Glass or Diamond: Fairy's Wish

What is pain? What is its purpose? Why must it be so unpleasant?

Certainly, there are those of the school of thought -and rightfully so- that believes pain is a mechanism to trigger instinctive recoil from damage to the body. It is a reminder that one is alive, and the body would like to remain that way.

One currently in pain, however, might find themselves asking why pain must continue even when the source is inescapable.

That’s where Lykha finds herself.

Though, she admittedly expected to find herself waist deep in melted sandy mud and acidic goo. Instead, in her pain-dazed fog, she finds herself suspended on a long metal rod with a sword blade out in front of her.

It’s Mury’s weapon. She’s seen it in action many times.

And, he speared it into the solaghoul to give Lykha a near-literal branch. She manages to hug the weapon tightly, realizing she’s about to fall otherwise.

Attached to the weapon is a rope, stringing back to the rooftop where Mury is. He’s in a kneel, clenching his fist as he resists a pain inflicted upon him through a magical connection. He manages to push through, though, rising as he takes the rope tight. He tugs, and she can feel the weapon jiggle.

His shoulders droop, and she realizes why. The grapnel end, which is more blunt than the blade end, is stuck. The fairy shivers nervously, but she clutches tightly to the weapon. He tries to find footing, pulling more forcefully, even as the solaghoul gets closer to him.

Lykha whimpers. The pain is unbearable, and she knows he’s feeling it, because she is the caster of the blood magic that healed her using his blood, even if it’s a passive casting effect her body produces.

Mury is trying. He hasn’t given up. Lykha can’t either. She shimmies towards the rope carefully. The burning is intense, and surges when she moves. She whimpers, but she cannot relent.

The young fairy crawls along the polearm. If she can slide down the rope, he can yank more forcefully without worrying about her.

She nervously reaches for the rope, where a carabiner is hooked to it. It takes a few movements, but she is able to grip the rope.

Suddenly, it relaxes, though. She looks down at Mury, and he calls up, “Unclip it!”

“W-What?” she whimpers.

“Unclip it!”

“B-But…”

“DO IT! NOW!”

Her eyes water even more, and she fumbles with the clip, managing to unclip it from the weapon. She holds the clip, and he shouts, “HANG ON, LYKHA!”

She grips the clip with everything she can, and she closes her eyes, praying silently.

Lykha the fairy is jerked violently off of the polearm, and she can feel the air blowing across her. She’s sailing through the air.

She can hear his boot-steps thumping the rooftop. She simply clutches tightly to the clip.

It all happens quickly, and she can feel an embrace catch her as she is jostled in the grip. His armor scrapes and clangs across the ground as he falls, still protecting her with his body.

He doesn’t delay, though. He scrambles off of her, and she can feel water dumped on her back quickly. She whimpers as a new sting bites at her, and he scoops her up, running. She feels rather like a box or a sack being carried, but he’s moving quickly.

Gyrryth jumps off of the other roof, meeting them in the middle. He scoops up the hose on the run, turning the valve on a small amount. A continuous rush of water washes down her back, and the sting is slowly replaced by a cooling relief.

Gyrryth says, “Apologies, warrior, but the flasher isn’t visible enough.”

Mury scoffs, joking in a grunt through his pain, “Don’t tell Coco.”

“Agreed.”

Lykha whimpers, “W-What about…?”

“Shh, relax. We’ve done all we can for now.”

Gyrryth perks up. “Look.” He points.

Mury looks with ease -it seems-, as Lykha struggles to lift her head.

The surface of the solaghoul is no longer rather calm and still. It’s vibrating.

Hope surges through the emotional little fairy. She is easily scared, easily excited, easily angered, and easily filled with hope. But, this moment compares with only one other in her life; when bootsteps approached her in a jar in the desert. She was resolved to die then. Now, she was afraid of failure.

Mury says calmly, “How are you feeling Lykha?”

She struggles to look up at him. Can he pick up her emotions?

“We need to move. Do you feel relieved enough to move?”

There goes that thought.

She nods.

Mury nods at Gyrryth, and the lizardman closes the valve. The human warrior carries Lykha face down on his arm, still like a box, but she realizes he’s being mindful of her back, now that the rational part of her mind is less clouded. The two jog away from the monster, checking over their shoulders.

The solaghoul is roiling now. Violent bubbles are forming, and smoke is billowing out of its body even faster than before.

Lykha remarks dryly, “It’s going to explode, isn’t it?”

Mury scoffs. “Want me to say ‘no’?”

She relaxes on his arm, “Only if it’s true.”

“Then-...”

The warrior is cut off by a loud POOM! Gyrryth is a bit ahead of them, and he dives under the outer covered area of one of the buildings.

Mury, however, drops to a kneel, bracing as he hugs Lykha to his chest suddenly. She winces from her tender back burning from the contact, but when she can open her eyes, it’s in time to see mud splash across the warrior.

Lykha whimpers, “M-Mury…”

He doesn’t scream or panic, though. Instead, he slogs forward quickly, even as hissing fills the air around them and smoke billows from where the acidic mud contacted him.

Or rather, his armor.

The human warrior keeps Lykha above the mud raining down even now into the distance. But, with his free hand, he unbuckles his chest armor, shedding his backplate. He drops his gear belt without a thought, and he pulls his shoulder plates off quickly, tossing them aside. Once he’s close to Gyrryth, who flinches when a ‘gloop’ sound hits the roof, Mury hands Lykha to him quickly. “Take her.”

Gyrryth complies, and Mury then quickly unfastens his jacket, throwing his leather under-armor jacket off quickly. He has a light shirt on underneath, soaked with sweat. He relaxes, scraping his boots in the sand briefly, but he seems to already know before asking anyone else. He looks out at the village, coated in acidic, dissolved sand and mud. Lykha notices his helmet, and squeaks, “Mury, your helmet.”

He replies without looking, “Armor wasn’t the issue. The leather wouldn’t last long.”

Gyrryth jokes, “At least a minute, though, it seems, yes?”

Mury chuckles, “Let’s hope it’s actually dead.”

Lykha whines, “Don’t say that! That’s how every bad story continues!”

Both males chuckle. Mury stretches his arms, waiting on some unknown cue. He asks, “You both okay?”

The lizardman spellshot nods. “I feel I was not of much use during this fight.”

Before Mury can say it, Lykha says warmly, “Don’t be ridiculous.” She looks up at Mury, replying to him, “I will be. Thank you.”

He nods. “Good. Sounds like the last droplets have come down. I’ll go investigate.” He walks out into the mud-scattered village.

Gyrryth follows without hesitation, drawing one of his pistols. Lykha smiles, since she was ready to order him to if he didn’t think of it himself. No way they’re leaving Mury alone now.

The human warrior toes his ruined gear bag briefly. Some of the glass containers survived, but almost everything else has been dissolved very quickly. The acid even corroded his coins.

He doesn’t grumble or say anything though. He just checks and keeps moving.

Lykha says softly, “I’m sorry about your gear, Mury…”

He says over his shoulder, “Don’t be ridiculous. That’s why I didn’t have anything enchanted or enhanced.”

“What about your polearm?”

“Stolen from pirates. About a month ago, actually.”

Lykha’s jaw drops. The way he uses it, she would believe nothing less than he was born with it in his hands, basically. It came as naturally to him as if it were an extension of his body.

And he stole it from pirates. Just before he met Lykha, no less.

He leads the way to where the main solaghoul was at the end.

There is a humongous mass of the solaghoul’s acidic mud, still smoking as it slowly moves.

The difference now is that the motion is the mud seemingly smoothing out and settling.

There’s a quick motion to the left, and Gyrryth pivots, snapping his pistol up as Lykha looks.

A gigantic droplet of mud slid off of one of the buildings. The two watch it diligently.

Mury kneels, as if it never occurred, and continues inspecting the main mass. He says calmly, “I think it’s okay. It’s spreading, not pulling together.”

Gyrryth stalks towards the droplet, looking closer.

The droplet that fell smooths out, but never moves further.

Even the smaller solaghouls seem to have simply slumped into puddles instead of formed, moving blobs.

Gyrryth states as he relaxes his pistol, “I hate to be the one to declare something like this, but I think you’re right. It appears to be dead.”

“Agreed. It’s not sinking into the sand or rebuilding itself. We should watch closely, but evidence supports.”

The human warrior continues investigating, with Gyrryth and Lykha close at hand.

Coco returns, startling Lykha when she says, “EY LOVE!” She nearly tackles Mury, hugging him. “You are abs’lu’ly the fines’ slaya of the shivers!”

Maerin is still asleep on the teen’s head, but Mury says warmly, “You made it possible, Coco.”

“Really!?”

He nods, and Gyrryth and Lykha glance at each other knowingly.

The human warrior adds, “We’ll have to thank Maerin properly, too. She pulled through.”

Lykha looks up at Mury. “Mury…?”

He looks at her.

“Can I ask you something?”

He nods without hesitation.

“You’re the real Murtoa of Lakia… aren’t you?”

This time, there’s a pause. “What does it matter?”

Her expression softens, “Tell me the truth, please. I just want to know.”

He lets his gaze wander as he searches the mud to make sure none of it is moving. He replies softly, “Yes.”

“Why… do you live like this, then? You could have lived like that other guy; a noble knight.”

“I didn’t-...”

“I know! I know… But, why do you say that? Tell me.”

Murtoa pauses. His tone is quiet and distant when he answers. “That… other Murtoa’s story wasn’t too far off. But, it wasn’t intentional. I was nothing more than an artilleryman.”

***********************************

The air was cold and tense. The desert was never forgiving at night or the early pre-dawn morning, and the mountains south of the great desert were even less so.

He was chosen from his neighborhood because of any one of the usual reasons; his family was in debt, he was an only child, he was the first born son, he was born out of wedlock, he looked at someone’s daughter… Not all of these applied to Murtoa, but they applied to the young men, and even a few young women, on the hillside with him.

They were stationed on a valley wall, looking down a deep valley through the southern mountains and into the desert. The invasion had been pushed back to this naturally formed barrier, but the invaders rallied a massive force south of the mountains.

Murtoa’s battalion, split between the two walls with cannons aimed towards the defending side, was responsible for ambushing the invaders from behind once the bulk of their forces had marched into the valley. This flanking attack would divide their attention as the defending Vanguard held them off for the main army to arrive.

It would be a violent and bloody battle no matter how it was sliced, but the Vanguard was up to the task.

Hondolon and Shyar, the boy and girl Murtoa grew up with, each rub their hands together, trying to warm themselves up. For obvious reasons, they can’t have fires on the cliff sides while they’re waiting. It would give their positions away immediately.

This would be the first battle for all three of the friends. They were fresh out of training, stationed on large eight inch cannons. Honestly, if Murtoa was to be drafted, he got lucky his artillery crew ended up being his friends. He and Hondolon would load and move the cannon as needed, and Shyar would direct them to aim and ignite the fuse.

The cannons were all loaded, so it was just a matter of waiting.

“You think the stories are true?” asked Shyar.

“What stories?” Hondolon’s voice was starting to deepen with puberty, making him the most physically mature of the three. War doesn’t wait for everyone to grow up, and this war was already deep in progress.

“The stories about the monsters. The colossi.”

“Why wouldn’t they be? The cities are built on them.”

“Yeah, but… wouldn’t scary monsters hunt snails? It’s not like they can get away.”

Murtoa loved to joke, and that was an opportunity. “The snails gobble ‘em all. ‘S why the people boxes aren’t on the ground.”

Both of his friends chuckled.

The sargeant walked by, patrolling the artillery positions. “Keep the idle talk low, troopers. I know it’s boring, but we can’t lose our advantage now.”

“Yes Sergeant,” replied the three in unison. He continued on his way.

Just as they were settling back in, Murtoa spotted something in his peripherals. When he looked, it almost looked like a peak of the mountain just sunk down. But, that’s not possible, is it?

He whispered quickly, so even the sergeant could hear, “Did you see that?”

All three looked where he pointed, but there was nothing to see. Nothing was moving and nothing had anything out of place.

The sergeant replied, “I don’t see anything, trooper.”

Both Hondolon and Shyar shook their heads.

Murtoa wasn’t put at ease by that at all. His gut was churning. Some part of him was certain, no matter how empty the mountain top was, that something was there, and they all were in grave danger.

Soon enough, however, the morning came. And with it, the armies of the southern invaders arrived. The artillery crews on both sides laid still on the mountain side, watching the army pass below them. Their artillery pieces were too heavy to try to suspend off of the cliffside aimed downward, so they were staged to fire northwards in the valley, at the back of the invading force. This would pose some danger to their allies, but it was a calculated risk for maximum damage and division of attention to the invaders.

Murtoa’s gaze rarely pulled away from the crest of the other mountain, though. His gut was still uneasy.

“Why do they still think they’re entitled to what’s ours?” asked Shyar. “They have the south. Why try to take what little we have?”

The sergeant whispered from nearby, “They’re savages. Savages pillage and steal. It’s their nature.” He grumbled, “Filthy animals.”

Shyar frowned at her friends. It’s sad that it had to be that way, but that was why they were conscripted; to defend their homes and their families from the invaders.

The sergeant whispered, “Ready up and take aim. Remember, west wall fires first. They’re further south than us.”

The various artillery crews whispered, “Yes Sergeant.”

Murtoa and his friends carefully crawled away from the edge, so as not to be spotted moving. They then manned up their cannon, and Shyar gave hand signals for Murtoa and Hondolon to adjust the cannon a little.

A long time passed, and Murtoa could see the army advancing up the valley. The defending army's calls to arms could be heard.

Their sergeant whispered loudly, “Here it comes, crews! Brace yourselves!”

Another long time passed. He looked across the valley at the other wall, asking under his breath, “What’s taking them so long?”

When Murtoa looked, he could see nothing. But, his nervous gaze traveled higher.

The valley was just wide enough that the people were essentially ant-sized on the other side. Or, they would be, if they were there. Dozens of cannons rested, completely unmanned.

Murtoa was frozen in fear. He could not move.

Even when Hondolon said, “Be ready on the powder slug, Toa. We gotta beat Phyron’s squad today.”

Shyar joked, “Yeah. Their cheating won’t help them here.”

Still, Murtoa was frozen.

“Toa?” asked Shyar gently. How can they not see it!? It’s right there! It’s humongous! Every story is true! And they don’t tell the truth well enough!

He was incapable of saying any of these things. Would they have made a difference? Would they have saved his friends? He’ll never know.

An amber colored eye as wide as an apartment was fixed on the east wall; the wall where they were. And, dumb luck let motion catch his eye when the Sergeant grunts.

Murtoa didn’t think. He thought nothing of anyone but himself. He was under the cannon in a flash, covering his head as he breathlessly panted in a panic attack. Shyar and Hondolon both grunted above him, but he could never look. He dare not give form to whatever it is.

****************************

“We were waiting for the invaders to be in range. Up the valley they marched toward the vanguard. We could hear the vanguard charge, and the army roaring in return. But our cue was shortly after the opposing wall fired. And, they still hadn’t. When the sergeant looked, there was no one over there. I looked too, of course. We probably all did. It was eerie. Not a single artilleryman was still over there.”

The human warrior looks upwards, murmuring, “I was the only one that looked up in time. It wasn’t even looking at me, and I still see that eye.”

He looks at Lykha, “It had itself suspended over the valley, stretched across the entire valley. With room to move easily. I dove under our cannon. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t think. I just hid.”

A strain enters the stoic warrior’s voice, “I heard them grunt. They didn’t even have time

to scream. I had to look around to see Shyar and Hondolon, stuck to this… massive… thing. Razor-sharp spears for hairs… it only had to touch them -bump them-... and they were helpless…”

He looks away, staying silent for a long time.

“Mury…” whispers Lykha tenderly.

“Shyar was crying, staring into my eyes in horror. She wanted to live. She was terrified and knew what was coming, but she still wanted to live. And… she could do nothing about it. But, worse than that…”

“Nothin’ you coul’ do…” murmurs Coco gently. He nods. “It swept everyone up in an instant, pulling them back and raking them into its mouth across teeth the size of trees. It then turned its attention downwards.”

He scoffs, “I probably could’ve just waited it out. But, I was terrified, and I wanted to distract it. So, I pushed the cannon to aim at it. I struck the flint over and over again… Shyar… could ignite the fuse first try every time… I struck and struck desperately. And the holgamoor…”

His whole body tenses and shivers.

Lykha is shocked to see the fearless warrior she knows in such a delicate state.

But, he continues his story, seemingly skipping over something. “I managed to ignite the fuse, and the cannon fired. The holgamoor had descended too low, though, and I missed its head, hitting just the valley wall opposite me.”

Gyrryth remarks, “Knocking it loose.”

Murtoa nods. “It fell and hit the ground with such force… It’s a wonder anyone survived around it for any amount of time, but the impact sent quakes through the entire mountain range. I survived by dumb luck alone.”

****************************

“T-...oa…” Shyar’s voice was strained, barely able to even whisper.

He looked. She was no longer at her station, but a few feet away.

And she was stuck to a long, serpentine arm by razor-sharp, needle-thin spikes -hairs, even-. On the other side, bleeding from his mouth and already unconscious was Hondolon. But, Murtoa will never forget the tears in Shyar’s eyes as her gaze locked with his, and it sank into her expression.

She was already dead. She knew it. Her body didn’t yet.

Just as silently as it slipped into the ranks, and with almost every single artillery person stuck to it like some form of hellish burr, the massive tendril retreated, sweeping through a gigantic mouth as the people were raked off by teeth bigger than trees.

Murtoa couldn’t move. He couldn’t think. He couldn’t scream. He could only watch in horror as his friends vanished into the maw of a titanic monster suspending itself across the valley.

The valley that was wide enough to barely see people across.

The horror continued as the monster slowly turned, gazing down at the warriors fighting each other in the valley.

The noise it made will never escape Murtoa’s memory. It was heard by only him, and it’s too horrifying for him to even repeat.

As it descended, Murtoa finally had a moment. He scrambled up, in panic mode now. His body was running on adrenaline now. It was solely instinct. He couldn’t run. It would catch him. But, maybe, he could distract it with the cannon and buy himself enough time to flee. He shoved the cannon’s barrel, aiming at the behemoth’s gigantic head. Its silent tentacles swung and shifted slowly -elegantly- as it repositioned itself. Just like the soldiers far below, and the artillerymen on the cliffs, it had no idea what was coming.

Murtoa struck the flint over and over, trying desperately to get a spark. This was always Shyar’s job. She was flawless at it. She could get a spark to ignite the fuse on the first try.

Clack! Clack! Clack!

His pulse was pounding in his ears. If someone shot a cannon directly at him, he probably wouldn’t have heard it. All he could think of was getting the fuse to light.

Clack-hiss!

There! It was lit! The young artilleryman covered his ears, and thunder boomed.

But, his shot missed. The cannonball rocketed across the valley and slammed the wall opposite.

And now, the monster was turning. Just as it’s amber gaze met with Murtoa’s, and a chill poured down his spine, a distant crumble echoed.

The sounds of battle had stopped briefly, and the monster was now turning towards the crumbling on the far wall. Crumbling where the cannon ball hit.

And, where several hundred tons of monster were being partially suspended by one of its massive tentacles.

The monster slipped, and its titanic form plummeted into the valley. It landed rather squarely in the heart of the invading force, crushing huge swaths of the army with its body, and then its tentacles as they fell like great tree trunks.

And if that had ended it all, Murtoa would have a story to tell.

But, it continued. The force of the humongous monster hitting the ground sent quakes through the entire valley, rumbling up the mountain sides and shattering the solid rock faces with the sheer suddenness of such great force.

Murtoa felt the ground shake beneath him, and he only barely maintained his footing. It would do no good in the end, however.

When the young artilleryman awoke, he found himself laying on top of a pile of boulders. His body ached, and hot liquid was running down his back. His left eye burned and his vision was partially red. But, he was alive.

There was a tranquil peace to the world once more, even more quiet than the moments before the battle. The occasional rock falling echoed a long way, but there was otherwise nothing.

As he stumbled northward, he found parts of the tendrils of the monster peeking out of the rocks, laced with wounds and blood of its own.

There was no one searching the rocks however. He walked miles across the wake of destruction, but found no one.

He descended the broken mountain into the valley.

Still no one.

He walked miles into the desert.

Not a footstep or a soul.

He walked without real concept of time or distance. He had no idea where he was going. Perhaps, he was even walking the sands of time itself, marching towards death.

His journey was numb and felt both like an eternity and an instant. He didn’t even realize he had made it back to camp.

They prodded him. Questioned him. Treated him. Investigated him. Commended him.

He was numb to all of it.

All he could see through all of it were the tears in Shyar’s eyes. She didn’t want to die. And, there was nothing he could do.

He was taken all over in his numb state, barely processing anything. He barely ate. He never spoke. Somehow, he survived his catatonic state and woke up on the other side of it.

He was told he had been knighted for his deeds. Apparently, someone scouted the area and saw the destruction. The conclusion drawn was that either the armies destroyed themselves -the vanguard wasn’t expected to hold all on its own, only buy time- or that the colossus destroyed the armies. But, for propaganda’s sake, Murtoa of Lakia was claimed to have used the rockslide to slay both the colossus and the invading army after they had broken the lines.

And he was celebrated as a hero.

************************************

“The rock slide really destroyed them all?” asks Lykha.

Murtoa nods. “I woke up, and I could see the holgamoor’s arms twisted, wounded, and bloody in the distance. It was lifeless, and no one was searching the rocks. No one. I was alone… I wandered north in a numb haze. I was hoping to find anyone alive. But, there wasn’t anyone. And I kept walking. It didn’t really matter anymore anyways. I was never going to forget Shyar’s tear-filled eyes staring into my soul, pleading for something I couldn’t give… Not then…”

“What were you supposed to do? You were still a child…”

“Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t make the eyes go away.” Lykha looks down, and she realizes that Murtoa has drawn a young female face in the sand. Again, the detail is exquisite. “Scouts discovered what happened, because I couldn’t speak when I finally reached the defending army forward camp. When they reported it, I was celebrated as a hero; the only survivor of the vanguard and slayer of a holgamoor no less. Couldn’t speak for months. Barely ate. Couldn’t sleep. I only vaguely remember being tapped on the shoulders, and I was told I was knighted. Left the army after that.”

“So… you kill them to prove that you can… That you’re worthy of the praise…” Lykha’s tone is soft and tender. She feels for her friend, and she’s ever so grateful he shared.

He shakes his head, though. “No. Or, not exactly… It’s… I don’t know how the battle would have gone differently, but… I owe it all to them… to make sure no more Shyar’s and Hondolon’s ever have to die that way again. I vowed to kill them all, or at least one for each of my fallen allies.”

The warrior looks up at the sky.

“How many you go’?” asks Coco gingerly.

He scoffs. “Lost count a long time ago.”

There’s a moment of silence.

An older female voice whispers from Coco’s direction, “You don’t owe them anything. You don’t owe anyone anything…”

The group looks to Maerin, who was apparently more awake than she let on. She swirls her finger gingerly in Coco’s hair. “It’s noble an’ all that you care about your friends, but… they're gone. Killing monsters won’t bring them back, an’ it won’ help ‘em rest any easier. They’re resting easy as can be now.” She looks up with watering eyes, “And, anyone alive will jus’ betray you. Take it from me.”

Murtoa replies to her gently, “You’re probably right.”

He pulls a flare out of his sleeve, adding, “But, I’d rather get stabbed in the back and die without knowing than let monsters destroy lives.” He aims the flare up and pulls the string.

Like a true beacon of hope, a star shoots high into the sky.

The solaghoul is dead, and the villagers of Solace can return.

And Murtoa of Lakia -the one true warrior of the legendary name- led others in its defeat.

***********************************