Origin: Rooted Within

CHAPTER TWELVE

He travelled on; he did not know where to. He just sat on the back of his horse and let it take him somewhere, as long as it was not Ritorà. He was drowning in sorrow, pain, and disappointment. The night he had left home had passed. He slept and dreamed, several times - all night long - while bending over his horse's back.

He had been out four more nights, not knowing how far he had come. But it was not far. His goal was to escape from Ritorá, but being slow, weak and tired - leaving his pace to the mercy of his horse, who was also exhausted - he only reached Cartà. It was just as well. Though he had never travelled to Northland before, he breathed in the breath of freedom as he crossed the border between the lands. He did not know where he was, but there was a peace in his soul that he had not experienced in the previous days.

Cartà was a land that lay in  Northland. It was a small village with 10% of the entire population of Northland. Castar took a longer way out of Ritorá, and that contributed to his journey slowing down. Anyone in their right mind would have reached a place like Metrá in the 5 nights he had spent.

It was already dawn by the time he reached Cartà. He found himself on a hilly path that led to the actual green land, where people poured bricks to build shelters. He could already feel his lips cracking from the cold and his throat drying out from dehydration. It was a cold region. The path was lined with mountains and elevations that disappeared high above him on both sides.

It was lonely indeed. For a few moments, he wondered why he had seen no one. He imagined if it was possible that he was the only person in the land he had just entered. No birds chirped, no reptiles moved in the withered grasses, no rooster crowed, and everything seemed like another dimension to him. There was a second thought in his head... turn back, but he was too numb with the sorrow that made him do anything but listen to that one voice.

He left home with nothing. The 150 Artà he had brought from the night market was the only thing he had in his pocket, and the psychís he wore around his neck-with the pendant tucked into his shirt-to keep his hands free for riding. He rubbed his hands together, pouring the cold air from his lungs into the cup shape they formed. The air was supposed to warm him up, but it made no much difference.

He saw something in the distance. He did not have to think long to know it was a stream. He charged forward, driving his horse by his side, and reached the stream in a flash.

The coarse sand beat against the sole of his boot as he dismounted from his horse. His sombre eyes glanced at the nearby bushes to see if anyone was nearby. The horse stretched his neck across the creek and began to gently dip his tongue into it.

Castar crouched down in front of the stream. He raised his trembling hands and dipped them. He hissed as the running water grazed his fingertips. It was cold, but he needed to drink. After taking a sip, he dipped it a second time and held it to his face. He stared at it for a moment, imagining how it would feel on his face before he worked up the courage to wash his face with it.

He was about to dip a third time, staring deep into the water, when he saw the reflection of a person rising above his head in the water. He shivered. It reflected a man, a bald, built man. He recognized him; he knew him from Yilius' tavern when he was sent to get drinks for Alderís, years ago.

Mafik's clenched jaw and the rush of blood in his eyes told the story. Castar knew he was going to be dead soon. He could pretend he had not seen his reflection, or acknowledge him but either way, he knew he'd be dead before sundown.

He swallowed. One thing ran through his mind. Should he run forward into the creek or run to his horse, jump on and leave the killer behind?

He knew he was not strong enough to take on a man as big as Mafik. Castar was strong, on a normal day when he was in a better mood he could have taken him on.

Mafik was generous enough to let him get to his feet. Every step he took was like a step into the unknown. He did not know when Mafik would slam the sword in his right hand into the back of his neck. He thanked the spirits for every moment that passed without him feeling a blow. The horse neighed and ran off the moment its eyes met Mafik's.

His heart stood still. He did not know when he would take his last breath. He knew it was pointless to attack him first, for he believed it would cause him a more painful death. He was ready to surrender and endure his fate without being torn to pieces by the man who stood before him.

He fell to his knees and closed his eyes. He thought of one thing... maybe it was better than living and wallowing in an endless misery.

"It's just a request..."

"I want it to be quick. I do not want to feel the cold of the steel as it rages against my neck. That is all I ask of you," Castar said. He lowered his head.

He raised his head again and saw it...

Mafik swung his blade and Castar's body slumped. Mafik stood there and watched his's blood travel with the water.