The Wilting Ballad

4

Gariel rushed down the cubic stairs leading to the dim underground morgue where the dead-cutter resides. Malori had just given the order to dispose of the weapon used to kill Edward Sailos, going against his wishes, he wanted to investigate the incident further while she wanted to keep it silent and compensated family members of the deceased.

He knew she had her reasons but it was much too moronic and dastardly for him. Gariel had never agreed with his daughter in regards to politics though he knew she is more of a ruler than he ever was.

As he hurried down the steps holding a white fire lamp in his hand, he heard echoes of stomping feet coming from behind him. He stopped and listen, waiting, readying himself. Fighting your way out is not the best option here, think. His heart tingles with anxiety, he knows that no guard or any Leafsinger in Il-Zektes can defeat him after his wife's death but he also knows that he haven't done any serious, true, magic fighting in over forty-five years. What if I accidentally kill them not bind them? He asked himself, with a hint of amusement.

He felt himself relaxed in an instant when he saw the vague outline of a boy of seventeen with golden hair. It was his obtrusive grandson Jlyn, who have probably skipped his training session and sneak in here to find him.

Unable to intake full breath Jlyn clutched at his shoulder, wide eyes with excited or aghast he's not sure. He stares at his grandson as one would an obnoxious puppy. He watched as he inhale and exhale four times before words finally seem to found him, "What in the name of hell is wrong with her?" Jlyn asked him in a hushed scream. "Why? Why must she diverge from us... in every way? All the time!" Before he have a chance to answer his grandson continued, "Anyhow, I came as soon as I heard, I assume you'd be here. I knew you wouldn't let her just throw that Moss thing away."

He tussles Jlyn's golden hair with his free hand, "Aren't you supposed to be training?" He flashed a smile that said he's glad he is here with him and Jlyn saw it, their faces gleamed by the white fire, "I don't suppose there's any point sending you back now."

"No, there is not." Jlyn stretch out his arm to grab the lamp Gariel was holding. "You were going to see the dead-cutter, right?"

"Right." He said, handing him the lamp, and started walking down the stairs.

"I've always found him to be.... uh...."

"Spine-chillingly unnerving." He said, finishing it for Jlyn, "I admit he can be a bit much, yes. But that's just his character, m'boy. Everybody's got one."

"What's mine?" Asked Jlyn.

He gazed sideways at his grandson into those green eyes, green that reminded him of the lightest leaf hidden behind in the twigs and branches of the Ballad tree. "You say he makes your hair stands, is that right? The dead-cutter." Jlyn nods as they went, "Every person's character.... is based upon the things they do, how they react to certain things, or how they like to talk, or how they take actions to.... tragic things. If one spends most of his time cutting up dead people or animals, you don't expect him to be friendly and all colourful, do you? No, you do not. You expect him to be.... odd before you even met him, you expect him to be scary." They were approaching the dead-cutter's door. "Soon, a few more months and you'll be a man.... You'll be blessed with the burden of choosing. Your character will be carve-out like a statue by what you chose to do. What you are saying is crucial, but your actions.... your choices, are essential for your character." He knocked twice in quick succession and pushed the copper door without waiting for an answer.

The putrid smell of rotting rats whiffed inside their nostrils, Gariel was prepared. The same cannot be said about Jlyn, he gagged. The room was surprisingly bright despite it being underground. Inside the morgue, there were four stone tables where the carcasses of a water scorpion the size of a giant's feet, a mountain lion, a jungle hyena, and a wolf lay with their stomach cut open, with only the scorpion as an exception. On the walls were more than fifty small square doors in which the dead are kept. The man they were looking for was cowering down the fourth stone table.