Three rings
Chatty stranger
TWs: Uhh, eww skin description? burns.
“Legend has it that the power of one ring could destroy a nation, but put those three together? It could destroy the world,” the man beside me says.
Sitting at the back of a cramped wagon with him has made this excruciatingly long trip entertaining in the first couple of hours. Add a couple more and it’s just tolerable to avoid deafening silence. The thing is, the day’s almost over and he’s still talking about some mystical ring that could either save or destroy the world.
My skin is sticky with blood and the girl beside me sweats like a pig, rubbing her perspiration on my wounded arm every time the wagon hits a small bump. Everyone else’s body heat contributes to my discomfort. I can’t move or adjust, my butt is stuck in place like we’re sardines packed tightly in a can.
As jam-packed as we are, this lonely wagon carries every survivor in every village in Lopedium. I can imagine some villages were wiped because no way this is it. No way this is all of Lopedium. Because if it’s true then Vahs Kihlm has done it again. He destroyed another nation.
“Did you know that any of us could own it?” I keep forgetting he’s beside me. My right ear is so tired of listening to him. “One of us could be him, the Vahs Kihlm. The tyrant who destroyed the City of Refuge and wiped out the tribe of dragons!” he continues, even if none of us are paying attention to him anymore.
It’s a silent agreement between me and the other passengers to ignore him, hoping that an unresponsive audience will do the trick and shut him up.
“The women from the City of Refuge cried to the skies for rescue and the tribe of the dragons fought until their last breath–all in vain, all for nothing,” the chatty stranger keeps talking nonetheless.
I guess he can’t take the hint.
Not that I blame him. He’s the only survivor from the last village we passed by. His entire body is covered in a robe, his shawl covers the rest of his neck and face to hide his burns. The other passengers tell me he’s probably not well, mentally and emotionally. Nobody has to tell me how that feels because we’re all survivors–victims. Of this casualty. Of this war.
This is probably his way of mourning or probably he’s trying to distract us from reality by spitting mythical stories.
When the man’s story trails off, he bows his head and starts sobbing quietly.
The wagon comes to a halt and the rider tells us to start setting up camp. I’m the first to move, hopping off and breathing in fresh air. The breeze tickles my wounds and dries my seatmate’s sweat still hot on my skin.
“Find anything you can to set up camp. We have a big day ahead of us,” the leader of this little wagon instructs.
With nothing but trees, bushes and dirt, I don’t think there’s much effort to put on my part. They start gathering leaves for shelter and branches for the fire, but I take a separate path. I won’t get lost. I know these woods. My father used to take me here when I was young. We’d play hide and seek and treasure hunt games with my brothers.
“Legend says that with the power of the rings brought together, you can wish for anyone to come back to life,” someone whispers behind me. I don’t have to guess. His hoarse voice is enough indication.
“You keep saying that,” I snap. I’ve had it. This is my time of peace. I don’t need him following me around just to tell me a sequel of another sequel of yet another sequel of his myths. “I’m tired, okay? We all get it. Your plot changes after it ends. Then you change the plot twist again with a new super power. We get it but we’re all tired. We just want some peace and quiet!”
Most of the time I keep my mouth shut. I can hold in my anger so I don’t hurt their feelings.
I’m in pain. My wounds are throbbing, my heart is barely hanging on. I want to cry. Cry loud. Cry all night. I miss my father, my brothers, my neighbors, Lopedium–everything. He’s not the only one coping, so are we.
“Do you, lass?” he probes. “Do you want peace and quiet?”
“You’ve been babbling all day, so yes! Yes, I do!”
“Ivy, dear,” he says. “We all heard you complaining how cramped it was at the wagon, how the girl beside you kept sweating. You’ve been talking out loud since this morning.”
I take a step back. I’m not scared. Of him. Or the threat he poses, if there is any. I’m scared that I believe him somehow. My hand flies to touch my head. It starts to throb and I shiver at the stingy pain, crawling from the crown of my head down my toes. What is this?
“Ivy, I know you’re hurt. But you said you were ready for the consequences and that you were ready for it.”
Shaking my head, I cover my ears and continue to step back. No more of this nonsense. I don’t want to see him.
“We both paid the… and we’re almost…. Just one… and this is all...”
I don’t hear everything, but I’m piecing it together like I already knew where the pieces of the puzzle are placed on the board. My head hurts, something warm seeps from the part that throbs the most.
He raises his hand, folding the robe to show peeled skin barely covered by old, bloodied bandages, almost merging with his skin. As he flexes his fingers open, his palm glows. A shiny circular shape keeps my eyes glued to it. It.
A ring.
Maybe one of the rings from his mythical stories?
My eyes start to burn. It’s too bright, like fire burning my soul. The agonizing pain at the back of my head gnaws inside me, knocking on my bones like a wobbly pillar.
“Ivy, look at me,” he says, his voice so gentle.
Through his obsidian eyes, I see my own reflection. A pale young woman whose eyes are filled with angst and bitterness, face dry and thin. The only thing that has life in her image is the strong yellow glow of two rings interlocked together–what beautiful eyes–No, these aren’t mine.
“Do you remember? We made a wish to make the rings a part of us, so we don’t have to lose the rings every time we use them.”
A wish… just like his mythical stories?
“The shaman told us that there are severe consequences but we promised each other we will do everything we can to unite and continue with our dream.” He cups my cheek with his burnt hand. “I was trying to tell you about our endeavors. What we did with the rings. The name we made for ourselves.”
“No. No, no, no.”
“Vahs Kihlm. It’s us, Ivy. The tyrant who destroyed the City of Refuge and wiped out the tribe of dragons. That's us.”
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