Harata

     Death had come. He could feel the soft stirring of its Angel’s wings. At the edge of the chasm where he stood, a slight breeze dried the blood on his face. He felt no remorse. The hole before him waited- the open mouth of the world ready to swallow him down. The pain would end. He was tired of trying to hold his guts inside where they belonged. A sigh sent red droplets out into the air. He would let go. He would slip down into the silence…

     “Harata,” the voice of the Tormentor came strong and firm. “You cannot die here.”

     The man who spoke had come to him unannounced. Ambushed in a field, Harata tried to turn and fight. That’s when the first sword slid into him. It came from nowhere, biting his flesh. Panic like he’d never known flooded him. He ran. He was chased through golden fields and dark forests, across vast oceans and over mountains. In the beginning he hadn’t wanted to run, but to turn and defend himself. This feeling faded as the compulsion grew. Escape. Eight more phantom blades had torn him open. And now he stood here, at the end.

     His legs buckled beneath him. Everything was red.

     “Wake up. Stop dying.”

     Stop dying?  The absurdity of the command shocked Harata into consciousness. Stop dying… It was probably the last thing he wanted to do. Below him, in the gorge, was warmth and peace. Up here was blood and pain. Stop dying… stop… something…

     “Get up. Now. Your weakness will damn the world.”

     I’m weak? He held forward his ruined body, held up bloody hands. Weak?

     “It’s… impossible…” he managed to somehow sputter, showering tufts of grass with red.

     “Why ‘impossible’?”

     “Look…” Again, he offered up the pieces spilling from his open wounds. Another sudden shock of pain made him scream. It subsided slowly. “How?”

     “How does one live? Just go on breathing- in, out, in, out.”

     It denied all logic. Death was the only option, and for that Harata felt no shame. Everything dies, even the most powerful among men. He was no different. An impotent rage began to stir inside. This man besets me on all sides, carves me up with puppet swords, and now he’s telling me not to die?

     The heat of his anger began to fill him, pulsing through the knots of his arms and legs. It rushed into his head, beating in time to his heart, which somehow wouldn’t stop. Suddenly, fury was the only feeling within what seemed to be his empty shell. Harata felt himself standing.

     “Why did you do this to me?” He screamed the words, feeling fire rolling from his tongue.

     “I came to wake you up.”

     “You’re crazy! You jump on me, stab me with swords that I can’t see and you don’t hold, you chase me here… You make me feel so small… I’m a man, not a child. Why did I run? You made me run. You do all this and now you’re standing here telling me not to die. Like I have a choice!”

     “You don’t have to die,” the Tormentor stated calmly. “Look at yourself.” 

     And so Harata looked. His breath came in sharply as his eyes met his torn and bloodstained clothes. Beneath them, his body was whole, ill-knit pinkish scars where the gashes had been. The pain had ceased, he realized, and he was filled with wonderment.

     “What- what happened?”

     “You are awake.”

     “No. I must be dreaming. Why are you doing this to me?”

     “You must understand your world.”

     Harata was silent. This guy is nuts.

     “Nine Clans have torn the world asunder, as you have been torn. It must be made whole, as you have been.”

     “Look, mister, I don’t know-“

     “The time of the Legend has come. The Clans must unite, or all the world is doomed.”

     The Legend?  “Qa Haran has returned?”

     “Qa Haran is dead. The Clanless of this age is someone else. You.”

     “What!? I’m not Clanless! I’m-“

     “Oh, aren’t you? Regardless, you no longer bear your Clan upon your name. As to why, you’ll have to learn that on your own. “

     Harata fell silent again; unable to make sense of what he was being told. The ancient prophecy which became the Legend of Diasminion claimed that one day the Clanless would return to Qian Ra and unite each Order, saving the world from catastrophe. Everyone assumed the Legend referred to the return of Qa Haran, the Ancient One- the only known Clanless Diasminian. How can I be…?

     He could remember his childhood. Vague, fuzzy memories of his mother and sister played often in his mind. They lived on a plantation in the west somewhere, in a tiny one-room shanty. If he concentrated very hard, he could almost recall his father, a tall man who’d held him tightly just before he walked off with two strangers, never to be seen again. It was about a year after that when Harata left his home.

     On the morning he was to depart, his mother held him close. The sun had not yet risen, and she smelled of sleep. He recalled that she’d been trying to smile, but the tracks of tears shone on her face.

     “I had a dream about you,” she’d told him softly. “You have to go away for now, but you’ll have a better life.”

     “I don’t want another life. I wanna stay here- with you.”

     “You only say that because you don’t understand the life you have. Be brave, Harata. Someday, you’ll be glad this happened.”

     He started crying then, and his sobs continued long after he’d been shut in the trunk of a shiny black sedan. It was hot and stuffy. The ride was hours long. He awoke in Mianuus, where some strangers loaded him gently into a box with a blanket, food and water. One of the men stuffed an envelope into his pocket. The rest of his journey was a blur, until he roused to sunshine pouring into the open crate. He gazed for the first time on his new home. He was five years old.

     “I’m not Clanless. I’m Dauern. You made a mistake.”

     “There’s no mistake. You must accept this. If you fail, the entire world will perish.”

     Harata heaved a sigh. “What’s going on?”

     “The world is pulling in on itself, full of Negative Force. The practices of Diasminion are to blame.”

     “Negative Force? What, like evil?”

    “Not evil. Energy. All things hold both Positive Force, which emits, and Negative Force, which draws inward. A balance must be maintained, or the lack of stability causes eventual destruction. Over time, people have shifted inward, looking only to themselves. Too many years of this have passed.”

     “So, what should I do about it?”

     “Diasminion’s Champions have been born. You must find them and together complete your Task.”

     “Find them? How? There are millions of people-“

     “You’ll feel them. You’ll know a Champion from an ordinary man.”

     “So, say I find them. Then what? What’s this so-called ‘Task’?”

     “For that you must descend the world. Consult the Guardians.”

     The situation seemed more and more impossible with each passing moment. Harata fought the urge to scream.

      “Our time here is nearly finished,” the man who’d chased him stated flatly. “Here,” he handed Harata a ring- a simple gold band set with a milky white stone. “Take this. Each Champion will wear or carry a stone in the color of their aura. You’ll know them by that sign as well.”

     The man turned away.

     “Wait! Who are you?”

     “You’ll know me well enough in time.” And with that, the man walked off.

     Harata watched him go, emotions swirling- fear, anger, curiosity, frustration. He clenched his fist around the ring that he’d been given.

     “I’m not awake,” he whispered, screwing his eyes shut. “I’m not awake… this isn’t real.” He repeated the words like a mantra, gaining volume until his voice was a wail.

     He opened his eyes slowly to the soft, pink light of dawn. Birds were calling outside, and the scent of the dirt floor wafted to him in the gentle cross-breeze from the paneless windows. The rough feel of the straw-filled mattress, the light coarse blanket, the criss-crossing rafters overhead- all were reassuringly familiar. A dream.

     Yet something wasn’t right. Shaken from the violence he’d endured in his sleep, Harata felt edgy. Just get up. You’ll feel better after a while, he told himself.

     His hand felt strange. Still clenched tightly, it felt as though it really was holding something. Tentatively, he relaxed his fingers. Shock and dismay filled him.

     Glinting softly in the light of dawn was a simple ring- a gold band with a white stone.