#221-- Life-Swap

This week's Sunday Scribblings topic. I might expand on this, but I haven't decided yet. Enjoy!

The main square was clogged with the sound of impatient voices. Bodies pressed together created a bubble of warmth, adding to the already suffocating humidity of the summer noon. Scents of sickly sweet perfumes and powders mixed with noxious body odor. The sun beat overhead; the clouds had gone into hiding. The doors of the east balcony of the imperial palace hung open. Though the speakscreens functioned well enough for everyday communications, including this announcement, but the man known only as Samael had a flair for the dramatic. Two viewscreens were mounted on the palace walls, to aid the general population in seeing their leader. An assemblage of microphones, not unlike a technological bouquet, stood in the center of the balcony. But Samael was nowhere to be found. The population mulled about mindlessly, concerned only with how much the different stews cost at the different food stalls. They were herded like sheep into the small area by uniformed, faceless sentries.

Aria stooped in the corner, trying to remain unseen. She knew she wasn’t supposed to be out here, people of her kind weren’t allowed beyond the massive steel gate. But she had to know what was going to happen. Every week, someone from her people’s tiny section of town was taken by cold and aloof uniformed soldiers. She knew a few of the ones who’d been taken; they were all good people. Last week, they took Castor, the ancient storyteller. Her fists clenched in anger, but she had to release quickly. If they caught her, and in a violent stance, she’d be killed on the spot. It didn’t matter that she was eleven. Young, old, male, female, it didn’t matter to them, the stocky, surly Desmondans. If you were Vossnian, as pale as the full moon, you were nothing.

A baritone voice barked to square full of chattering, vapid citizenry. “Silence.” The crowd hushed immediately. They knew the risks of disobeying a direct order. To Aria, it seemed even the young ones knew the protocol and stopped their constant whining. She viewed the crowd, which was obscured by shrubbery from where she hid. The poorest of the Desmondans stood nearest her, while the richer got to stand nearer Samael. She frowned to herself, her legs had begun to ache from the effort of remaining motionless, crouched behind a gathering of plant life.

“My lovely subjects,” Samael began in a gentle, yet firm voice. “You have all followed my gathering order beautifully. This week I have a special treat for you. Quite a nice Vossnian specimen has been targeted for capture. Very strong, she should be able to put up quite a fight. Not like last week….”

Aria swallowed. Castor. Her Castor, the one who told her fanciful stories of their homeland, how the snow used to fall, blanketing the world in pristine white. The hot springs, the way the mountains stood over everything, like gentle guards. Castor was gone. Rather than letting herself feel any kind of sorrow, she channeled her energy into anger. Pure, hot, flowing rage emanated from her small eleven-year-old body. They took the only person she had left to call family and ended what life he had left, and she was unable to do anything about it.

“This week, we welcome one Aria Black to the Arena.”

Her brown eyes widened. She wanted to scream in terror, run away in fright, even sob for her parents who were long gone anyway. But she knew better. She stayed in place, trying to keep her breathing in check. On the viewscreens, her image was broadcast for all to see. They’d come for her in the morning; she already knew what was going to happen.

Samael continued speaking, unaware his next victim was in his midst. “She will be sent to Pakao Gorge. She might last a day or two. So, be sure to pay attention to your viewscreens at home; it’s sure to be exciting!” He dipped at the waist to indicate he was finished. The crowd erupted in cheers and whoops of perfunctory excitement. If one was not excited and grateful for whatever Samael declared, then one was risking death on the spot. As a Vossnian, Aria was not bound to the same automatic enthusiasm. She didn’t have the privilege. She was the entertainment.

---

Aria skulked back to the holding area of Vossnians, venturing to the farthest reaches and sitting in front of a tree. As she contemplated her fate, she wondered what it had been like to be Vossnian in its glory days. Castor said it was, generally, wonderful. They had been led by a hereditary ruler, the most benign of creatures. He was a man named Zachariah Casey, though they simply called him Zachariah. Though an emperor by international standards, he shirked all formal titles, preferring a more personal relationship with his citizens. He and his family were greatly loved by everyone, Castor told her one evening, the anniversary of the Casey family’s slaying. Zachariah had wanted nothing more than peace between the great nations of Volkaria. Samael disagreed, wanting the empire of Vossnia, and then all of Volkaria. A war inevitably broke out, Samael slaughtered the Casey family, and the peace-loving Vossnians were no match for his war-like country. The war was over in three weeks. All surviving Vossnians were enslaved, and now lived here. They hadn’t been free in fifty years.

Noon faded to afternoon, afternoon to dusk, and dusk to night. No one came for her, even as the rain began to pound against the tin roofs of the Vossnian shacks. They knew her fate, and would rather pretend she had never existed than mourn the loss. Aria couldn’t blame them. They had had enough heartache for a thousand lifetimes. She couldn’t bear adding to it. She curled up under the tree, glad for its generous foliage. It kept her reasonably dry as she drifted off to a light, tense sleep.

“Ow!” Aria turned over in her groggy state. A steel-toed boot collided with her ribs again, this time much harder. She sat up, livid. “Listen, you stupid---” she stopped short, gazing up.

Two men stood in front of her, expressions vacant. They wore blue jumpsuit-esque outfits, and full helmets. She could only see their eyes through the helmets’ lenses. They both carried standard looking black rifles, left hands under the stocks, right hands over the smalls of the stocks. She stood up, and held her arms out in front of her. They silently cuffed her, and without a word she began to head back to the center of town. One of the soldiers walked out to the left side of her, and the other walked behind in an effort to keep her from escaping. She had no plans to run off like an idiot, but they would never believe her. And why should they? They only knew her as the object of their sadistic take on entertainment.

Aria was herded into an automobile that closely resembled a cattle car. Once in, the door was shut with a loud, scraping clang, and locked. There was a small bench, and some sort of liquid in a trough. Whether it was water, she couldn’t tell. The floor of the car was obscured by dark brown hay strewn everywhere. Streams of light filtered through the cracks, illuminating the dust floating all around. The road was rough, littered with potholes, jostling her. She was powerless to hold herself steady, and stood from the bench. Aria, unable to balance, fell to the floor and tried to lie still.

After what felt like an eternity, the vehicle stopped. All sunlight was gone, and the moonlight was too weak to provide any illumination for the girl. The door opened with a tired lurch, the hinges groaning from the effort. They pulled her mechanically from the car, not bothering to allow her to stand. She fell to the earth with a soft thump.

Grunting from the effort, an exhausted Aria managed to stand. The long ride had caused her to fall silent, her thought processes minimal. She was disoriented, unable to recognize where she was. The soldiers released her from the cuffs, pocketed them, and returned to the car. After a moment, they drove off. Aria was completely alone.

She walked over to a tree and sat, her mind utterly blank. She stared at the grass, only slightly aware she was even alive. Her stomach grumbled, causing her to hunch over. The world around Aria faded to black.

---

Water splashed her face, and Aria squeezed her eyes shut as she came to. The insides of her eyelids were a violent orange, meaning it was daytime. Water continued to be dumped on her. A voice mumbled indistinctly from above. She sat up, opening her eyes. In front of her, a wizened old man was trudging toward her, lugging a bucket. He spoke a language she didn’t recognize. “Don’t. I’m up, I’m up,” she choked out, her tongue felt thick and awkward in her mouth.

He smiled brightly. “Aria, you’re awake.”

“Yes, yes I am,” she said slowly, not realizing he knew her name. She blinked, taking in her surroundings. She was on the bank of Pakao Gorge, and in front of her stood…Castor! “Castor! You’re…alive!” She exclaimed hoarsely. She cursed her inability to speak with the same strength she had just a few days ago.

Castor smiled. “Indeed. Thanks to my friend, Seamus Burkhart, of the Burkhart tribe.”

“The Burkharts…? I didn’t think they existed anymore.”

“Oh, rest assured, they do. But let’s not talk about that here. Let’s get somewhere safe and then talk about such matters. You never know who’s listening,” Castor replied, looking around the gorge warily to emphasize his point.

“But…aren’t I supposed to…?”

“Die, Aria? Yes, you are sentenced to death. But, surely, you don’t want to,” Castor crossed his arms.

“But if I come with you I’ll endanger you. I don’t want you to die,” Aria said flatly.

“Aria, I’ve only a few years left, at best. My life should not concern one so young as you. Come on, make your choice. Do you really want to just surrender? Zachariah wouldn’t want a Vossnian to just give up, you know.”

Aria fell silent. She looked up to the fabled Zachariah; he was her hero.

Castor took her hand in his weathered one. “Aria, you are the Vossnian future. You have a chance to swap your ill-fated existence for a chance at a true life. Please take that chance.”

Aria didn’t have to think long. She knew what would benefit her people in the long run. And never, never, did she want to let Samael think he could succeed fully. “Let’s go meet this Seamus of yours.”