If his mother were next to him now, she would be cursing his name. Stupid, stupid boy.
Cole almost forgot who Alistair was, who he let eat his food and sleep on his furs. But Chrysosians were manipulators – they tricked and schemed and their tongues were forked. And after everything, he let himself forget it. Alistair wasn't sorry. He was a Chrysosian soldier.
And Cole was glad for the reminder.
Cole brushed his fingers along the rough-wood table. A clay pot was shattered at his feet and a fireplace had been kicked apart, its ashes strewn out against the hut's dirty floors. The lingering smell of copper and fire and dust clung to the air like a blood stain.
He stopped. Against the table and his lingering fingers, there was a symbol carved in the wood. He recognised the squarish, dotted mark and read it immediately as Emer's. Everyone in Weles possessed their own symbol, like a name, and left it in places for other people to find. It was personal in the way that you only showed people you trusted irrevocably. Emer had been here.
Emer was alive. He exhaled and smiled with relief. She was alive.
But Cole decided to keep that piece of information to himself. She was probably moving from the village already – or, and the thought made him sick, she had been here when the Chrysosian army attacked.
He searched the shelves and uncorked bottles, opened baskets and kicked open boxes. The time he spent going from home to home – collecting nuts and dried meats, furs and fresh clothes – allowed him to harden his resolve. He couldn't stay with the mindrenderer. He could handle the frozen forest out there on his own, with his ankle all wrapped up and the sanaberries slathered over the torn skin. But they would both be better off without the other.
While they slept, Cole would take his bags and leave. Then he would look for Emer and the two would be able to return to Galanthus together. Cole didn't need a Chrysosian prisoner – or a Chrysosian friend, for that matter – he needed to be surrounded by his his fellow Welish rebels, armed to the teeth in leather and steel.
He needed to be where he belonged, and Alistair needed to be where he belonged, too. Everything would return back to the way it was.
By the time he had wrestled on a new pair of pants and filled a bag up with fresh furs, Alistair was tending to a poorly constructed fire with a lager bottle slung over his shoulder. A basket of fruit lay at his feet.
"I didn't know the Welish had alcohol," he didn't look up when he spoke, only poked at the fire with a gnarled stick and smiled bitterly into the small flame. "I'm pleasantly surprised."
"It's lager." Cole replied flatly.
"Tastes like it'll get me drunk, that's what matters." Alistair knelt and fiddled with the lose thread that'd come apart from his shirt, hair reminiscent of liquid gold under the sunset. "I don't suppose you'll drink with me?"
Cole scoffed roughly and dropped his newly-acquired belongings from where they hung over his shoulder. He dragged over a loose log and sat down, elbows pressed against drawn-up knees.
"Sounds like a hard no."
Cole could feel Alistair watching him. He was quiet in the heavy way that was louder than noise, and the longer he didn't speak, the thicker the air became. Part of Cole wanted him to get it out and over with. A bigger, pettier part of him wanted to see him remain in this suspended state of tense nothingness.
"I understand you don't know how Chrysos works," Alistair said quietly, warily. "Of course you wouldn't understand,"
"I know you lie and steal and cheat – that you're arrogant and think you're entitled to everything, including me and my people."
YOU ARE READING
WE BECOME THOUGHTLESS
FantasyA boy whose home was taken from him seeks freedom. A mindrenderer with dangerous hands hopes to undergo his own redemption arc. When Cole was younger, his mother told him about the men who played at being gods. Self-righteous, arrogant fools who st...
