness, his presence permeated the space around him. It was tangible. It moved ahead of him and followed behind, announcing his coming and going to the very ground that carried him. For now, he slept.

His steed, exposed to but undisturbed by the elements, travelled south with the mountains. He glided steadily across the landscape, a swagger to his step heralding arrogance–an arrogance necessary to bear the weight of the figure above. Clearly, he considered himself worthy. The hubris was well earned. He was a perfect specimen–balanced, muscles long and tapered, chest deep and thick. He possessed a shiny black coat broken only by thin lines of white that stretched from pastern to knee on each of his legs. His well-shaped hooves were tough and durable, though in dire need of maintenance. His mane, fashioned into four tight braids, fell to the right and bobbed gently as he walked, in perfect sync with the silhouette above. It seemed unlikely this animal had led a harrowing existence—he had the appearance of a coddled and seldom let out show horse—but he had been a dutiful companion to the man above. Though he had been walking for days, he’d not stop until he reached his master’s destination, wherever that may be and however perilous the journey. The man called him Zorin.

The first light of Etherna’s twin suns flashed across the Baranthans, casting shadows that stretched westward to the distant horizon, ensuring darkness would encapsulate the west side of the range through midday. But the stranglehold of pitch black had been broken. This was welcome, and provided enough light for eyes to be of use again.

The stallion’s pupils rolled toward the breaking suns, and he nickered, signaling to his passenger that a new day had begun. The man’s eyes flashed open, immediately alert. He scanned the periphery, the hue of his irises an impossible light blue. When satisfied all was well, he leaned forward and placed his cheek against Zorin’s warm neck, a symbol of their intimate brotherhood. Zorin stopped, pressed his neck against the man’s face in reciprocation, then continued on.

The man untied a strap that hung beneath his chin, slipped off the cloak, and packed it away. He stroked Zorin’s neck while surveying the world around him. To the east lay the Baranthans. To the west, as far as he could see, there was nothing–except the occasional Visocky tree dotting the terrain near the mountains, their gnarled, leafless branches rising hundreds of feet into the air, summoning a downpour that would never come. During the rainy season they sucked up water streaming down from the slopes above. Over thousands of years they had learned to subsist on that alone. They seemed at home in the desolate landscape. Besides the Visockys, and the alleged Baranthan cliff dwellers, nothing else could survive here long.

The man breathed in the fresh morning air and sat back in the saddle. Intricate braids, identical to Zorin’s, were draped across his shoulders, the knotted ends resting against his chest. He slid his knuckles beneath the knots and flipped them back over his shoulders, then thrust his arms to the side and turned his palms to the sky, offering himself to the new day. After a moment, his open palms closed into fists and he forced them backwards, stretching his muscles, tight after a short night’s sleep. They bulged inside the chainmail he wore. His body seemed chiseled from steel or some unbreakable stone that deemed the straining links unnecessary. He was a statue, chipped away at and perfected over the years by an expert sculptor. Few had been blessed with his looks or strength. They ensured notice. Though he didn’t flash it often, he had a smile that could melt the heart of the hardest of harlots. Men feared, respected, and loathed him in equal measure. Most paled in comparison. But there was something even more remarkable about him, something most would never even know. The blood running through his veins was Ripidian.

The man reined in Zorin and reached toward the waterskins dangling from his saddle. He shook each in turn. Liquid sloshed around inside of one. He dismounted, formed a makeshift bowl with his cloak and poured the remaining water into it. He presented it to Zorin, who lapped it up fervently. The horse stopped drinking before it was gone, vigilant about the amount he consumed. The man lifted the cloak to his own parched lips and finished off what was left. He slung out the cloak, laid it over Zorin’s neck, and scanned the horizon to the west. Nothing.

The man grabbed a homemade tap from his saddlebag. The crude little device—a short wooden pipe whose underside was sharpened to a point at one end and formed into a lip at the other—was a lifesaver. He approached the nearest Visocky, jabbed the tap into its trunk, and held the empty waterskin beneath the tap. Water dripped from the tap’s lips, then became a trickle. Once the waterskin was filled, he topped it and removed the tap. Water streamed from the hole that was left, down the Visocky’s trunk, and out onto the ground. The man closed his eyes, silently thanking the tree for its gift. His eyes opened, and he watched the water a moment before turning back toward Zorin. The stream had already slowed and, within minutes, would heal completely. He turned back to Zorin, replaced the waterskin, and pulled himself back up into the saddle. They continued on.

An hour later, the man glanced to the west once more and, after days of seeing nothing, spotted what he had been searching for. He squinted his eyes, trying to ensure what he saw was real, and not the figment of a desperate imagination. A small city flickered in the distance, well beyond the receding Baranthan shade. It promised shelter, rest, a stiff drink, and hopefully, the pleasure of a wench’s company. His lips formed the tiniest of smiles, an insignificant crease across his great square jaw. He slapped the haunches of his mount. Zorin snorted in reply. The man wrapped a scarred, calloused hand tightly in one of Zorin’s braids, just above the withers, and turned the animal west. He leaned forward, tanned animal hide popping as he pressed his feet into the stirrups, readying for a sprint.

“Ride.”

They raced away. Their braids came to life and whipped about them like battle flags in the wind. Zorin’s galloping hooves were invisible as he scuttled across the scorched and stagnant earth, a dusty haze the only indication contact had been made with the ground beneath. He was possessed of a new and sudden vigor. The man smiled. He knew his partner well, for their needs were the same. He would ensure Zorin’s were met before his own.

But the needs of both would have to wait.

Four men appeared in the distance upon steeds of their own. They almost seemed a mirage, materializing out of nowhere. As they came closer, Zorin, leery of their intent, came to a trot. Twenty feet from the edge of the Baranthan shadows, he stopped. The men strode just into the dark and reined in their mounts. All was still.

The great man knew men such as these. He read them like a book. He saw all he needed in a matter of seconds. It took years for a horse and rider to develop a harmonious relationship, but these men were clearly uncomfortable in their saddles. They had not yet become amicable with these animals. It was rare for a man to have more than two horses over a lifetime, and even more odd that a gang of four would need to replace their mounts at once. The men wore new and ill-fitted clothing over unclean bodies. Their packs were overstuffed, a sure sign they carried property that wasn’t their own. Each portrayed a feigned look of innocence, indicating the quartet had less than honorable intentions. If all that wasn’t enough, the blood encrusted heel of one of them meant, at least fairly recently, he had been involved in a violent altercation. These men were amateurs, and of little concern, but, even so, he desired to be on his way. He had visions of a hot meal, cool mead, and a warm woman. He was in no mood for bloodshed, but these weren’t the type to simply nod their heads and pass by. Like clockwork, blood heal, clearly the leader of the group, spoke.

“Headed to Dwall, stranger?”

“Aye.” There would be a slight delay in the great man’s plans.

Blood heal nudged his horse forward and circled the great man slowly. He eyed Zorin like a breeder considering the purchase of a new stud, then returned to his place at the head of the posse.

“Beautiful animal. Cohordian?”

“Aye.” The man upon Zorin’s back enjoyed intellectual discussion and debate as much as the next man—conversation kept the mind and wit sharp—but these common horseback thugs weren’t worth the thought it took to form words.

“Bet he could fetch a high price.”

“Were he for sale, yes.”

“Everything’s for sale at the right price. We’ve got coins.” The man grabbed a leather purse attached to his belt and gave it shake. Coins clanged audibly inside.

The great man never glanced at the purse. He had never been one swayed by riches.

“Maybe we could make a trade.” The leader glanced back at one of his cohorts. This one was morbidly obese and had an unsightly boil on his cheek the size of a bear tick. He threw his arm back to retrieve a small pack dangling behind his leg. He was unable reach it. He tried again and managed to get a bit closer.

Blood heal turned his face back toward the great man and rolled his eyes.

The great man stared back.

The third time was a success for the fat one, his tremendous girth finally granting access to what he wanted. He placed the pack on the saddle between his legs and opened it. He reached inside and brought out a handful of jewels and gold medallions. Were they not in the shadows, they would have sparkled enticingly in the sunlight. In the trade cities, the contents of the pack would have fetched enough for even the most indulgent and pampered of lifestyles to continue for years.

Blood heal spoke again. “How about it, stranger?”

“I said he’s not for sale.” The great man had tired of this conversation. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”

He tugged Zorin’s braid gently. Zorin went right, giving the group a wide berth. Blood heal turned his mount and walked with them. The fat one followed. The other two kicked heels into their mounts, encouraging a trot. They pulled up along the opposite side of Zorin and slowed to a saunter. The great man looked into the eyes of each of the men in turn. He saw no fear. Confrontation was something they were no strangers to. The great man reconsidered his previous assumption. They weren’t amateurs. They either didn’t care who knew of their deeds, or were simply unaware that there were other more civilized ways to conduct themselves. This made them dangerous. Another gentle tug stopped Zorin. Without needing encouragement, Zorin turned so that the great man faced blood heal once more.

Blood heal smiled.

The great man did his best to keep the peace. “I seek no trouble. I’ve ridden for days with little water and no food. I simply desire drink, meat, and peaceful slumber.”

Blood heal continued to smile. “You’ll have it, but you’ll have to walk on your own two legs to get it.”

“I request again that you let me pass.” The great man reached behind his left leg and threw back the flap of a jungle cat hide sheath, revealing the transparent hilt of his broadsword. He noted the fat one’s surprise before continuing. “I’ll not ask again.”

The fat one spoke. “Is that an Infernian blade?”

“Quiet,” blood heal interrupted.

There was an uncomfortable pause.

“We know what it is, but a man’s weapon is only as strong as the one who wields it. We’ll have that blade as well, stranger.”

The great man was impressed by blood heal’s tenacity. He smiled. With his right hand, he reached across his body and pulled the sword from its sheath. He held it before them. The sword was completely clear from hilt to tip, its blade razor sharp.

During the standoff, the twin suns had continued their rise over the mountains. Their rays had nearly rescued the men from the shadows. The great man pointed the sword’s tip at the sky, extending his muscled arm fully so that the blade was thrust up into the spreading light. It shone beautifully, reflecting and refracting the sun’s rays like a fearsome prism.

The man glanced at the blade himself. After all these years, he was still in awe of its beauty. This clear blade had never been meant for use, but he felt those who made it so long ago would make an exception in his case. Every drop of blood it shed, every bone it shattered, was to make the world a better place. Every strike a blow against evil.

He turned his attention back to blood heal. Neither spoke, as the blade had, as usual, stymied discourse.

Zorin chose this moment to break wind. It hissed out for a full five seconds, rustling his tail in the still morning air. Within seconds, all were enveloped in its fetid invisible cloud. Zorin had long suffered from intestinal trouble, especially on long treks where meals were often unavoidably exotic. The great man was untroubled, though always impressed at the ferocity of the blasts. Over the years he had learned to cope. The surrounding band of misfits, however, became clearly distraught, as did their horses who whinnied quietly and tramped about in distress. Were they able, they would have no doubt stood solely on their hind legs and covered their nostrils with their front hooves until the wave passed.

The fat one voiced his distress, speaking for them all. “Son of a... What the…”

Blood heal, doing his best to calm his mount, raised his hand, putting a stop to the fat man’s words. When his horse was calmed, he spoke again.

“Alright, stranger…”

This time blood heal was the one interrupted, though it’d be heresy to say he ever knew what by. The great man had tired of the dialogue, and, with a quick downstroke of his sword, sliced completely through the leader’s neck. Before anyone else could register what had occurred, he twisted savagely to the right, brought his sword back across his body, and, with a tremendous backhand stroke, sliced through the belly of one of the men behind him, nearly severing him in half.

All was quiet once more. The great man turned and stared into the shocked eyes of the fat man.

The fat man looked at his companion whose abdominal contents had spilled out onto his saddle. The man, dying, slumped over slowly, his eyes narrowed to slits but still open. He seemed ready for a nap, searching for a place to lay his weary head. Apparently, he found his horse’s neck acceptable. He lowered his cheek gently onto it and shut his eyes. It all seemed intentional, a dramatic show. The fat man was reminded of the thespians he had seen perform once when he was a younger man.

The curtain closed on the performance, he turned his attention back to blood heal, who seemed to be pondering something as he stared blankly at the great man. After a few seconds, his head slid off his neck and fell twisting to the earth below. It bounced twice on the cracked ground before coming to rest a few feet away, his open eyes staring to the southeast. His body slumped towards the fat man, but his feet caught in the stirrups and kept him from falling out of the saddle. He was suspended, slung over sideways like a headless, horseback stunt rider, his stump spraying long fountain-like jets of crimson out at his subordinate.

The fat man was unable to avoid the first few spurts. He cursed and backed his horse up in an evasive maneuver.

The other man left alive was a great behemoth, the only one who could legitimately stand and fight with the great man. He peeled his eyes away from his neighbor’s dangling intestines and stared at the back of the great man’s head. He seethed in anger. He would put an end to this immediately. He ripped off his shirt with a frightening war cry that made the fat man flinch. He yanked out his own sword.

The great man turned and looked, curious to see the performance. The behemoth brought the edge of the sword to his chest and sliced a deep gash across his sternum. Blood dripped down his powerful torso. He brought his other hand up and ran his fingers down the blades sharp edge, wiping it clean. He slung his hand out, flinging the blood away.

The great man looked back at the fat man, who was confused and frightened by the display. “He puts on quite a show. I’d say he’d be a great fit for the theater.” The fat man, more bewildered than he had ever been, made a mental note to never attend the theater again. For nothing could surpass the spectacle he had witnessed this day. The great smiled.

The behemoth screamed with a rage that would petrify most mortals, and dismounted, a clear challenge to the great man.

One of Zorin’s back legs shot up, his hoof striking the man with a crushing blow right between the eyes. The man’s neck shot back violently. There was an audible crack as the man’s spine gave. He crumpled to the ground, useless and silent.

The smile never left the great man’s face. The fat man, on the other hand, knew his time had come. He had had a hell of a day. He could only hope that his life would ended quickly. He closed his eyes as the man’s horse stepped towards him.

“Open your eyes, Portly,” the great man requested.

The fat man opened his eyes. The clear blade appeared and sped toward him. He watched in what seemed like slow motion, frightened, but with a morbid curiosity about what the death blow would feel like. The sword seemed to glow in the sunlight. He would be killed by an Infernian blade. At least that was something. A strange warmth escaped from him and spread throughout the front of his pants. His mother would be so ashamed. Visions of the lawless life he had chosen flashed before him. He hoped beyond hope that the few good things he had done would encourage the gods to somehow show favor upon him. He felt the blade slash into his body and was pleasantly surprised at the lack of pain. A strange warmth escaped him once more, but not from his bladder. He reached toward the mortal wound in a useless bid to stymie the flow. Then all went black.

Sometime later, the fat man opened his eyes. He was dazed and struggled to familiarize himself with his post-life accommodations. He lay on the dry ground of a vast wasteland, surrounded by the dead bodies of his gang. Mountains dominated the horizon to one side. He turned and looked the other way. Five horses were retreating from him. Four were loaded down with packs. The other, a gorgeous black steed, carried a man upon his back.

The fat man reached toward his cheek to feel where his death blow had been delivered. There was only a tiny amount of blood, and his boil, hanging by a thin strand of flesh. The great man had attempted to remove it instead of his head. He had not fully accomplished his goal. The fat man grabbed the soft sphere and yanked it away, snapping the flesh-string. The sting proved for certain he was still alive.

He rose, dusted himself off, and glanced after the great man. He considered calling after him, wanting to thank him for sparing his life. Maybe he should thank him for removing the boil as well. He had always loathed it. Then again, what he least wanted was for the mercy he had been shown to be reconsidered. It was not his desire to anger the great man.

His fear was bettered by curiosity.

“Stranger!”

The man stopped and calmly swung his head around to glance back. He was clearly in no mood for further interaction.

The fat man reassessed what he wanted to say. He needn’t say anything really, but curiosity had gotten the best of him. He blurted out what he had been wondering since they had first stumbled upon one another. “What’s your name, stranger?”

The great man smiled once more. “I’m Bronan.”

The fat man nodded. Now he had a name to accompany the story he had to tell.

Bronan turned and continued on to the city of Dwall, leaving the four hoodlums behind, another reminder that he was out there, a shimmer of hope in a world of shadows.