Sword of Famine

Oliver stands alone in a field of darkness.

He doesn’t remember how he got here.

He’s surrounded on all sides by a cloying black so thick he can’t see his own hands in front of him. The ground is solid and cold beneath his bare feet. A cool autumn breeze kisses at his skin.

He remembers Marianna and Jean and Dewein and Martha. He remembers- he remembers-

The sword. The Ruins.

Where is he?

Pain spikes behind Oliver’s eyes and he clutches at his head, crouching down. He shouldn’t be here, something isn’t right. He can’t be here, because he made it back to the village. He survived—

He survived?

Did he?

The fantastical things he saw flash in his memories, the colors and lights, time bending before him. The strength he felt thrumming beneath his skin. The bizarre state of the forest as he walked back- how did he walk back? He had no idea where he was in the first place.

The sword, the ruins. The ruins especially. They were old- too old. Ancient and teeming with magic in a way that makes no sense so close to the village. The door to the surface was right there. Someone would have found it, surely.

His experiences cascade with contradictions. It doesn’t make sense.

Where is he?

He remembers entering the forest. He remembers the sudden rain that made the ground slick. He remembers falling.

Falling.

So is that it? He’s asleep or something? Laying on the floor of some cave in the Abyssal Forest, completely unguarded?

What does he need to do to wake up?

Is he even still aliv-

He has to be alive. He needs to wake up.

Where can he go, from here?

The darkness stirs around him, as if responding to his question. The breeze shifts, changing directions. It feels like an invitation.

Oliver turns, and takes a step forward. Leading with his right leg, as always-

Only instead of the ground he was expecting, Oliver feels a sharp, icy cold. Alongside the cold comes a creeping sensation of loss that grips Oliver’s chest so tightly he swears it must be his own— Like he’s nineteen again and just found out that he was the new head of the family. Like he’s twenty and he woke up alone—

Oliver feels the pain and rage flood him like a scream.

He rears back and almost falls, escaping the touch of— whatever that was.

Oliver’s mind clears slowly. His hands are shaking as he breathes. Reassessing his situation.

Not a field, then. A few tentative taps around the edges of the platform he found himself on reveal a thin path, stretching out further into the darkness.

Walking is… awkward to say the least. He can’t see anything, which makes him unsteady on his feet. There are no walls to lean on for support. Each hesitant, shuffling step feels like he’s walking along a razor’s edge, unable to see past the looming abyss full of wrong that would surely swallow him if he falls.

He can’t say he’s alone, anymore.

Whatever this place is— a concussed man’s delusion, a vision of the afterlife— something is here with him. It clings to him, wrapping around his limbs, a phantom weight, waiting for him to misstep.

All the more reason not to fall.

Oliver’s not sure when his eyes drifted shut. Left, right, up and down have no meaning anymore. All that matters is a wind against his skin, and the ground beneath his feet.

He feels lost, in a way that he never has before.

Then, something changes.

The air shifts again, like cool moonlight.

Oliver opens his eyes.

There, cradled in the darkness, luminous in a way that defies his understanding of this strange place, Oliver finds a man.

His hair is silver, like the stars on a clear winter night. It looks like it might have been long once, but was cut short recently— haphazardly, even. With a long strand in the front left unmarred.

Another step closer, and Oliver notices the darkness slip away from his skin, leaving only the cool breeze in it’s wake.

From what Oliver can see of the man, his shoulders are broad, one of them is marred by a deep scar that extends past his collar bone. It’s shape looks like the jaws of a great monster. In fact, every part of him is marked in some way, some inconsequential, others not so. There are fresher wounds, stitched neatly along his left forearm, like a blade struck him while he was guarding.

His hands are muscled, calloused and rough, the palms of a swordsman.

A warrior, Oliver concludes.

Slow, steady breathing reveals to him that the man is sleeping, but alive.

His face is handsome, a sharp jawline paired with refined features, though his lips and eyebrows are pulled into a tight frown.

Oliver reaches out, hoping to— wake the man, or at least smooth out the harsh lines marring his expression. To soothe him, maybe. As strange as it sounds, even within Oliver’s head.

Just as Oliver’s bare hand brushes against scarred skin, and the man’s silver eyelashes flutter-

Oliver wakes to hands holding him down and voices shouting his name.

He opens his eyes. He’s inside, now. There’s a stove crackling across the room, giving it a warm light. It takes a few moments to understand what’s being said to him. He slowly recognizes Helen’s voice. The older woman is standing above him, holding down one of his shoulders.

“Oliver, dammit kid, You’ve gotta stay awake with me this time.”

“Helen… How did I get here?” Oliver’s tongue feels useless in his mouth. He looks to his other side, only to see Charlie holding down his other shoulder, and Elise standing a bit away, holding a sturdy wooden case, looking harried. “What’s going on?”

“Oh not this again.” Elise scoffs.

“Elise. you have to be patient with him.”

“I’ll be more patient when we can stop having the same conversation four times over Helen. Who’s to say he won’t pass right out, and forget this time too?”

“Head injuries are a tricky thing. Especially in this case.”

Helen sighs, looking down at Oliver again.

“We still don’t know what that artifact did to him.”

An artifact. Oliver’s hands tighten instinctively and- he still has it. The sword. It wasn’t a dream. All of it was real? Oliver-

“-Oliver!” Elise calls. “We need to put that thing away now, but first you’ve gotta let it go.”

Is it really that simple?

Oliver lifts his left arm out to Elise, holding the sword for her to take. She doesn’t reach for it, instead opening the case in her hands. Through the flickering firelight, Oliver can see Elise’s familiar runes, in-laid in thin silver wire along the inside of the case’s rim.

Is it over?

Oliver grits his teeth and sets down the sword, trying to ignore the way it’s handle tears away from his palm. It rips out something along with it, something nestled deeper than skin or bone- because when he looks again, there’s nothing there. No viscera coating the ornate blade. Just his mind playing tricks on him.

The case closes with a hollow thunk.