Selene: The Traveller

“Can you feel it, Fijor? Moyna’Dess Selene has come back again to bless us,”

The whispers of the peasants gossiping woke the Traveller more so than the rough dirt road the cart rode on. He had kept to himself for days as the kind strangers allowed him passage; all they knew was he seemed mute and he escaped the Dhampyrs, or what was left of their crumbling and savage empire. He had earned his place on the one-horse cart with his foreign companions, always somehow knowing when and where to camp to avoid Dhampyr patrols as they fled their bloody grasp.

It wasn’t long now, he thought, drowsy from malnourishing conditions as he looked out over the dead, dry land. He hoped he could survive long enough out of Blood territory to find what he was looking for. It had been decades since he had been to any foreign lands. They were almost in her domain, what the locals called Moyna’fujje: Moon refuge.

Fijor, a skin and bones ex-soldier, let out a cry of happiness and looked up at the starry sky, as if sensing something. The Traveller envied his companions for being able to feel such pull from a celestial being.

“Selene,” Fijor paused in wonder, “I hear her eyes are made of stars, and her hair, pale silk spun by Lycaon himself,”

The first voice, his wife whose name escapes the Traveller, brimmed with excitement and spoke again.

“Do you think we’ll see her, love? Do you think she’ll accept us as her children?”

In the brisk Autumn night, Fijor pulled the shabby blanket tighter around his wife and himself before answering.

“We are honest Lycans, wifey. I know she will protect us,”

Another voice chimed in. This one was from the younger man who seemed to be a lucky, unrelated rogue who they had picked up a week or so back.

“Moyna’Dess protects all Lycans, even the wicked if they’ve suffered the Dhampyr," The young rogue started in a hushed tone as if their ex-masters would hear. "My great-great grandfather saw with his own two eyes, I swear he saw, how she felled their King after he massacred us.”

The wife scoffed but had a keen interest in any stories the young rogue might share. The Traveller, however, tried to drift back into peaceful unconsciousness. He had no interest in their tall tales- wild stories, all of them- that they or even ten generations before them could prove true. As he fell back asleep to the murmur of stories of a beautiful Goddess, the cart rolled on toward the dangerous Moyna’fujje border.

He dreamed of beautiful laughter.

What could I do to keep hearing that? He mused. He felt like he was floating through the distant memory, at peace for a rare moment.

“I love you, of course. What a silly question,” Her voice soothed his agitation and made his heart forever open in one statement. He could not for the life of him remember what he had asked that made her laugh so much.

He strained his memory to see her face, only to hear her laughter repeated in thick blackness. Please, he begged his ancient dream. He longed for any other part of her. The touch of her smooth skin, the smell of her long, golden hair- of wildflowers. A glimpse of the smile that stole his soul so long ago.

All of his burning desires amounted to nothing as the same light, musical laughter echoed once again, teasing him to no avail.

The Traveller woke abruptly in annoyance to his cold, dark reality. Dhampyrs were nearby, a surprise on the bare outskirts of their land. He knocked twice on the side of the wooden cart. Everyone knew the signal by now.

“Woah ho,” The driver, another runaway, said quietly to the horse as the cart came to a slow stop.

The rest of the group was vigilant and tense. They were up and moving as if sleep never existed- all except one small girl who couldn’t have been more than six. She cried in annoyance only to be immediately shushed. Her life depended on it- and the Traveller.

“Point me where, mutra.” Mute.

The driver asked him once everyone was standing on the dark road, the lone Traveller in the cart. The man used to be a farmer inside the Dhampyrs inner sanctum- a Blood farmer. His weathered skin and sunken eyes were a sign of hard, back-breaking work. He didn’t speak much except to his horse but he knew how to start a fire, the nights the Traveller said it was okay to have one.

The mute man closed his eyes for a brief second, as if impossibly sensing the scentless Dhampyrs, and pointed off to the left in the trees. The driver jumped down with a grunt, walking the tired horse until the Traveller rapped twice again on the wooden side.

“Hush, Arielle, we will be fine just like every other time we’ve stopped,” The little girl had started crying at some point as the driver and the Traveller rejoined the group after securing the horse and cart.

Her father, poor soul, was alone in comforting his child and was visibly worn after the long journey of comforting her. It wore on him that she repeatedly asked for her mother although he never spoke of what happened to his wife. He seemed to purposely leave his child blissfully unaware as well, no matter how much she asked where she was.

“Follow the mutra, love.” The wife of Fijor said gently to Arielle on her fathers' shoulder as the Traveller lumbered past, his tall and broad frame a relief in the dark. They would be safe with him guiding; he had not failed them yet, by some miracle.

The raggedy group followed their savior as he walked through the trees, what appeared to them as endless and to no reason as their joined anxiety started to peak. Wind brushed through the trees faintly. The only other sound was the light clink of chains hidden under the Travellers’ dirty, long cloak.

Fijor recalled months ago when he came upon the Traveller in some city ruins that the chains had left him bloody and burned: an obvious sign of punishing silver. He thought he was surely dead, but here he is. Whoever he was, Fijor did not judge- but he did wonder. Those kind of silver chains had only been found on enemies of the Blood state itself deep in the bowels of the inner sanctum. Everyone knew those prisoners never saw another beam of light or a kind face after they went in.

What had confused Fijor at the time as he examined the foreign markings on the mutes’ shackles was the Blood state had suffered an upheaval when their King was overthrown and killed; that was centuries ago, and the man barely looked forty. Not even the Dhampyrs lived that long.

Despite Fijors’ suspicions, he had given the man his cloak when he discovered him alive and brought him home to his wife to recover. He decided to bring him along on their dangerous journey- the old solider had never asked if he wanted to go. He just assumed he was a Lycan who needed freedom as well and the mute never protested, either.

Looking back, he had become a useful asset to their group, despite how unusual he was. Fijor was grateful for the chance meeting, astounded that the unbreakable chains had not killed the man yet from their sheer weight alone.

The Traveller stopped suddenly, grunting as he lowered himself to the ground. This was where they would stay until sunlight. He sat heavily and adjusted the cloak with the only limb that didn’t suffer heavy silver chains, his left arm.

“Here we go, dear,” Fijor helped his wife sit, her poor knees not what they used to be and she had gone blind in one eye.

As a Dhampyr quarter slave the years had not been nice to her, or to Fijor, but he sacrificed what strength he had for the moment. The young rogue, the father and daughter, the couple, and the driver huddled together for warmth behind the strangers back, careful not to touch him. He radiated coldness as if he had been long dead, sucking their heat if they were not careful.

They sat in the chilled silence of the forest for a long time, the minutes growing longer when the Travellers’ shoulders were so tense they could break stone. This was always the worst moment. It was as if he was preparing himself to be found.

The soft chink of his shackles from him letting out his breath was the only thing that finally broke the tenseness; only Fijor and his wife seemed to know and hear his heavy burden. The others were too tired and focusing on their own survival.

Fijor let out a painful breath, unsure of how long he was holding it this time as the mutes’ shoulders relaxed. He had no idea how close he had come to the stealthy Dhampyrs tonight- only the Traveller knew. It had been close enough to make their blood curdle.

Again, this surprised the Traveller because of how close they were to Moon refuge. It was as if they were braving the border in desperate futility- as if looking for something and risking a fight with the Lycans.

“Rest now, Arielle.”

Her father whispered, the only sound for the rest of the night. The Traveller, either through weariness of the situation or his punishing memories, stayed awake as the others slept lightly. There would be no fire to warm them from the cold tonight- too dangerous.

He looked up at the night sky, like he often did, and just watched soundlessly. It was as if all the answers he wanted were up there with the half-moon. In truth the bright stars and soft, glowing, circle usually gave him the strength just to live, knowing someone else must be watching the same sky he did. Someone else looking up, as if for the will to keep going.

Morning light was just around the corner when the Traveller let his sore neck rest, lowering his eyes from the dimming night sky. Fijor, the soldier that he was, woke early and fast with a long grunt as he stretched his arms.

“Come on, everyone,”

He roused, helping his wife and the young sleepy rogue up. Without his leadership, who knows how long they would’ve lasted in the wild. The Traveller got up last and slowly, his legs heavy and burning from the long stillness. He lumbered ahead again, his gait staggered from the weight of his chains as he led them back to the horse and cart.

“We’re almost there, love.” Fijors’ wife cooed when Arielle complained from being woke up, rubbing her eyes with her dirty hands.

“Yes, that’s right. In Moyna’fujje you can sleep for days, and food is plentiful,” The young rogue dreamed with a slight smile, patting Arielle's small head as she rested on her fathers shoulder.

“I would love a good steak right about now,” The driver said as he pulled himself into the cart, causing a mutual groan at the thought of a nice, beefy steak.

They talked of side dishes and soft pillows, unaware of how close they actually were to the border or the cautious Lycans who watched them from the treeline.