The Lies of The Wicked

Homecoming

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To all those experiencing writer's block,

Surely you know I had help.

                                                                                 Raia's P.O.V

                                                                                    Prologue

The last time I watched him depart, a knot of dread tightened in my chest. I just knew—knew—that he would return a broken man. He had been absent for a decade, and in that span, the village he once called home had been reduced to ruins. Whether it was the oppressive local authorities or the avaricious lords squeezing us dry with taxes, the outcome was the same: devastation. Back then, when I was a teenager, my heart aflutter with a heady crush as I gazed into those intense, sometimes mischievous green eyes. The previous morning, a raven had brought his message. The words were stark and simple.

"I can't wait to come home."

To what, Raia was uncertain. Would he be the same? Would she? The village certainly had gone downhill the last ten years. The streets were always clear, but the houses (if you could call them that) were now ramshackle shells of their previous selves. The villagers tried to tend to the outsides the best they could with paint and gardening, but she knew they were only years, if not months, away from falling on the same tenants' heads in their sleep. Raia had been seemingly up all night, fidgeting with the thought of Kit coming home. Twisting her long black hair, large blue eyes, she stared intently at the only path into her village—the one he would come in on.

She heard the faint shuffling of feet echoing along the cobblestones, each step producing a soft, rhythmic scrape. The sound was unmistakable; she recognized the familiar cadence of the footfalls with precision. Her father. He approached with a silent grace, the dim light casting elongated shadows as he moved. Without a word, he gently lowered himself to sit beside her, the quiet rustle of his clothing blending with the day.

They didn't talk that much now, not with her still blaming him for her mother's death a few years ago. They did manage to contain their thoughts to themselves, though, to Raia's amazement. If she did not contain her animosity towards her father for herself, she did so for her two sisters, Tansy and Tiffany, the Twins.

Her father had always seen Tansy as the resilient one. First to be married, first to settle down and begin a family. Tansy was thirty years old, whereas Tiffany was twenty-nine. They were both getting on with their lives and she had not seen them for years either. She herself had just turned twenty-seven and was well on her way to what a few people in the village already called her—a spinster. Her father, Daniel, was his name, had worked as a stone mason as the sole bread winner of the family. But times were tough and he was currently un-employed. Not to mention, he was normally at the tavern most days and nights. This rare sighting of him outside his house was enough to put her hackles up. She hoped that wherever her sisters currently were, they and their children stayed well away from their drunken excuse for a father.

He started bumbling incoherently beside her,

"Raiiaaa... W.. Whatc... Doin' girl?"

Iole, her mother, rest her soul, had died when Raia was twenty-three. She had suffered from insanity, namely seeing things that were not there. And well, one day she saw her god standing on top of the family's balcony, guiding her towards it. Only moments later did passersby notice. It was too late, though, as she had already made a swift swan-dive towards the hard ground. Thankfully, she had not been there when it had happened. But it certainly did not lessen the feeling that she could have done something to stop it.

The glare of the mid-afternoon sun was blinding and Raia had to squint now as the full height of the sun's rays bathed them in a harsh yellow light.

A yell from what seemed a great distance called her forward.

"RAIIAAA!" An excited, deep male voice called

With a surge of restless energy, she stirred. He had promised to arrive today, yet she had hoped—no, expected—that he would have come much sooner. Her anticipation had her nearly leaping from her seat. And then she saw him. At last, he stood there, bathed in a brilliant light that seemed to cling to him, casting an almost ethereal glow. He had transformed, towering and imposing, his frame much taller and infinitely broader than before.

"KIT!?" She exclaimed, peering under her hand as she held it to her face

He smiled. She could see it; her legs unbuckled from beneath her and she came bounding to the small clearing near the path. For a female, she was quite a bit taller than any of the other ladies in the village, but at five-foot-eight, she still had to look up at his shadowed, but no doubt grinning, face as he leaned only slightly down and engulfed her in a woodsy, scented bear hug. The twenty-ish-year-old man was gone. In his place stood the refined and sculpted body of a god. His arms alone could have probably circled her waist. Not to mention, his flowing top did not hide much of his toned physique. Right, she remembered, sell-sword.

"How have you been?" he asked excitedly. Still a teenager under all that muscle.

She smiled broadly back up at him

"Oh, you know—the neighbors are wondering when I am going to start collecting companions," she smirked

He guffawed deeply, "And pray tell, would these companions happen to come in cat form?"

She jokingly punched his arm, hiding how her overly under-developed muscles bounced off his.

Tank, to whom she lovingly referred to him, had indeed become the epitome of his nickname. She remembered a mainly gangly young man. But he had indeed filled out. Now thirty-five years of age was middle aged around here, seeing as many women and men included did not make it past their sixtieth year—unless they were extremely lucky.

He took a moment, stepped back and noticed a black mark just slightly hidden underneath her collar. He walked forward and tugged it down briefly so he could see. Just underneath her collar was a black tattoo claiming her to be in the bard sect of their small town. His smile disappeared instantly, and a scowl overtook his features.

"Raia..." he groaned

"Oh, lay off you, big brute. Seriously" She jokingly said, but something underneath her words caught his attention—no doubt, the loneliness in those words, and the hesitation.

He glanced around his once idyllic town and out-right frowned, "Has it really been that long that the village has indeed gone to seed in my absence?" he looked back at her. He truly looked this time, fine lines filled Raia's face. The years of toiling trying to help her neighbors showed. And in her once brilliant blue eyes, there lay a deep sadness that she seemed determined to hide.

He stopped talking and froze. Her father, behind them, was puking his guts up in the nearest bucket. The once lively man looked to be about twice his age; he was only forty-three but walked like he was ancient. He tugged the liquor bottle in his left-hand, and after he was done emptying his bowels, he slinked into one of the darker side streets. She could see the calculations going on in her friend's head.

"How long ago did your father start drinking, Raia?" he asked carefully

She stilled under his watchful gaze and answered quietly, "around... four years ago."

He looked at her and surveyed her answer, "Where is your mother?"