Returning to No Applause, Only More of the Same

He hadn’t known how many years had gone by. It had felt like a thousand, but he knew it couldn’t have been more than fifty. His body remained the same age, but his mind felt sluggish. The only thing he was thankful for was that he hadn’t been alone down there. There were other prisoners in the catacomb of the Empire.

A few were even from the theocracy. Though they were very, very few. More had been recovered at first, but as the years dragged their feet and tore at his psyche, more and more of these people were taken.

Executed. Killed.

A better fate than remaining in the prison. It was Hell. Food was scarce, drinking clean water even more so. Kreig had believed himself accepting of his new life. He had lived there longer than he had lived on Earth, he had found a love and a purpose in the theocracy, but here, now… Now, he uselessly found himself longing for the simple pleasures of his teenage years.

They released him only after his will was shattered a thousand times. Only after he had sworn his loyalty, only after he had spat in their faces, only after he had kissed their boots, only after he had pretended to give up his religion, only after he had been taught the tongue of his captors, only after he grew more silent than not, only after he stopped reacting to their whips and chains… Only then did they know that he was truly broken.

He prayed, yes. In his heart, he sang the chants Peter had written. Spoke words of faith and longing.

That wasn’t what saved him.

When they pulled him up, dragged him out of his cold, damp cell, he expected torture, isolation or execution. Not release.

He was met with a half-full moon grinning down at him. So bright his eyes felt dry and burning. Stars upon stars shone down in full intensity, as if he hadn’t spent a single year down there. Years ago, he might have taken this moment of release, this single moment where the Empire’s streets were laid bare and the night wind rustled through his unkempt hair and there was a chill in the breeze, to escape. Break his chains and throw the soldiers to the side and run, run, run.

He didn’t. He stared up, looked at the stars, and lumbered after his new masters.

He couldn’t die. If he tried to escape and he was caught, he would be killed. If he tried to escape and he succeeded, he would be hunted forever. The theocracy had fallen, he was a heretic and if he didn’t submit, the faith would die with him. He had to remain alive.

Such a vow lived on in his heart.

And yet, he felt misplaced. The free wind felt wrong, the castle he was shuffled into was cold and foreign, and the lord who presented him to the Emperor in fluid German was a stranger. It was all wrong. Wrong and bad and he was in the wrong place and why wouldn’t they take him home yet?

Not home to Earth, not home to the theocracy and the Holy Order of White Roots. Home to his cell.

Where every day was the same and nothing was off and he was in the right place. This was wrong.

You’re in the wrong place. Wrong wrong wrong get out of there.

Go home, home to where every day is the same and nothing is strange. Home where you’re expected, home where your faith is safe. Go there, Kreig, go there and-,

Kreig awoke in a cold sweat, his head pounding and his eyes seemingly bulging out of his head. He could feel every hot red vein in his head. Thumping and bumping like something unknown in the night. His pyjamas felt tight and uncomfortable and his bed was much too soft.

He swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. He had to get out of there. Go… somewhere. But where? Not here.

Elsewhere.

Sneak (V)

He moved through the apartment as silently and quickly as a tip-toeing cat. Merged with the darkness. He hated sneaking, but sometimes, it was what he had to do to survive. Now was not such a moment, but he despised the thought of awakening his siblings more than he did sneaking.

The door was unlike the ones he was used to in many ways, but he figured out how to unlock it quickly enough without having to use a skill he hated even more, namely Lockpick (II).

Down the stairs and out the door. Into the cool air that blew across the city like a wave of chilled water.

Breathe. In and out. Wander here and wander there. The sky was dark but the city was bright. Too bright. He could barely see the stars. But up there, just beyond the grey and the tempered clouds, he saw stars. Stars of brightest white, hidden in the black. Stars he both recognized and didn’t. He used to love watching the stars, seeing them twinkle and shine and light up the world.

They were in a different constellation here. Different stars in different positions. But they were still stars, and they were still bright, and he was still-,

No, no. This was home. Where he was before wasn’t truly home. This is.

But as he looked at the stars he didn’t recognize, in a world he didn’t remember, in a city that had forgotten him, he suddenly felt hollow.

He wasn’t home. Not yet.

He had to make it home.

And that would take work.

He fell to his knees. The sky was empty, nothing above him. He clutched his hands together, and let the words fall from his glib tongue. It was one of the first prayers he’d learned, before he even understood the beliefs of the Holy Order. Before he accepted it into his heart. But he remembered it. Through all these years, it was one of those prayers he wouldn’t hesitate to speak in a difficult situation.

It was one asking for guidance.

“Oh White Roots, God Below, white snakes of grandest truth. Form into paths, white paths of white gold, and let me walk upon your back. Show me the way, show me the truth.” The sun shone upon his back, a single ray of light, like a spotlight for him and him alone. All prayers he knew were in English. He didn’t understand it at first, but the mere fact that he and his four classmates spoke English as a first language was seen as a blessing, something fantastic. Only the highest Oracles and cardinals spoke the language of roots fluently. Sure, the Five Bodies couldn’t speak a lick of mandarin, but they learnt quickly.

Peter even became a scriber when the opportunity arose, creating lyrics for chants and texts for prayer. He had written many of the prayers Kreig knew by heart.

After Kreig had spoken his prayer, asking for guidance from his God, he stood up.

Unbeknownst to him, he and his display had been seen by a single soul. A single woman saw his prayer and how he lit up the little street. She was a mere prostitute, and a new one at that, one who didn’t know the streets yet and had wandered wrong. She wasn’t a believer, but now that changed. Now, she had seen a chosen.

Now, she had received her guidance.

Kreig didn’t linger in the streets for long. His God remained silent, but he could tell his place was not in the streets, below dull stars. It was inside. In his home. That he knew.

He went home, not knowing how this small display would change his future.