Part I

He had known when her once-golden hair had begun to gray. He had known when her hands had begun to hurt, when her skin began to pale. He had known. And yet, until that moment, when he say kneeling besides her bed, it had not yet set itself fully into his mind. His Mother, one of the only people in his life with whom he had had contact, was dying. She held one of his hands tightly with her gnarled one.
“You must go back to my people.” She told him softly, “When I am gone.”
Wordlessly, he nodded, and she smiled faintly.
“There is fear in your eyes, my son. But no need for worries. You are strong. You will live on.” Her hand squeezed his, feebly, “There will be a place for you, in the outside world.”
Again, he agreed with a small nod. A tiny chuckle emerged from her aged throat.
“Will you not speak?”
He blushed slightly, “I am sorry, Mother. I do not know what to say.”
“Tell me that you will go. That you will make a place for yourself with them, and prosper. Then, I will be able to have peace in the other world.” With great strain, she leaned up from her pillow towards him, “Tell me that you will not dwell here in sorrow for one who will no longer be in any pain.”
“I will go. I will live with your people, I will make my own way.” He swallowed, choking slightly on the growing lump in his throat.
“My child, I will never leave you. My spirit will guide you, always.” She smiled, “I will watch over you from the other world.”
A few tears forced their way in small rivers over his cheeks, and he returned her smile weakly.
“I love you, my son.”
“And I you, Mother.”
Her body, weak and careful, sank back down among the covers.
“I will be with you, Spire. Evermore.”
The hand on his loosened, and with one final, gentle breath, she was at peace.
***
Even through his mourning, Spire was not unfaithful. He saw the woman laid to rest, but by the next morning, the necessities for his journey out of the borderlands were arranged. Almost nervously, he surveyed the contents of his pack once more. Preserved foods, water, extra clothing, and his bedroll for the nights. His bow and quiver leaned against the side of the doorway, certainly not to be forgotten, and he kept a hunting knife at one hip. The little money he had was kept in a pouch at the other.
Dark brown eyes scanned over the house once more, and then, deciding for a final time that he was ready, he shouldered the pack, bow, and quiver. He would fulfill his Mother’s final wish.
***
The sun spread deep warmth through his tanned cheeks as he walked, always keeping his eyes towards the great tower rising in the distance, the central point of Dural’s capital city. It was the home of the people of his Mother, and he anxiously awaited his arrival there. His Mother had often spoken of the elfin race that shared his fair hair, but he had never seen one except her, nor been to their great city. They had always lived on the nation’s very border, because although his scraggly hair was as blonde as hers, he bore other markings (like the two chocolate coloured lines criss-crossing the bridge of his nose) that identified the other half of him as the blood of a different race. It was the blood of the Rynarians, a tall race of people whose unique birth marked stripes twisted over their bodies like a map of tiny rivers. And although he did not have a complete set, it was obvious that he had Rynarian blood within him. So his Mother have never taken him to the city, because the two races had never been completely at ease with each other.
But it was not as if they could not accept him. They would see him outside of the marks. His Mother always had.
A low rumble from a distance drew him away from his thoughts. Scanning the horizon, his eyes fell upon something in the east, kicking up a cloud of duct thick enough to conceal what it was. It looked, however, as if it would pass y him, and so he took a few steps to position himself on the opposite side of a tree. If it looked friendly when it came (that is, whatever “it” was), he could approach it then.
It moved very slowly, and he found himself squinting in an attempt to distinguish the identity of the hulking figure. If nothing else, it was massive, almost like a barge dragging its way over the earth instead of the water. However, there were no horses or oxen to guide it, and no one on the outside of the great machine. It seemed to move on its own power, dragging up twirling clouds of dust along its way.
As it neared him, he could make out several latches and doorways carved into the thing, each paneled carefully shut. However, as he watched, on of the latches suddenly snapped cleanly as the door burst open, a bedraggled Duralian man tumbling from inside the machine, and a clamber of hands and feet as others began o scramble towards the doorway. Still, they seemed hesitant to come out of their shelter.
The first man stumbled, moaning quietly to himself, something about “never reaching home again”, as Spire heard it.
“He’s sun mad.” He heard another hiss softly from the doorway, “Traveling too long.”
“Someone get him before he hurts himself.” Another whispered firmly.
A sharp gasp rose from the rest of the men as the first raised a hand to the goggles that all seemed to be wearing. Cries of “No!” and “Don’t!” issued from the group, but the man would not be swayed, and in one vengeful motion, tore the eyewear from his face. No sooner had he thrown them to the ground than a strangled scream tore from his throat, and he fell to his knees. Spire blinked, taking a step out from behind the tree. What was it that was ailing the man so? Still howling, the Duralian clawed at his cheeks, and Spire’s eyes widened as he saw the cause of pain. The man’s eyes, once blue, seeming to be paling rapidly, leaving only faint outlines where the colour had once been. Quickly, he stepped out to assist the fallen Duralian. The others had come out from their shelter at the screams, but now they paused, goggled eyes absolutely fixed upon Spire.
“What are you doing here?” One other asked carefully, taking a few steps back.
“I… He is in pain…” The brown-eyed man sputtered, motioning to the first Duralian.
“Blind. Would think you would know, it’s your people who’ve done it.” The other spat in reply.
Spire blinked, “I do not know what you speak of.”
“Rynarian, aren’t you?”
“Half.” He replied, “Why? I am half Duralian as well.”
For a few moments, the other man watched him, opening his mouth once or twice before speaking, “…You haven’t got any clue what we’re talking about?”
“I have never left the borderlands.” Spire told him, somewhat sheepishly, “I am on my way to the capital for the first time.”
The other nodded slightly, “We’re headed that way as well. Perhaps if you needed, we could fit you on board the walker.”
“I would be very grateful.” The blonde said softly, giving the man a small nod.
Returning it, the other knelt, carefully pulling up the blinded man.
“Come along then.”
***