A Black Truth

Written: 2/1/22

There was nothing that could be done. The sky above the broad, desolate slopes of Ada would always be dark. But now it seemed as if the sky was blacker than ever. It was like something drawn from a child’s storybook, a curse, a tragedy: an eternal night. Vincent stared up at the hopelessly black sky, his feet scaling up the hill which rendered the White Palace, a starburst of ivory jeweling the endless black, coming into view only thanks to the throng of Lanterns eddying around it like the brilliant sparks on Liberation Day. They seemed to blink and glitz with every breath the took. He had thought of leaving the country countless times before. How hard could it be, especially for someone holding his rank and prestige? He had thought of eluding the burly Night Guards defending the borders and bribing them with everything from gold and promises of their freedom. But who was he kidding—it would never happen. His grip on the straps of his leather knapsack tightened. He gasped. For an instant, there had been a sharp pain in the area between his ribs. Biting his tongue, he supposed it had been the air, which was known to be thin up in the slopes. His chest rising and falling, he stopped to stare as the stars and Lanterns flushed from yellow to white to black again. Vincent tried figuring out whether he really wanted to return to his life of lavish parties, rigorous training in the palace courtyards, his frequent visits to the various White Churches scattered throughout the union. He squeezed his eyes shut. What was wrong with him? After all, he was an alchemist, among the handful that were fated to restore light to Ada. His presence was celebrated among the officials which occupied the White Palace. He was preordained to die in the name of the union. It was certain his death would be celebrated, too. He let go of his knapsack and stared at his open palms. The scars and blisters on them were just beginning to heal. His palms were no longer the whites and blustery pinks they had been, no longer tender to the touch. Now he would return to tossing javelins, lifting heavy weapons and hanging from splintered bars. There was no question to the fact that he did not care for returning light to the union, as it would never happen. He turned to face the White Church, somewhere yonder in the west. He thought of the hangings, the executions, the children turning against their own mothers and fathers. Had they deserved the deaths and economic failures that followed the Night’s creation? “Stop it.” Those were treacherous, traitorous thoughts. The Night had been a punishment, he reminded himself, a curse straight from the heavens, Evil. That was why they sacrificed to Good, whose head was wreathed in ether, who seemed to us as ever beautiful and larger than life itself—and so very white. “Vincent Akh.” He whipped his head around, nearly dropping his pack, wiping his sweaty hands on his white work pants. Studying the person standing by him, his eyes began to soften. “Oh, it’s just you, Marcus. What the hell are you doing here?” His voice was still hoarse. Marcus smiled, a pair of dimples blooming on his cheeks. He had always been insecure about them. Marcus hated the way he looked, the white scar stretching across his face, the sharpness of his eyes. He had been conscious about his heavy features since he was a child. He simply stood there, holding a Lantern in his hands and illuminating the area below his face, turning his lips to an ardent yellow. He was wearing a set of bronze armor over his tunic. Vincent began to think he had been stupid for not noticing him and his polished, clattering chestpl​ate. And he was riding a horse, for Evil’s sake. “We could ride back to the palace,” he offered. “No, thanks.” “What, are you trying to get in shape? I get it, Ada’s at the verge of war with the Sephasians.” “No.” Marcus made a face. “Suit yourself. Feel free to ask one of my men for horses as they come by, or, well….” His voice trailed off. Vincent took in breath. “Where are you folks headed?” They were hardly ever armored like this. “Putting an end to the rebellion in Kamaria,” he said simply. “Are you in need of an alchemist?” “No. We’ve already got Arys and—” “Dinara?” “Yes,” he sighed. Pulling on his horse’s reins with his free hand, Marcus started down the mountain. “She won’t be at the palace, if you were wondering.” His horse let out a sharp whinny as it traced the narrow beaten path back down the slopes. A cluster of bronze-wearing men followed close behind, trailing after him until all that was left of them were the distant clicking of burnished hooves. Swallowing, Vincent started back up the slope. He still had a long way to go, as the palace loomed formidably in the distance, but it seemed to grow larger with every foot he planted in front of him. After moving forward a couple hundred steps, he thought he heard something. Shrugging, he told himself it was probably just the blonde grass wavering in billows around him. Perhaps it was the sharp wind that always seemed to wail and groan at high altitudes. He checked the brass compass dangling from his neck to make sure he was headed in the right direction. Funny. He was headed a little too far north. The footsteps grew louder. There was definitely someone in front of him. Rolling his eyes, he brought his hand to the white knife sheath hanging from his leather belt. “Reveal yourself,” he sighed, as if he had been in this situation a thousand times before. The figure behind him took a few steps toward him. They held no Lantern. “Do you happen to know an Akh around here? Vincent Akh?” Vincent unsheathed his dagger. “Sephasian,” he snarled. “Oh, how could you tell?” “It doesn’t matter.” Vincent had been taught of the Sephasian accent: their throaty open vowels, the sharpness of their lisps. “Come closer.” The Sephasian man came forward, stepping into the warm, glowing circle around Vincent, around the Lantern hanging from his knapsack. His hands were up. His skin was the color of copper and his eyes were big and beady, positioned as if pleading for mercy. “I do not mean to harm you, or anyone here, for that matter—” “What do you want from Vincent Akh?” “I would like to negotiate. After all, Mr. Akh does happen to be—” “You have ten seconds to get out of my sight.” “No. I’m afraid you’re going to have to let me stay.” The man folded his arms, eyes narrowing. He stepped into the emberlike light cast from Vincent’s Lantern. Vincent made a bleching noise. “What is Mr. Akh to you, northern trash?” The man winced. After that, he did not dare move. “Your name?” Vincent demanded. The man only stared. “Okay. Well, I’m going to have to take you with me,” he sighed, reaching for his shoulder. The man pulled something out of his pocket. “You are Vincent Akh, aren’t you?”

The man was arrested. “It was his fault. I don’t know how he managed to make it past the Night Guards at the border or what he wanted from us. He was just a Sephasian underestimating my capability to sniff out bullshit.” Vincent sighed as he drew a long breath from his cigar, watching the stars and Lanterns outside shift and blink in a brilliant dance. It was like the world was holding its breath. Clearing his throat, he stamped his cigar out on the walnut coffee table his legs were crossed over. A frenzy of gilded picture frames festooned the marble walls. The areas by the double doors are set aflame with silver torches burning crimson. In front of him sat a Night Guard, his skin almost purple beneath the lights, his eyes shadowed. His heavy build sank awkwardly into the cardinal loveseat beneath. Vincent smiled at him. “I understand,” the Night Guard replied, and stood. “But before I go, Mr. Akh,” he began, “the gala has been rescheduled to this evening. And don’t be surprised if another one of us asks for you again, we’re still trying to figure out who this man is.” Vincent pursed his lips as the guard slipped out the frosted-glass doors behind him. He reached for another cigar, as there were a frenzy of them littered on the wolfskin rug beneath the table. Sighing, he undid his bathrobe and made his way over to the lengthy mirror at the other side of his bedroom, just glad that training wouldn’t commence before a week from then. His hair was still wet from the bath. There seemed to be nothing he could do about the shadows underlining his eyes and the way there was something not quite right about his features. He wrinkled his nose. He started getting the same feeling he had felt earlier. It was all familiar: the ache of his neck as if someone had their hands wrapped around, the watering of his eyes, the strange whispering coming from nowhere. And then he saw him. Vincent had a problem with seeing ghosts. He had a problem with trying to speak to them, asking for their names and how they passed away. The ghost peeped his chin over Vincent’s shoulder. Its figure was a shadow, a black mass, but its eyes were white like beady saltwater pearls. “Hello there,” Vincent greeted. This one was silent. Probably for good reason. “Can you hear me?” Vincent asked, lacing his palms around the mirror. It remained still and silent. Annoyed, Vincent turned around, and it vanished.

That night he wore his cleanest tunic to dinner. His long hair was put up neatly into a bun and he was still experiencing symptoms of his strange ghost-seeing condition. The dining hall was long and white. Of course, the Shaman and the royal family were not there, as per usual. They dined in a secluded, heavily-guarded area. Vincent couldn’t help but think of them as mad. Who would want to execute the governing family of a failing nation? “In the name of Good,” all of the guests mumbled in unison. “In the name of Good,” Vincent repeated after them, stabbing his steak with a silver fork. He had not experienced dining as such since he left. A herald approached the head of the table, close to where Vincent was seated. The herald cleared his throat and the sputtering and lisping of palace officials came to a halt. “The union is at war with Sephasia. The monarch also requires the impromptu presence of Vincent Akh.”

DAPHNE

It’s strange, knowing you’re going to the underworld. I would have preferred to wander the world of the living for the rest of eternity. To see everything unfold after my death. But I guess not, since I’m perfectly conscious. Except my body’s gone. I told him to bury me. My life felt like a big joke, if I were to look back on it. There was nothing good, really, that ever happened to me. Every year was a torment, a sorrow. To top it all off, I had done some awful things here and there that earned me my place in the afterlife. It’s like I was cursed. Who was I kidding, I was cursed. They had been saying that about me since they day I was born, back in that one small Islan island I’m from. My mother was a priest, a daughter of Good. She sang and smiled, gave to the unfortunate, and married a man equally as kind of an individual. She deserved the world. Tragically, her husband passed during an ambush led by the Adans. I was the youngest of six children, a bastard. I never knew my real father. He was an alchemist. A powerful alchemist. My relationship with my mother was…well. “What happened to my father?” I asked one day. I hardly ever spoke. My voice was hoarse. She glared at me, setting her hand on her hip, her eyes piercing through me. I swallowed. “Daphne. I’ve told you a thousand times, he was killed by an Adan.” “I’m not talking about their father. I want to hear about my father.” My question was returned with her grabbing my wrist and bringing me to the fireplace. “We will not speak of this again. Your father was killed by an Adan,” she sputtered through gritted teeth, grabbing a fistful of my hair, digging her fingernails into my scalp. “Do you understand, child?” “I don’t think---” I don’t remember finishing my sentence. All I remember is my head meeting the brick outline of the fireplace again and again. I never mentioned my father after that. My mother was a beautiful woman. In my naivete, I still managed to love her, though I knew she wanted to get rid of me more than anything. I remember being close with my brother, Aizat. He bought me candy from the shop by our house. He told me stories. He taught me how to wield a sword. He was everything to me. He gave his life for me. There was the fisherman, too. I recall his name was something like Arisen. He was among the few people I knew that didn’t hate me. He was a stout man, short and stocky with a white beard outlining his mouth. He let me tag along on his numerous fishing trips, teaching me to hurl lines into the scarlet-streaked surface of our waters. It wasn’t like his demonstrations would be of any use in the future, but I appreciated him putting in the effort to make a bundle of bad luck like me smile. He took his own life two years after meeting me. There was something mesmerizing about catching a fish. It was hard to believe that fish would fall for something as inane as a fly. But then again, we were all like salmon, in a way. We all worked, achieved our goals, but all our efforts were tantamount to our inevitable deaths. Fishing provided me with comfort. I would always remember our countless hours of sitting in his small wooden boat, hearing him whistle away at the same simple melodies over and over, reeling in wads of fish. Several summers ago, the Adans came back to the island. I remember their white masts tearing through our violet skies. I remember hearing women screaming for help. Children crying for their mothers. They had set everything aflame, burning up in bogs of reds and yellows and shattering everything we had ever built into a thousand pieces. “Please, don’t.” Our family had gathered in our small home. We were all huddled together. Of course, I was the closest to the door, farthest from the windows. A group of Adans were at the door, whispering in a language I had never heard before. “She has the brand,” they lisped in Islan, their accents thick. “Let’s spare this child.” A man, heavy and pale, grabbed me by the collar of my dirty tunic and hurled me over by the door. My heart beat up in my throat. Why me? Why not my mother? Why not one of my siblings? “Hurt them and I’ll kill you,” went my mother, tears streaming down her beautiful face, her sepia doe-eyes turning to glass. Yet her expression remained, more unwavering and resolute than it had ever been. The scent of smoke was growing heavier. I was sure our adobe home would collapse as soon as they were dead. The Adans laughed, as if what my mother had said was some sort of sick joke. “We are not playing around here, miss. You’re old, your children are as well. It’s about time you died. You Islans don’t live long, anyway.” As soon as I blinked back into reality, my family was dead. I let out a sharp noise, running over to my mother’s body, bringing her head to my chest, pressing her wound to my skin. She was still alive. “Listen here, child,” she swallowed, eyes narrowing. “I should’ve gotten rid of you. A fortune teller had told me after your birth. All of the island’s misfortunes are because of you.” She winced, as if just looking at me had disgusted her. “Everyone and everything you care for will die tragically.” Back then, I didn’t know what she meant. Maybe I didn’t want to believe it. Looking back on it, she was right. She should have gotten rid of me. I closed my eyes.

When I opened them, I was aboard a ship, dressed in delicate white clothing and gilded finery, my dark hair slicked back and braided. “Slan, the alchemist is awake.” Alchemist? A pale, lean man approached me, wearing a genuine smile. “Hello,” he said to me in Adani. “My name is Slan.” He reached for me, making me flinch. “Whoo, she’s skittish.” He grinned. “From now on, I’ll be your father. I’ll teach you everything you need to know about alchemy. I bet your father was a talented man, despite being an Islan.” He tried to put his hand on my shoulder. I pulled away. “Look, child, I’m not going to hurt you. You’re going to live in a palace.” What palace? I was told there was nothing good in Ada, just that bizarre darkness and desolate hills. “How old are you, girl?” He asked, getting on his knees to match my height. I held up ten fingers. “Oh, what a fine age to be! Do you have a name?” I did not answer this question. Daphne, I wanted to say. But he answered for me. “From now on, you are going to be called Dinara. Is that clear?” I gave a nod. “Good. We’re almost there.” It was the first time I saw the Night. It seemed to be blacker than the underworld could have ever been, darker than the nights I had spent in Isla. It was horrific. My breath caught in my throat as I stared. The men around me laughed at my bewildered expression. Slan chuckled. “You’re going to get used to this.”

And thus began a year of hell. Of being beaten, training until I threw up, until I got used to it. All of it.