Half An Oath

Guys, I’m not a native speaker (although I practically should be since I’ve been living in Australia for I don’t know how many years) and it’s shockingly difficult to translate from German to English so by the gods have mercy on me... but at the same time please make me aware of any mistakes so I can fix them for future readers 😅

OK and now, without further ado...

~~~

In the closed-off east wing of the Kalidorian citadel, a nervous-looking young man stands in front of a door. He withdraws the hand he’s already put on the knob and takes a shaky breath. For a few heartbeats he closes his eyes and when he opens them again, they flash with grim determination. He straightens his shoulders, grips the doorknob so tight his knuckles turn white – and opens the door.

The room is empty apart from a bed and a table with four chairs. The window is barred and even though it’s wide open, the air is stale. Outside, the sun hides behind a wall of clouds, bathing the room in its bright, cool light.

“Let me guess, you’re the new reader I never asked for,” the patient grumbles. He’s sitting on one of the chairs, playing with a small object in his hands.

He didn’t look up when the door opened and still doesn’t. His shaved head, sunken cheeks and long white nightgown give him the appearance of a bitter old man, although he’s only in his mid-twenties. The sight of him shocks the visitor, but he does his best not to let it show.

“Something like that,” he says, gently closing the door behind him and stepping closer. He catches a glimpse of the object that the patient is kneading in his hands. It’s a leather strap with a whitish crystal woven into it.

“Well, you may as well beat it, because I don’t feel like listening to any more fairy tales, chronicles and poems.” The patient’s words are sharp as a knife.

The visitor stops in surprise and takes a moment to gather himself. “I’ve been told that being in contact with the outside world is an important part of your therapy and that the stories might help you recall something from your past.”

“Then I’m sure you’ve also heard that I sent the other reader away because it didn’t work the way the medics hoped. I only remember the stories, not my life outside of this room. Why do you think you could do any better?”

“Because I won’t read anything to you. The story I have isn’t written anywhere and it’s never been told.”

“And how on earth would a completely unknown story help bring back my memories?” the patient spits.

“By covering the events of the last ten years up to the point at which you were admitted here. It may help you or it may not, but at least I won’t bore you.”

This finally gets the patient’s attention who lets go of the object and examines the man opposite him for the first time. He’s startled because in the pale light the visitor’s grey eyes look as uncompromising as an approaching storm. A fine, silvery scar runs along his cheekbone. Perhaps it’s his height or his proud, upright stance, but something about him is truly intimidating. “What’s your name?”

“Ares. And yours?”

“Teban.” The bald man narrows his eyes. “Are you one of the medics?”

“What? Oh, you mean because of the gown?”

To Teban’s surprise, Ares bursts out laughing. It’s a friendly, warm sound that’s completely at odds with his appearance. Teban likes it because it’s not as sterile and fake as the rest of his surroundings.

“No, I’ve been many things, but I’ve never been a medic. I was merely given the gown upon entry because I wasn’t permitted to enter this wing without it.” Ares’s eyes flicker to the floor.

Teban dismisses it. “No need to be shy. I know exactly what’s going on in the minds of these medics. You were given these clothes and the gown so you couldn’t smuggle in anything that I might use to hurt myself with later. But don’t worry, I can’t think of any reason why I would want to harm myself.” He tries to sound cheerful, but Teban himself realises he can’t banish the bitterness from his voice.

“So, you really can’t remember anything at all?” Ares asks. He cautiously takes two steps into the room. When Teban doesn’t react, he slides down onto one of the chairs.

“That’s a tough question. I remember how to make tea. I can tie my shoes if I want to go for a walk. I haven’t forgotten how to read and write either. As for the stories, they all sound familiar to me and I often know how they end before I’m even halfway through them. They can never surprise me and I can usually retell them without a single mistake as if I hadn’t heard them for the first but for the hundredth time. But no matter how hard I try, I can’t remember how I know how to tie my shoes. When did I learn to brew tea? Who taught me how to read and write? How come all the stories seem so eerily familiar to me? It makes me want to scream that I don’t know anything about myself except for that bullshit these medics out there are trying to make me believe.”

“What are they telling you?”

Teban laughs joylessly. “That I’m a witcher.”

“Could they have a reason for lying to you?”

“What do I know! Just because I can read a few runes doesn’t make me a witcher. Or does it make me a bard that I ended up knowing all these stories that they wanted to read to me?” He holds the bracelet in front of his face. “This is the only item I had when I woke up here. Does this look like witchcraft to you?”

Ares shakes his head. “There are no runes on it.”

“Exactly.” Teban rolls up his right sleeve and lays his arm on the table. “I don’t even have a guild badge. I’m no witcher. But how come I can read runes?”

The visitor falls silent while Teban eyes him. “This story you’re talking about,” he says slowly, “is that . . . your story?”

Ares nods and is about to answer, but then stops and clears his throat. “May I ask you a question?”

The patient looks at him indifferently. “Sure. Go ahead.”

“What do you think of Half-blood?”

“Half-blood?” Teban puts his index finger to his lip and slumps. “Half-blood is evil,” he mumbles, then shakes his head. “Something tells me I should think that, but I don’t feel anything saying it out loud. Why is that?”

Ares grits his teeth and tries to brace himself for what will inevitably follow his next words: “Because I’m a half-blood.”

Teban’s laugh echoes through the room, a noise like a slap in the face. “There’s no such thing as a half-blood. The king would never allow-” He falters, dropping the bracelet and rubbing his temples. “I don’t know why I said that. It seemed obvious to me a few seconds ago but now I just feel like I’ve forgotten something important.”

Ares waits in uncomfortable silence until Teban lowers his hands.

“So you wield magic? If that’s true, can’t you use it to restore my memory?” the patient scoffs, but there’s a faint hope in his voice that startles the visitor.

“You would want me to use my magic on you?” Ares asks haltingly.

“Provided you can fix my memory,” Teban confirms.

Ares pulls an incredulous face. "To be honest, no one’s ever asked me that before. Most people would run away screaming when they hear what I am. For someone to ask me to use my magic... That’s...” He looks over to Teban for help, whose eyes sparkle with amusement.

“Crazy? Well, maybe that’s why I was admitted here.” He leans forward. “Very few people can understand the situation I’m in. People don’t know what it’s like not being able to remember your own mother’s face.”

The visitor rubs his neck. “I cannot heal you with my magic.”

“No? Why not?”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about.”

“Oh, so that’s what your story is about?” Teban snorts. “Why you won’t help someone with amnesia?”

Ares frowns, his grey eyes suddenly as threatening as a thunderstorm. “It’s about a gods damned war! I wish I could claim it was a lighthearted story that promises a peaceful ending for all who appear in it, but I can’t. Because whenever there’s magic, there’s loss. That’s something I had to learn early on, so my story has always been a struggle for humanity. And yes, in a way, it’s also about why my magic can’t be used to restore your memory.”

Teban holds up his hands. “I see. You’re serious. All right, tell me your story. It’s not like I got anything better to do anyway.”

There’s a short silence between the two men, in which Ares examines the patient sceptically. “Do you know the meaning of the number five in the districts?”

Teban raises an eyebrow and smiles. “Best assume I know nothing.”

Ares nods and takes a deep breath. “Five is a lucky number in the districts. That’s why you see it everywhere. Most marriages take place in May, the fifth month. Giving birth in May is commonly regarded as a good omen. And superstitious innkeepers make sure to use the number in the names of their inns. The importance of it dates back to the Century War.«

He raises a hand and spreads his fingers. “Whereas humans had five fingers on each hand, with which they forged their weapons and fought their battles, the Glazen and their descendants, the Blueblood Mages, knew how to take possession of a human through the use of their five senses. So it was only logical that there should also be five concessions and five restrictions that would put an end to the war between them. Thus, districts were assigned to the five strongest mage families, which they were henceforth responsible for protecting. At the same time, the Five Magic Laws were introduced, prohibiting the use of magic against human residents of the districts. This is why the number five has such important meaning in the districts. It represents a new beginning and unity and symbolises peace between the mages and the district dwellers.”

Ares lowers his hand. “It was however different for us, the people of the steppe, who were made up of clans, tribes and other small groups. The war hadn’t left us unscathed, and unlike the district dwellers we hadn’t made peace with magic, which is why we grew up detesting it. I was born into a tribe of jugglers, and before magic played a part in my life, I lived a simple but carefree life. None of us owned more than we could carry with two hands, and that was enough. My tribe mainly gave performances in the border villages of the districts. Although we basically belonged to the hostile steppe country, the border guards always let us pass. They saw no threat in us traveling people. Neither the district dwellers nor the belligerent clans of the steppe made any secret of the fact that they thought we were a little simple-minded. So we were treated with condescending sympathy here and there.”

Ares lets out a sigh, as if he has to shake off the memory. “All of that changed suddenly, a week after my fifteenth birthday. Now that I was of age, my grandfather had allowed me to travel with my uncle’s group to Kelvort, the capital of the third district, where a so called Counting took place. A ceremony celebrating the ascension of baronial offspring. We had arrived a few days earlier and the celebrations were already in full swing. Although we were busy with performances to secure our last income before the winter, my uncle turned a blind eye on the day of the Counting and allowed my best friend Cade and I to explore the city. Neither Cade nor I had ever seen a Counting. Because of that - and because I was in poor health and we didn’t know if I’d ever get a chance to experience another one - Cade decided we should at least watch it. Far from the Pale of course, as we called the mages. But destiny had something else in store for me.”