Cursed

1. The Best Adventures Are The Least Expected-2

“Hello? I see you!”

Aldor wavered for a fraction of a second as a young woman peeled away from the gloom where she hid. The cloak was several sizes too big, but the woman herself was well-muscled, despite her short stature. She gave off a nomadic aura, her face haggard from exposure. Fading beauty tinged around her cheeks, and ringlets of auburn hair fell messily around her shoulders in a cascade of russet. She was empty of emotion: no fear, no distress—nothing.

They examined each other, Aldor knowing far better than to trust the likes of her, no matter how expensive her cloak was. A ripple of distrust toward her overwhelmed him—people who came from the outside typically were up to no good unless they were merchants of some kind. His shoulders slumped when he noticed she was completely unarmed save for the cruel knuckledusters curling around her wrists.

“Who do you think you are, following me like that?”

“I wasn't following you.” She sounded bored.

A lie.

Aldor raised his bow, empty of any arrows, but still threatening. “Tell me the truth, lying's just going to make things way worse.”

“You want honesty? Fine. I was trying to see if I could swipe that fish of yours before you left the forest.”

It was safe to estimate that she was around nineteen, just like him. “Why? Are you by yourself?”

“Am I ever.”

Aldor was aware of his eyebrows knitting together, but he didn't stop them. He set the bow down with a sigh. He looked her up and down—she was in trouble. Her bony limbs easily revealed that she hadn't eaten in days, and the thin slashes across her skin weren't doing her any favors. He relaxed, realizing he was a bit of an i***t for taking so long at connecting the dots.

“What's happened to you? Where're you from?”

She disregarded that. “Is this Dagon? Am I close?”

“Yes, you're safe.” He slung the bow over his shoulder. “No one's going to hurt you here. What's your name? What's going on?”

“Bandits. That's what's happening.”

Now that was a word he didn't hear very often. He took a breath like shot with electricity, impossible to tell the difference between the panic and excitement. He obviously wasn't good at hiding his emotions or she was good at reading shock, because she picked up on his confusion immediately. “You… do know what's going on, right?”

“No.” His uncertainty slowly dripped into annoyance. “But why should I believe a word you're saying? You haven't even told me your name.”

“Call me Tempest.” The girl pulled her cloak tighter around her shoulders.

“Please. Wait…” Aldor stared. “You're the Tempest?”

Even though the stuff about bandits hadn't reached him yet, stories of Tempest did. He—well, apparently she—went around helping the poor and saving lives. Heroic things that were a bit too good sometimes, Aldor couldn't help but feel a new air of respect toward the fiend, now that she was standing right in front of him.

“What can I do to help you?” Being the Tempest explained the dragon-skin. If the stories about her were true, she'd probably acquired it during her exotic travels. She seemed to be the type to resist aid until she was on the brink of death, and maybe not even then, so he added, “You're all alone, and you obviously need it.”

“I'm not a beggar; I don't want to give you the wrong impression—”

“But you're a pickpocket. Your impression's already been made.”

“Fine.” Tempest let a smile slip, tightening her knuckledusters, but not threateningly. She looked more tired than anything else, and even her stubbornness wouldn't get in the way this time. “Maybe the fish would help.”

“Hang on, I might have something better.” Aldor dug into his rucksack, pushing aside heavy books, wallets, various trinkets he'd taken from the castle—things that wouldn't be missed. At last, he extracted the loaf of bread he'd gotten for Glen earlier on his way from the market. She'd be upset, but it was worth it. He nodded and stretched his arm to show Tempest he was holding bread and not a weapon.

“How about an exchange? I'll share this with you if you tell me what happened, deal?”

Tempest nodded, tearing her eyes ravenously from the bread and searching Aldor's face. “Deal.”

“Great, I've got a spot.”

Though he continued with a relaxed demeanor, he never let Tempest stray from his sight. He wasn't an i***t, even if that's what Tempest took him for. There was a reason people stayed out of the forest, and Tempest said it herself: bandits. Monsters. Oddities. Aldor and Jon never strayed far from the line of safety—unwilling to let it expand—and kept Rorick's wall in sight.

It was a rich forest, more vibrant green than brown, dew streaking off the leaves as if the trees themselves were sweating. Anything could be hiding in here. Frankly, Aldor was a little surprised that Tempest followed him, keeping close, her cloak twisting over the roots. Untimely iciness licked their cheeks, the clutches of winter suffocating spring. When they reached the amateur “fort,” Tempest let out a little gasp of… relief? Physical pain? Shock? Something told Aldor she wasn't lying, this was someone who needed help. The fort was more of a tree shack, really. Aldor and Jon had built it back when they were children, the structure hidden between the boughs of two ash trees.

“Wow.”

“Come. No one's going to find you here.”

Aldor extended a hand to help her up, but she ignored him and climbed the wooden planks leading up to the entrance herself. Aldor puckered his lips, trying not to be unabashed. Truth be told, he didn't really know what to think of her yet, just that she was all alone, and he was too heroic to leave her behind.

The inside of the fort reeked of mildew and stale snacks. It was sprinkled liberally with cushions, stray arrows, and crude, hand-drawn maps Aldor and Jon had made when they were younger. Aldor pushed aside a pang of regret when he realized he hadn't been up here in forever.

He and Tempest sat on the edge of the fort where the earthy smell wasn't so bad and swung their legs idly in the open space. Aldor tore off a piece of bread and handed it, slightly awkwardly, to her, suddenly more self-conscious about the mess of the fort than ever before—it wasn't like Aldor and Jon brought girls up here often… or at least, Aldor didn't.

“Is someone after you?”

“Unfortunately, I've got more enemies than friends.” She said it matter-of-factly like it didn't bother her anymore. Tempest tore at the bread greedily, probably the first morsel she had in days. “I've been resisting the troops of bandits hailing from the desert for more than a year now. I'm afraid they're willing to pay a handsome price for my capture. Just wait, the reward signs'll be up here sooner or later—as soon as someone catches sight of me.”

She glanced wearily at Aldor. Her eyes looked sunken; they probably held the stars once, but the glow was gone. Crumbs of bread strayed on her lips, mouth ragged. “Why are you helping me?”

“I...” Why was he doing this? His thoughts went back to the image of himself leaving Dagon after all these years, traveling… But then what? He'd certainly need a few favors then. His eyes traveled to Tempest's skeletal, pale hands. This could be him in a couple months. “I'm leaving home.”

“Is someone after you?”

“Not yet,” he scoffed. “But, I mean… If I was in your position, I'd want someone to see and help me. Besides, I best start making friends and connections outside Dagon now that I'm moving out, even if they are on the run.”

Tempest genuinely smiled for the first time. Then, in a darker tone, “We'll see how fond of me you are when the posters go up and they find a way to frame me for something.”

“You're right, I guess we'll have to see.” Aldor stood up and brushed himself off. He dropped the rest of the bread by her. “Stick around. Please. You're obviously in no condition to defend yourself, so I suggest you stay here for the night. I'll be back in the morning with more food, I promise.”

“Thank you.”

Aldor shook his head, more willing to trust Tempest than ever. Even if this was part of her twisted demonic plot to somehow ruin his life, he didn't mind just that second—finally some appreciation. “I'd do it for anyone.”

Tempest c****d her head, fixing him with an interested look. “What's your name?”

Aldor raised an eyebrow and imitated her voice the best he could, way over exaggerating her slight accent, “You can call me Whirlwind.”

She slapped his shoulder playfully, the most at ease since who knows. “Oh, my— No! Seriously, what's your name?”

“Aldor.”

Her grin faded. “Aldor. Aldor Rowan’s son?”

“That's my name, yes. What, you don't think it's as sophisticated as Tempest?”

“Sorry, no,” murmured Tempest, a bit flustered now. “it's just… you're Rowan's son. That's a big deal.”

Aldor shrugged. Of course, she recognized his father's name—there wasn't anyone who didn't. “It doesn't matter that much, honestly. He's dead, and now the world's stuck with me. it's time to move on from him.”

He cast a quick glance over his shoulder, the sun setting behind him. Jon. The ceremony would be starting soon, and he really wasn't in the mood for yet another lecture on tardiness from someone as pompous as Jon or worse. Aldor wasn't the most punctual person in the world, and Jon loved rebuking people, so naturally, they fit well together.

“I've got to go now… See you tomorrow?”

“Fingers crossed.”

Did he just take in a criminal? Well, she wasn't technically a criminal, but if there would be reward posters… He groped around for what the consequences would be for helping someone like Tempest. He couldn't tell anyone, not Glen—not even Jon. Tempest had to stay buried.

He followed the creek to the cottage he'd known since birth, several miles north of the main city's hubbub. A quaint shingled roof hid the home under its tread. The base lay near the embankment of the river, a garden weaving out from the other side. It was squatted along the forest as though shielding itself from a chill. Windows were cut into the side, giving the illusion of eyes shining in the dark.

Aldor grinned when he saw Glen, the only mother he’d known, crouching in the garden. Her speckled hands tilled at the peas easily. The older woman—age sixty—was the embodiment of warm beauty. A handmade shawl wagged around her shoulders as she worked, the bun atop her head crisp. She didn’t care much for looks anymore.

The gentle old woman turned around when he approached. “Nice catch.”

“Thanks.”

“Hold on… come closer. What are you wearing?”

Glen’s eyes were crinkled at the edges like she had laughed too much during her youth. They studied him as Aldor pushed aside the picket fence, keeping his head down. “Clothes?”

“Summer garb,” muttered Glen. “You know how much I hate it when you wear clothes like that when it’s this cold!”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re impossible.”

Aldor pushed the cottage door aside, his mind drifting. The home was warm from the coals. Pictures enclosed every room from top to bottom: landscapes, portraits of family members, and a few scribbles Aldor had made as a child. The cottage had two bedrooms, a dining room, and a cramped kitchen.

The chair sagged under him slightly as Aldor threw himself down at the table to take off his shoes. What a day. The dusty furniture was in desperate need of replacement which reminded Aldor of himself, in a way. If he didn’t leave soon, he probably never would. It was like a piece of him had been imprinted on the cozy walls. A fragment of his soul would always stay, and there was nothing he could do about it.

Aldor met Jon's family a few times before, but he didn't remember them being this loud. They were overbearing in size, especially when he counted the third and fourth cousins several times removed. Aldor couldn't pinpoint exactly how they'd all appeared from nowhere and surrounded him so quickly. A thin smog from the several dozen pipes being smoked descended on the throne-chamber.

The rows of pews facing the dais were quickly suffocated with relatives. The endless surge of chatter streamed into one of Aldor's ears and out the other as he hunched in the back row. Surges of warmth bubbled in his tummy as huddles of families gave him contemptuous glances like he was some kind of peasant or ruffian. It wasn't far from the truth, though. His best clothes turned out to be alien and far too simple for an event as splendid as this; he was rather alone in all the costumes dripping with lace and fluff.

The stone throne room was grand and cold. The icy air stung his lungs as he breathed deep, stained-glass windows coloring the sun's glare to blood-red, violet, and grassy. Every stone was in its place, perfectly geometrical, its symmetry pleasing to the eye. The number of pews was an even number—as were the windows—the atmosphere was serene, stark contrast to the hubbub of the city outside. King Locke, the ruler of Dagon—and Jon’s grandfather—stood at the base of a throne. The wise man knew Aldor since he first came to Dagon. It was because of the king that Rowan’s son had been protected for so long. The king rested a hand on the hilt of his sword, mouth cracked to slight amusement as the relatives continued to buzz.