Letters to the Stars

[Seven Xu]

Early summer, 512 AV

The sun was still a thin red gash on a dull grey horizon when Seven woke, urged his stiff muscles into a bodily stretch and let his feet to dig into dead leaves and dried mud. Stars still lingered—the sky’s brightest—hanging far from the threat of dawn. Seven looked to them with eyes still bleary from grief and sleep, murmured something half-intelligible beneath his breath, and wiped a layer of sticky damp from his forehead.

It was still there, that dead throne the Lady had perched upon in the night. Its beauty had come and gone with Her. When Seven found it and he ran his hands along its ageless scars and countless smooth rings, it seemed altogether too small, despite it being broader than both his arms could reach. It was there, though, as sure as it had been seasons ago, before the storm tore through their valley. It had served him through the dark, keeping the wind off him and the small fire he’d coveted once the sun’s warmth had gone.

Dreams had haunted him in the short, fitful naps that comprised his night. When he wasn’t tending to the constant threat of a dying flame, sleep would take him and throw him beneath scrutinizing iron eyes and an unsmiling voice. Once, a dream roused him to wake the man who shared his bed with whispering pleads to reproduce it; but the bed was gone, and so was the man.

Seven nearly kicked the bag at his feet, when he noticed it. Frustration welled in his throat as the brown lump of canvas—a gift—stared up at him from displaced earth. It was sunken in the middle; he must’ve used it as a pillow at one point in the night. He doubled over to gather it between numb fingers.

Something fell from its open mouth, forgotten and time-ravaged: a note, its letters careful, looped, and neater than Seven could ever hope to attempt. Half of them had been lost to water, some more torn away or faded beyond recognition, but those that mattered had endured.

We leave for Alvadas at the 9th bell. I bought apples.
Happy birthday,
Victor

“Gods,” he choked. Tears returned, though it was hard to tell they’d left at all.

He had to go back.

[Seven Xu]

He’d been walking for hours in a direction he thought was downhill, on a path that had narrowed and split apart too many times to count. The incline had leveled and the forest grew too tall to tell whether he was closer or further from the city. It hadn’t been this hard before, but it was dark before. There was so much more too see in the light of day, so much more to twist his vague memory of the place. Landmarks had gone, presumably washed or blown away in the storm. He sat and peeled his pack from a sweat-damp shoulder.

The sun was looming over the thick line of trees, casting its thick yellow rays through black leaves and bright dust motes. The ground was the color of rust, its carpet of dead pine needles littered by cones and stones and fell branches and pockmarked from burrows and scars on the earth. Trees grew so close together it was like you’d hit one if you tried to throw a stone any distance; they were straight and tall, reaching into pale blue sky. Beyond that it was still and it was quiet, so quiet Seven could hear his own blood rushing through his ears. And warm, gods, it was warm.


He woke panting, coated in sweat.

The bag between his feet rustled as he lurched up, cursing under his breath. He hadn’t even remembered closing his eyes. With a skyward glance, he cursed again. The sun had worked its slow trail across the sky and was sitting low on the opposite horizon, the clouds had turned all colors between pink and orange, and his fair skin had tightened around his face and arms. He dragged his fingers over a cheek and winced.

When he stood he couldn’t tell where he was headed or where he’d come from. Every tree looked the same as the last, and he’d turned up no soil in his pursuit of the Trickster’s city. Something rotten churned in the pit of his stomach, and the dizzying, prickling rush of cold fear crushed his temples.

It was then, Seven realized, that something had gone terribly wrong.

[Seven Xu]

No. That can’t be right.

Where was the sun when he’d closed his eyes? Was he walking toward it, away from it, was it at his side—the left, the right? Trees swayed as he turned, eyes narrowed at the swollen yellow sun that perched comfortably along a jagged hedge of black-green. He combed his mind for something, anything to throw him in the right direction, but he couldn’t remember.

He simply couldn’t remember.

Seven doubled over and retched. “Petch,” he snarled. “Gods be damned!” A foot kicked out and dug up a flurry of red needles and black earth and the soggy remnants of bread he’d eaten late the day before. A throat-burning scream bubbled up from the deepest part of his gut and he roused a dozen blackbirds from their roost not far away.

His lungs were as useless as his mind, it seemed, as his echoing call faded into quiet nothing and he strained to hear the wing beats of the retreating birds. He was sick, though not enough to bend and heave again. He wiped a clammy hand back across bangs damp with sweat. Bile and effort tingled in his throat. Tired eyes darted from tree to tree, to the setting sun and away again, trying to make sense of his place in relation to where he wanted to go. He knew this. At least, he should have.

The stars, Seven chewed his lip in thought. Land bemused him, but the stars, oh! They would rise within bells; they would point him to the sea, and Alvadas. His restless feet carried him a few strides before he squatted, perched atop a log carpeted in bright green moss, and waited.

Clouds rolled in, and the night was grey.

[Seven Xu]

Summer 2nd 3rd A.V. 512

I don’t know where I am, or whether or not any of this matters.

I’m lost. I left the tavern, went to the foothills, thinking I’d find—I don’t know. Her. Answers. Something. But I was stupid; I lost the sun and the trails and I don’t know where I am. The stars aren’t out; I can barely see the moon at all. Everything is so dark. Are you there? Do you even know I’m gone? Would you care if you did?

I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.

Seven

[Seven Xu]

Thirst came, then hunger: gut-wrenching hunger that niggled at his every waking thought. Seven had managed to walk for two hours after a fitful sleep on a moss-covered log before the sun began its slow ascent. The rolling hills beyond Alvadas only served to confuse. They were larger than they appeared from a distance. The city was nestled in a valley, but between the valley and the sharp peaks of the Unforgiving sprawled the Kitrean foothills. The hills had dips and valleys in their own right, and finding a path to water—to the sea, to home—was not as easy as following a slope.

He stopped.

Birds sang their choruses high above his head. Leaves swayed on a draft that worked to sweep away the mist; it had settled over the forest like a shabby grey blanket. Damnable fog, it had kept him from whatever clarity or comfort the stars would promise and left him with only darkness. And darkness, he remembered, was where he woke to moan and repent. His eyes were dry and his eyelids heavy. He took a few more steps, heard wind rushing through leaves—no, rocks rolling downhill—no, no. Water.

Seven forgot aching heels and blistered toes as his brisk walk broke into a jog and then a run. He almost laughed as he burst through the treeline and stumbled over himself in the tall grass, down a slope that lead to a narrow, glistening river. It was shallow. Seven didn’t stop at the river’s edge; he stomped between slick green and brown rocks and squatted, ankle-deep, to cup his hands and drink. When that didn’t satisfy him, he fell to his hands and knees and kissed the river, taking in mouthfuls of sweet, fresh water.

When night came again, his mind and the sky were clear. He found east, then north, then west, and memorised the landmarks around him in relation to the stars that rose in the sky, so that when he woke, he would know that the sea and Alvadas lay between the tall rock and where the river bent behind the trees.

[Seven Xu]

Summer 5th A.V. 512

The most selfish part of me hopes you’re around to miss me, that you haven’t forgotten me as quickly as you tend to forget the rest.

You may never even see these letters. I may shred them and throw them at the sky when I finally find my way out of here. They keep me level, so I write. It rained today; started early in the morning and eased off well past noon, if I’m any good at keeping track of time with the sun. I’d appreciate the weather—it rained water, to be clear—if I weren’t so damned hungry. I’d give anything for a pint of shyke beer and mouldy bread to get the petch out of here.

Seven