A Search for Bliss: A Prequel to The Anistemi

A century after the Great War, in a city believed to be Earth's last, Arik Martin gritted his teeth and helped lower his dead friend into the ground. It was an honor no man wanted. Yet the Sickness paid little heed to the desires of the living.

The cemetery sweltered beneath the morning sun, near the north guard tower and the feeble fence that surrounded them. A tired city observed from afar, large enough to house a few thousand amid decaying buildings.

When Thomas Hutchens' linen-wrapped body rested in its grave, Arik stood, fists clenched, with the widow amongst the many mourners. Anger surged through him, anger at whatever god was responsible for this.

Molly Hutchens wore a faded gray dress. Strands of thin, strawberry-blonde hair stuck to her tear-wetted cheeks. Looking as if she might collapse at any moment, she dabbed at her eyes with a kerchief. Her little daughter, Bethany, held tight to her skirt and stared blankly down at her father.

Children should not see such things. But how could they avoid it? Death was too common, too soon. It came in the form of the Sickness, or at the hands of savages known as the Saetos who lurked in the rugged hills that encircled the city. This was not the same world as the one in the ancient books.

"Sir Thomas served as First Knight and Leader's Guard," the young priest droned in a nasal voice. His brown robe rustled with the spring breeze as he thumbed through a tattered book. "This is the highest honor bestowed on a knight, and Sir Thomas wore the seal of the Standing Bear with great honor. As it does, the Sickness took him at his strongest, unwilling to grant us more time with him."

The priest peered down his long nose and traced a finger down the page. He rambled on about how Thomas had lived a good life and now his spirit rejoiced in some fairytale land. He closed the book and scooped a handful of dirt from the pile by the grave, then scattered it across the fallen knight. "As from dust he was formed, so to dust he shall return."

There was no rejoicing, wherever Thomas was. Arik planted his feet far apart and flared his nostrils. Death had taken Thomas from his family and his friends. Now they were all left to brave the cruelties of life without Thomas. He, for one, couldn't take it.

Soon, mourners filed past the grave and dropped dirt, wildflowers, and folded pieces of parchment onto Thomas' body. Felicia Youngblood, the tall, young governess with golden curls—and Arik's friend since childhood—released a crinkled note into the grave and hugged Thomas' widow.

"I'm here for you," Felicia said. "Don't hesitate to send for me."

Molly whispered "thank you" and pulled Bethany to her side. She walked to the edge of the grave with her and bowed her head over Thomas, tears falling.

Felicia laid a hand on the swooping falcon that adorned Arik's chest plate. "I'm sorry for your loss, Sir Arik. I know Thomas mentored you since you were a young guard, and he was like a brother to you. How are you holding up?"

"How do you think?" Arik spat. Then he drew in a breath. Why did he address Felicia like that? He knew why: rage swirled inside him, mixing with his sorrow. Why didn't this sickness come in the form of a man so he could punish it for taking Thomas?

His friend was gone. The man who had taught him everything he knew about battle—from how to hold a sword to strategies designed to break an enemy's will—had not suffered a warrior's death. No, he had withered away in a matter of days. He'd been taken away before he could ask him for a final lesson: how to lead men.

Felicia's eyes, blue as the morning sky, clouded with worry. "I know you're hurting, Arik. Talk to me more, old friend."

Old friend. She said it as if they'd known each other for decades, yet Arik was only eighteen, a bit older than Felicia. In a place where most died before their thirties, eighteen was over half a lifetime.