Echo | Dream Team

Nine - Of blaze and renewal

The sun beat down on the dry land, relentless rays scorching the backs of those who worked beneath it. There was not a cloud in sight, as was often the case on particularly hot days; there was no moisture to condense into a cloud, for all moisture dissipated the second it touched the burning air.

It was on days like these that he saw workers keel over in the heat and stay there, unmoving. Food seemed hellbent on forcing its way back up the esophagus after having gone down. Malnutrition was a common sight, causing skinny limbs and weakened efforts through their numbers. All were punished when few were at fault, and so the remaining worked harder than ever to pick up the slack for the rest.

He was one of the ones that the others counted on, especially during long periods of arid conditions. When they fell, he was among the last that were left still standing, and so it came down to him to provide for them all.

The scythe was heavy in his hands, its blade spreading weight unequally along its length. The muscles in his arms strained as they wielded the tool, slicing through the clusters of thick stalks blocking the path of the blade. It was not right. For what reason were they the slaves? For what reason was he the one to bear the brute of the hardships that life seemed to constantly rain down on top of his people?

Simmering discontent spread through him. He became angry at the gods and their extravagant ways, hidden from the mortal eye, laughing as they controlled life like tiny chesspieces on a sprawling green board. Prayers sounded around him as his people begged the gods for help, murmured quietly at night when all the lamps had been dimmed. Hands clasped together beside him, urging him to do the same, calling on him to do give his voice to the gods. Gods that would not help them. Gods who did not care.

The fair-haired one understood. He was different, a prisoner who'd been brought in from far-off lands that they could never hope of seeing. But he saw the fire in his eyes, recognized the unsated flame in his heart, and showed him how to fight back. Muscles that had wielded tools of the field now held weapons of war. Hands that had cut down crops now sliced through one adversary after another, watching as red decorated those who had once oppressed and used these nimble fingers for their own gain. What difference was there between the living and the inanimate? He could answer that now.

It was far more exhilarating to tear down something one hated when it screamed.

The prisoner helped him. He detailed plans for him to put into action. They destroyed those who had run the village and used his people as nothing more than dogs to do their bidding.

Standing in the midst of the carnage, his chest heaving as his body struggled to take in oxygen after using it all in battle, the one with fair hair stepped over the bodies to reach him. His smile was wide and eager. Excited. Hungry.

"Now, let's go fight the gods."

***

It was colder without his jacket. The night air blew right through the flaps of his tent, tugging at the short sleeves of his white shirt with malicious glee. Sapnap closed his eyes irritably, his fingers curling around his fork. He hadn't expected the temperature to drop so quickly as the sun disappeared, which was admittedly quite stupid, seeing how he witnessed it every night. Maybe his incredible stupidity was due to the sudden lack of an extra layer protecting his skin.

He pushed aside his empty plate and leaned back in his chair, his gaze flickering over the heads of the others seated in the large tent that served as the war camp's eatery. Chatter rang out through the air, constant and buzzing. There was a surplus of food with the departure of the first group, meaning that George would still be able to get a meal despite being late.