Time with Amala, as quiet as she was, had allowed Arn to feel more comfortable with her. The stories that started with Caesar continued for many days and some nights when the young girl could not sleep. Amala was interested in the West. The man-bull and a blind man, the woman born of the sea and a city sprung from a swamp all captured her attention. But each and every time, she always asked about Aletheia.

  Why does she love you? Does she talk to you? How does she keep you alive? Many questions were asked, and Arn could hardly answer any of them beyond the bare truth. She has kept me alive. Only when I falter. She stops my wounds from bleeding.

  By the time they had escaped the mountains and entered the land south of Parthia, Amala did not even refer to Aletheia by her name, instead calling her Life. A childish mistake, Arn thought. Aletheia, who gave Arn the power to speak and understand all, meant truth in the language of the Ancients. Yet, Arn never corrected the girl. She could hardly breath without continuing in her fits, so when she let her frustrations at Kali and her life which had fallen so far from grace, Arn would not stop her.

  A week after they finally escaped the seemingly never ending smaller ranges after the Himalayas, they found a village. It had been many days since Arn had eaten, and Amala had eaten very little through their whole journey. In truth, Arn had woefully underestimated how long it would take to escape the mountains, even going so far as to begin praying to his goddess for deliverance. And yet every time the provisions would dwindle and the waterskin would empty, Arn would find something to sustain them.

  Arn entered the village, heading for its center where the dozens of townsfolk stared at him and moved away. Catching a small piece of a whispered conversation, Arn discovered that they spoke Persian, and he began to call out for the town elder or leader. Soon an old woman and a man a few years older than Arn came to him. Amala remained asleep.

  “Outsider, why are you here?” The man kept his distance.

  “I have no weapons.” Arn answered, dropping the satchels at his side and removing one of the yak-skin cloaks so Amala was not obscured. “I have come from the mountains defending Bharat. This child is sick.”

  “Is she yours?” The man asked. Arn felt the crowd shift around him, tense and waiting to see what would happen.

  “No. I am her retainer. She comes in exile from Shangri-La.”

  “You must leave, outsider.” The man said, and several surrounding men seemed to find some manner of club or weapon to force Arn out. “All of Bharat has burned. The land of the gods is certainly at fault. She cannot stay as a child of the gods who would destroy that land.

  “And you, you bear a mark of death. Leave now and take your curse away from us.”

  Arn bowed before the man. In the back of his mind, he was shocked at the news that all of Bharat was burned. Perhaps the same fate that befell Shangri-La came upon all of them. Kali’s words came to mind— It is true that they shall die.

  “I beg you to reconsider. This girl has done no wrong. The same gods that destroyed Bharat, they abandoned her and chase her no more.”

  “You will leave. We are people of the god of life, just as they are in Shangri-La. If those gods who live there with our god have abandoned her, we do not want her here.”

  What could he say to make the man change his mind? Both his fear of Bharat’s destruction and the strong devotion to the same god who burned the nation placed Arn into an unbreakable bind. What could one man do but appeal to something more?

  “I swear upon my own goddess’s name, Aletheia, that I am no threat to you. Though I am marked, this child is not. I beseech you and offer you blessings from my goddess should you help this girl.”

  As if he had uttered an ancient incantation, the crowd lowered their weapons, and the leader’s face became pensive. However, it was the old woman who spoke next.

  “You have power, traveler.” She croaked out. Her body shook slightly as she pointed at him. “I will take her. You may see here, but you will not sleep in this town. Stay by the crooked tree to the west. Come no closer, nor go any farther.”

  The man next to her waved his hand and the street cleared save for a few stragglers. Soon after, the elder woman turned and beckoned Arn to follow while the man left without another word. Though the settlement was small, they had to weave through smaller structures until they arrived at the outskirts with a small shack with the crooked tree in the distance.

  Once they were in the shack, the old woman had Arn place Amala down on a cot, and then she examined her. Amala was quite peaceful, having not coughed in some time. Yet, her breathing was shallow and her forehead hot. Even to the eye of the elder who did not know her before her illness, the girl was deep in the throes of sickness.

  “Fever.” The old woman said. “Her lungs must be weak. The breath is short.”

  “We were there when Bharat burned.” Arn answered, sitting at the foot of Amala’s cot. “Is it truly said that the whole land was scorched?”

  “Indeed, indeed. The messenger who came, he had fresh scars and cried out in pain every step. He needed not come to us. The smoke flew over the sea, and all the fish turned black. All travelers from the south had black tongues to show.”

  “A tragedy that so many should die.” Arn answered. In some small part, he felt responsible. The demon had told him that should he follow her, her people would live. Would he have changed his answer if he had known about the catastrophe? Arn could not say that he would.

  “Providence.” The old woman answered. “The gods have spoken. Disaster awaits those who abandon the customs of our deities. There is word in the west that many have begun to flock to Babylon and abandon the god of life. Bharat’s people are worse than even those who leave their god in the west.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  Amala’s fit began, and the rough sounds and struggle to breath broke Arn from his thoughts. A poor girl, he thought. His time with her had been pleasant. For the first time in a long time, he felt nothing but pure affections. To care for a child in such a pitiful state, it was not like following a general into war or a princess into comfort. It was a natural calling of a good man, befitting even the loneliest of people.

  Black residue came up from Amala’s throat and speckled the covers that had been placed onto her. Even her lips and tongue had been blackened in some parts. When the old woman saw this, she gasped.

  “You did not tell me she has black lung.” The elder went and pressed on the girl’s chest. “This poor child needs air— more air.”

  “The smoke from Bharat filled her lungs.” Arn explained. “But her fits have quieted.”

  “She is not breathing so much as to even cough. You stupid man. Why have you left this girl in such a state? Out! Go to the tree and wait for hours until I have started to cure her. Come back only then, and come quietly.”

  With shocking force, the old woman forced Arn out of the shack. Now alone with Amala in the care of this woman, he offered a prayer to his goddess in his mind.

  I ask that you preserve her as you have me. As before when a young child needed life, so too does this girl need life from you.

  Once his prayer had finished, Arn took to the crooked tree, placing all of his things at the base. With some of the yakskins, he made a bed and laid on it. His head rested against the tree, and Arn remembered that he was once again alone. The silence of the day passing filled his ears while his mind searched for some solace.

  Anxiousness had filled the empty space. His hands bounced up and down upon his legs in anticipation. His eyes watched the shack without ceasing. Arn’s thoughts drifted to the time he had shared with the girl. How sad it was to be without her. In her weakness, she had provided the comfort of a companion who would listen to his stories, and would listen to him.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  He thought back to his time in Ji. Once he had awoken from death and made his way to that city, Arn lived as a street rat, swiping clothes and bad vegetables from the lesser markets. Everyone looked at him strangely and attempted to grab him, even when he was no thief. In Aeterna, no one gave him a second glance. What did he truly feel in those moments of true poverty, that young boy of fourteen? Somehow, that boy who knew nothing survived.

  A guardsman of immense size one day caught him and beat him for stealing. Worse, he stole him away to the palace to be brought forward like a trophy from a hunt. Yet that state did not prevent the Emperor from finding favor in his ability to speak with him. A westerner who could speak Han was curious. A boy who could speak to anyone, that was a treasure all manner of princes and kings and emperors would aspire to hold.

  And so he joined the court at not even sixteen as a freak of nature who served the greatest ruler in the east. Such a life was luxurious in comparison to the gutter, yet it was not without its penance.

  Arn had the ability to understand traders who spoke small languages that the Emperor and his court did not know. Such men who attempted to steal from Yudi’s chosen, Arn caught them while they conspired in the same room. His payment for the act was the ritual execution of such traders. Their lives were ended by Arn in word and deed. None could know if Arn told the truth, but Han lost nothing to liars in the time that Arn was at court. Even still, he had to pay the toll.

  In truth, the payments were not meant for the men he executed fairly, but for Arn to remind him that he held the power of life and death at court. Though the Emperor may be the chosen of the god of kings, he listened to Arn. And the blood that ran on Arn’s sword added to the weight of death which never ceased in following him.

  For all the death, it was Li— full of life and excitement that such an exotic man had found his way into her life— that gave him comfort. At first, the young girl of twelve saw him only as a fascination, commanding him to serve her and read from books of odd scripts. Over time, she showed affection to him as a client of her father’s patronage, worthy of some modicum of respect.

  Only when Arn’s scar was revealed did she see him differently. One of his payments had gone awry, and he had to subdue an escaped deceiver. Arn’s shirt was torn, revealing the mangled scar which marked him. From that day forward, she spoke to him tenderly and tried to offer him comfort. Having no one else, he reveled in it.

  How hard it had been to be alone, only to find comfort in the hands of a princess of the ancient city Ji. A wish had been fulfilled. Perhaps it was Aletheia, showing mercy to her follower. Could it have been Guanyin or Yudi, seeking to claim Arn as theirs? He still did not know. All he felt was the warmth of a lovely woman when the thunder came.

  After a time however, Arn realized that what comforted him was fleeting. The many years that went by, Arn learned more about Li but never knew her, just as she had never known him. Arn did not like to think back to the time when death had made its way toward him and dragged him under into the darkness. He was certain that Li would not hear him, even if he told her.

  And now under this crooked tree, Arn realized that Aletheia had provided him someone who would listen to him. Though he would never tell anyone of that day, Arn hoped that Amala would see him for what he was, a lonely traveler in need of a companion.

  Several hours had passed when Arn ended his reminiscing and thought, and he went to the old woman’s shack to see if Amala had awoken. When he arrived, the elder told him that she woke up briefly but was unaware of her surroundings. Arn saw Amala as she slept with damp towels around face and on her stomach. Before he could say anything more, Arn was told incessantly by the old woman to leave. So he did, returning to the tree and resting for the night in a makeshift tent, using the tree as the back of the seat in which he slept.

  The following days, Arn continued to return to the shack, waiting alone for hours at the tree or searching for small game like mice or lizards. He ate small portions, but he could hardly stomach anything the longer he had to wait.

  Amala’s condition seemed to be worsening to him. Even at the beginning of their journey, she did not sleep as much as she did now. Only twice did Arn see her awake, and he only heard her speak once. The first time, the old woman made Amala drink copious amounts of water, so much that she spit some out nearing the end of the treatment.

  The second time, Arn heard Amala say to him ‘where are you’ and no more.

  When the seventh day had passed, Arn returned to the shack in the night, but the old woman refused to let him in. She told him that he should not come back anymore. And when Arn forced his way in, he quickly turned and left, returning to the tree.

  He sat in the cold of the night, taking no shelter in his tent. His head rested on the trunk of the crooked tree and tears fell from his eyes. All alone in the darkness, hardly a dozen stars speckling the sky, Arn felt more alone than ever before. And his sobs echoed into the emptiness of the land of Gedrosia, far from his home and path.

  Hours later near midnight, a light appeared from the village and came closer to Arn. For a moment, he thought that it was Aletheia come to console him. Yet, as the light came closer, it was clearly the burning fire of a torch. He thought that it must be the old woman come to tell him about Amala’s passing. When Arn could make out the holder of the torch, it was the man who had threatened him in the town many days earlier.

  “Do you come to tell me?” Arn asked, his voice hoarse and uneven. The man did not answer. Arn tried to stand to meet him, but the man lurched forward, casting off his torch and drawing a knife. If not for Arn’s movement, the man would have stabbed him dead, but Arn was able to force him away and onto the ground.

  They wrestled for several seconds before Arn wrenched the blade away and stuck it into his assailant several times. The man struggled but ultimately died, covering Arn’s hands with his blood.

  Arn stood, breathing hard and dropping the weapon. In that moment, it all felt so overwhelming. Deep sadness and excitement at war in his person. Tears on his face and blood on his hands. If not for the torch’s flames continuing to grow near him, Arn would have stood shocked until the sun rose and the rest of the settlement would mob him. Yet the fire caught his eye, and he saw the corner of a piece of parchment burning. On it was his face, undoubtedly a crude copy of a notice of execution and reward. It read Arn of the West. Tall with Pale Skin and Blue Eyes. His Imperial Majesty, the God Emperor of Han Offers the Whole of His Treasury for the Westerner’s Head”

  Unable to remain any longer, Arn left that tree and ran north with nothing. He did not stop for two days, his body screaming at him in pain and exhaustion. Only when he arrived at an abandoned camp with ripped tarps, menial items long ruined by the elements, and a tarnished sword without edge planted in the ground.

  Arn threw himself to the ground and called out to his goddess.

  “Have you forsaken me? Aletheia, have you no mercy upon me— upon a poor child? Have you no love for me? You have said ‘I will preserve you,’ but I have never known peace. I, yet, know nothing about how I am to serve— how you might raise me up and cast away the darkness. Oh Aletheia, have you forsaken me?”

  And above him, a great light shined, and from that light came his goddess in all her splendor. She descended until she stood before him, looking down upon him. From her lips, that beautiful and mystical language filled his ears.

  “I am your goddess, you exiled of the West. Through all, I have delivered you. Your debt to the pagan has been paid, its toll extracted from you. No more will you barter my love for the acceptance of the pagans, for it dishonors you in my sight and dirties your soul.”

  “I merely wanted to save a girl.” Arn cried, his tears returning to him out of pain and anguish. “How could I have saved her alone? I did not want her to die.”

  “I have never left you. The girl will be cared for, as she would have been with you. Keep the faith, blessed man. Even in your moments of weakness, I shall care for you.

  “Your debt has been paid. As you have said, I will grant blessings upon that village for their kindness. Yet to you, I have gifted punishment for your pride. To gods they have men, and to men they have gods. Each believes they are like one another, seeking to dominate and topple whoever triumphs that day. You must not be so. Your master is Truth, and you are a servant of Truth and no other. Seek not your own power, but your God.”

  “I have no strength.” Arn answered, placing his forehead onto the cold ground of the wilderness. “Death has not yet taken me, but the suffering I feel drives me ever closer. I cannot escape it. How can I serve when I may not raise my head and not feel pain? This hole in my chest, how may I serve while it gapes in pain?

  Aletheia watched the pitiful display of despair. Yet, she would not let him suffer forever, and Arn knew this. Her love radiated off of her being like the rays of the sun, and he knew it to be true. Arn’s head raised as the ethereal woman, full of grace, floated to the tarnished sword, its metal corroded to its core. If it were to clash with another blade, it would cease to be and vanish like dust in the wind.

  “If this ruined sword is not worth taking up, lay down and die. For you were once dead and raised up, draw it and go forth as a sword of Truth.”

  Arn obeyed in spite of his weakness. When he stood, his body called out in pain, yet he continued forward. With his right hand, he drew the blade from its rest and felt its weight. It could defend him from nothing, and Arn felt that was true about his own person as well. Yet, he followed the will of his goddess, fashioned a covering for the corroded sword and a strap for his back.

  Once this was done, he sat on the ground in exhaustion. And the spirit of Aletheia came over him, laying his head upon the ground and casting him into a dream of the past. Though the pain of that time washed over his face moments later, Aletheia came in comfort.

  “Oh my little child.” Aletheia whispered as she came close and kissed him on the forehead as a mother would. “I will redeem you.”