The Roaming Sea - 5. Death and Redemption, Pt. 2

Sudden hollering caused Callum to jerk awake. He’d unknowingly drifted off. Another yell—undeniably Hindle—had Callum spring up to the front of his cell, trying to catch a glimpse down the hallway. The soldier’s words were muffled, followed by grunts and sounds of struggling. But instead of returning Hindle to his cell, the sound of his voice grew more distant. The guards were leading him outside. Where are they going? Despite being muffled—perhaps he was gagged—the soldier’s voice bounced off the palisade walls. Suddenly, the anger in his voice shifted to frightened pleading. The hair on the back of Callum’s neck rose, and he backpedalled to his straw nest. He didn’t want to hear any of this, nor imagine what was happening out there. The muffled screams rose in urgency, evolving to cries of despair, and then everything fell silent.

Absolute petrifying silence.

No pactrid voices in the distance, no drills, nothing. It was as though the outpost had been vacated. Callum took a ragged breath in, realising he’d been holding it all this time. He cupped a hand to his ear, trying to detect any sign of life. Finally, he heard a pactrid voice. He couldn’t comprehend the words, but the timbre was low, sombre. Another pactrid replied in similar fashion. There was no doubt Hindle was dead now. At least his death was swift, but that did nothing to ease Callum’s rising dread.

Footsteps approached from the hallway. Is this really how it ends? A guard entered and unlocked his cell.

“Come,” he ordered.

Callum followed the pactrid solemnly. The stone floor was cold on his bare feet while he was marshalled to the open entrance. However, instead of being led outside, they continued along the corridor to the opposite wing of the building. This was where Hindle had been brought. The guard opened a wooden door to reveal a spartanly furnished room. A table and two chairs. One chair large enough to seat a pactrid. The other had long legs, allowing a human to sit at eye level with an interrogator. Sconces on each wall did their best to light the room, but the craggy stone walls left an air of uninviting starkness.

The chair meant for humans had a ladder built into the legs, allowing him to climb up to the seat. But there were no manacles. No fearsome tools of torture on the table. No blood on the floor. Once Callum had seated, the guard closed the door and stood blank-faced, staring at the empty wall opposite, waiting at attention. Callum remained still, eyes down, his mind reeling at what was to come next. This was torture in its own right.

Once an excruciating number of minutes had passed, a knock came at the door. The guard opened it, allowing a female pactrid wearing a flowing white robe to enter the room. She took a seat opposite Callum, then nodded to the guard, who took his leave and closed the door.

Callum nervously glanced up, eyeing her vast adornment of earrings, necklaces, and gaudy rings. Her expression was one of profound scrutiny, and she caught his gaze, refusing to let go. Callum’s breath quickened at the sudden loss of control, losing himself in her eyes. After a moment, her stare abated, allowing Callum to blink.

“What is your name?” she asked in his language with hardly a shade of a pactrid accent.

Now it was his turn to be taken aback, gaining a better understanding of what pactrids experienced when he spoke their language. “My name is Callum.”

“Hello, Callum. I am Neva.”

He offered a deferential nod in greeting. “Are you a gotachi?”

Neva regarded him with a raised brow. “Where did you hear this word?”

“Rym— uh, the scout who brought me here. He told me a gotachi would judge me.”

“He told you?”

“I can speak your language,” Callum replied in her native tongue.

She sat back in her seat, astonishment written on her face. “Indeed you can,” she replied, keeping the conversation to his own language. “And yes, I am a gotachi.”

Callum found himself battered by conflicting perceptions of what to expect next. All the fear of this moment that had boiled within him now felt irrational. But he was unwilling to let his guard down.

“Shall we begin?” Neva asked, holding out her hands, palms up, across the table toward him.

“Will this hurt?”

“Simply lay your hands atop mine.”

Tentatively, Callum reached out and placed his hands onto her open palms. They were soft and warm. Seeing his hands dwarfed in hers reinstated the size difference between them.

“Now, look into my eyes,” she said softly.

Not wanting to lose control again, he was reticent to comply. But a gentle squeeze from Neva broke his resolve, and he met her gaze. As before, he found himself unable to blink or look away. His breathing halted, followed by continuous exhalation—more than his lungs could possibly hold. While he didn’t feel the urge to breathe in again, it was an alarming sensation, and panic set in. His vision narrowed until only Neva’s face was visible. Her own glazed-over eyes bore into him, through him, past him. Her body was here, but she was somewhere else. Callum tried to pull his hands away, but his muscles refused to obey. His mouth twitched, trying to form words, but he couldn’t utter a sound. Distressingly, the endless supply of air from his lungs was diminishing, and the burning need to take in a breath awakened—growing with each passing second. He wanted to scream, but no matter what he tried, he remained locked in this state.

Then, with a sudden wallop, everything ended. He gasped for air, coughing. His dry eyes stung.

“I’m sorry, child,” Neva said. “I didn’t mean to take so long, but you had much to impart with me.” She patiently gave Callum the time he needed to recover from the ordeal.

“I don’t understand,” he muttered, wiping his eyes.

“You need not understand. All that matters is what you’ve shared. You are a rare human, Callum.”

He coughed again. “Is that . . . a good thing?”

Neva smiled. “Of course, child. It means you are no longer our captive. You are free.”

Callum couldn’t believe what he was hearing. “What about Hindle? The other human?”

She shook her head, eyes downcast. “I’m sorry, Callum. He wasn’t like you.”

“But, what did you do to him?”

“Our law states any human who wishes us harm must be executed.”

Callum assumed as much, but he couldn’t help the anger from welling up. “How could one human be so frightening that you need to execute them?”

Her lips narrowed, not appreciating his harsh tone. “One human is of no concern, but in great numbers, the power humans can wield is something to fear. Do not think we enjoy ending life—even if they are our enemy—but needs must. We give each prisoner a chance to prove themselves, just as you have. Your fellow comrade failed that test.”

She rose from her seat and opened the door. The guard jumped to attention, and she muttered something to him. Whatever she said caused him to stare at Callum, his face in shock. She spoke another word, again too faintly for Callum to hear, and the guard entered the room.

“Down,” he said in his thick pactrid accent.

Callum descended the side of the chair, and the guard crouched before him to unlock the shackles around his wrists and ankles. Gathering the chains into his hands, the guard looked upon Callum with disbelief, followed by a hesitant yet commendable nod.

Callum returned it in kind. “Thank you,” he said in the pactrid’s language.

This brought a hint of a smile. “Wait here. I will retrieve your belongings.”

The guard left the room, leaving Callum alone with Neva, who still stood at the doorway’s threshold.

“What happens now?” he asked.

“That is your choice to make.”

“So I can return home?”

Neva was taken aback by the question, but then washed it away with a smile. “If that is what you desire, yes.”

“You’re aware I’ll be returned to the front lines, aren’t you?”

“Yes. We were informed you’re a medic.”

“I won’t be fighting your kind directly, but . . .” He was reminded of Rym’s words. Better to be a traitor than take part in the wrong side of the war.

“You were forced into this conflict, child. Your heart has shown me the anger and strife residing within you. Grown in an environment of such hatred, this is understandable, yet that still doesn’t cloud your true beliefs.”

“What are my beliefs?” Callum felt a fool to ask, but was unsure of the answer.

Neva smiled. “That everyone, humans and pactrids alike, deserve a voice—a chance to be heard, to be understood. You believe conflict can be overcome if we simply listen to each other.”

Is that what I believe? Callum couldn’t help blush at the naïvety of such a creed. “If only life was that simple.”

“Yes. Such a lofty goal is idealistic and unlikely, but regardless, it speaks volumes to your character.”

The guard returned with Callum’s rucksack and his uniform gathered atop it.

“You can change here,” Neva said. “I’ll await you outside.”

She and the guard left him alone to dress. By this point, he didn’t think Neva was lying or trying to deceive him, but their decision to leave him unsupervised really showed they trusted him. He shimmied out of the burlap material and donned his uniform, happy to have his boots back on. The stone floors might be fine for pactrid feet, but they were much too cold for him. Worry set in when his compass was missing, but then he found it tucked into his jacket pocket. The guard must’ve placed it there—a thoughtful gesture.

After shouldering his rucksack, Callum poked his head into the hallway, finding it empty. Distant hollering echoed outside—more drills—accompanied by their distinctive trumpet calls. In spite of what he knew now, he believed those calls would always cause him to flinch. They had always meant death.

Stepping outside, Callum had to shield his eyes despite the grey sky. Gentle rain fell. Neva stood under the extended roof of the stone building and beckoned him to join her. Across the courtyard stood a gallows. He hadn’t noticed it when he’d arrived, but its size told him this was a gallows only meant for Anberans. At least Hindle’s body had been removed. He didn’t have the stomach to see someone hanging there. Regardless, Callum couldn’t help flinching from a stab of guilt.

“Why did Hindle have to die, and not me?” Callum asked. “It doesn’t seem fair.”

Neva looked down at Callum, then to the gallows he was staring at. “You may be young, but I know you’re old enough to know life is never fair. Your fellow comrade’s beliefs were ones of animosity and want for genocide. We were given no choice.”

Callum pondered how many others thought similarly. His father believed in the war, wanted to push back the pactrid threat, but did he hate them enough to want their race wiped out?

“Rym said the war started because humans invaded your land. But as far as we humans are concerned, we’re trying to take back what’s ours.”

“The mountain to the north—the Spine—has always delineated our borders.”

“I’m not sure anyone on my side knows about those mountains. It was news to me.”

Neva stared at him with a critical eye. “Child, those in command must know this. They simply refuse to share that truth with you.”

“You’re saying countless people have died believing a lie? I can’t accept that.”

“Then you choose to live in ignorance.” Her tone wasn’t chiding, but hinted at sorrow.

“But I’ve only just learnt this information, from my enemy no less”—he made a point of showing no ill will to say the word—“and you expect me to believe such a fact without question?”

“Then find the truth yourself. And when you find it, share it far and wide with your fellow humans. But be wary, Callum. Those in power will not appreciate what you have to say. They may decide to silence you if you speak too loudly.”

She was right. Saying the wrong thing, even in jest, could get someone in trouble. Did he have the conviction to risk it? Would it even make a difference if he tried?

“Pup?”

Rym’s unique voice had Callum take in a surprised breath. He turned to find the pactrid standing nearby, bearing an elusive smile. Callum’s heart ached at the sight of him, and it took all his power not to rush toward him. He questioned why he felt this way. Only days prior, he was trying to run away from the pactrid.

“You’re still here?” Callum’s voice cracked embarrassingly.

Rym approached him. “I felt sure you would pass the test. They told me you were set free.”

“You have a keen sense, scout,” Neva said.

“Thank you,” he replied with a reverential nod. “But Cal’oom showed me this in his words and actions. Of course, I couldn’t be sure without your talents, gotachi.” He turned his attention back to Callum—his silver eyes glittering—wearing that smile again. “I’m glad I wasn’t wrong.”

Callum fought against his emotions again. Part of him wanted to throw himself into Rym’s arms and hug the massive pactrid, while another part told him he was crazy to want such a thing. Even if they’d come to an understanding, these pactrids were still his enemy, however much he wished it otherwise.

“Callum would like to return home,” Neva said.

“Oh.” Rym stood dumbfounded and surprised by the statement.

“Is . . . that alright?” Callum asked.

Rym’s eyes darted about, unable to meet Callum’s gaze. “If that’s what you want . . .”

“Can you escort him back to the front lines?” she asked.

“Uh, yes. Of course,” he replied with another nod, short and abrupt this time.

Neva turned back to Callum. “As gotachi, it pains me to tell you I’ve sent many human prisoners to their death. This task has never brought me joy, but it must be done to protect our kind. Being with a human as rare as yourself is a reason to celebrate.”

Callum scratched the back of his head nervously. “I’m far from perfect.”

“None of us are,” Neva replied with a chuckle. “But believe me when I say, you are special.”

Callum’s cheeks warmed. “Well, thank you, I guess.”

Neva pulled a token from her pocket, akin to what Rym had shown in the past, however this one was smaller and made of a silvery metal. She handed it to Callum.

“This is a pass to travel our lands with an escort. Understand that our kind will always be wary of humans. It is quite possible you will be accosted, but revealing this pass should temper any physical aggression toward you. But I cannot stress the importance that this pass cannot be lost or misplaced. Never let it leave your person. Ever.”

Callum rubbed the surface of the token engraved with pactrid writing. Once again, he wished he could read their language. “I understand. Thank you for your trust.”

“Save travels, child.”

She departed, leaving an awkward moment of silence between Callum and Rym. Callum examined the token a moment longer before slipping it into his pocket.

“Are you hungry?” Rym asked hesitantly.

Callum’s nerves had been on edge all morning, and at the time, the thought of food nauseated him. Now, with the relief of making it out of this ordeal alive, the mention of food was welcoming, and he nodded.

“Come on, then. Let’s get you fed.”

Rym led him away from the stone building and down a lane packed flat from the stomping of innumerable pactrid feet. They entered another building filled with long tables and stools, evidently a mess hall. Being mid-morning, it was empty, which was fine by Callum. He wasn’t sure how comfortable he’d be amid a full crowd of pactrid troopers. The smell of food wafted from the kitchens—cooks preparing for the noontide meal. Rym scrounged up some leftovers from breakfast. Thick oatmeal topped with berries. Once again, the lack of properly sized utensils meant Callum had to eat with his hands again. The food was plain, but did the job to fill his belly. While he ate, Rym sat next to him. It was obvious he wanted to say something, and Callum couldn’t stand the silence any longer.

“I really appreciate that you waited for me.”

Rym shrugged in reply, a shy smile crossing his lips.

“But I feel I’ve let you down somehow,” Callum added. “And I guess I should ask why you stuck around in the first place?”

The forward question caught Rym off-guard. “It was a foolish reason.” Despite the pactrid’s hulking size, his nervousness made him vulnerable in an oddly adorable fashion.

Callum chuckled softly in an attempt to ease his tension. “Foolish or not, I’d like to know.”

“I’d rather not,” Rym replied, his voice a subtle rumble.

The open doorway leading outdoors darkened, catching Callum’s attention. Two pactrid troopers, one standing behind the other, poked their heads in, staring at him. After a moment, they stepped inside. Having younger pactrids stand near Rym allowed Callum to compare their appearances. Rym had mentioned he was over a century in age, but to Callum’s untrained eye, gave no impression he was ancient. Now, he noticed Rym’s skin was a darker shade of grey, and rougher in appearance. Even the way he stood—slightly hunched over compared to the young soldiers—gave a better impression Rym was indeed older. Regardless, he was far from feeble. Their multi-day journey didn’t wear him out, and when they first met, he had no problem catching Callum and giving him a wallop.

“We heard the prisoner was released, and he can speak our language,” the first trooper said to Rym. “We wanted to see for ourselves.”

“Uh, yes. Hello,” Callum said.

The pactrids bore toothy grins, stepping closer in curiosity. Callum felt like he was part of a spectacle. Better this than being attacked, I guess.

“How do you know our language?” the second pactrid asked.

Once again, Callum felt the need to sidestep the question since he didn’t know how Anberans acquired knowledge of the pactrid language. “I was taught. A select number of humans can speak it.” He turned to Rym. “How does the gotachi know how to speak my language?”

“Since they deal directly with all human prisoners, they must learn your language.”

“Yes, but how? Who teaches them?”

He frowned as though Callum should’ve known this. “Refugee humans.”

Callum blinked. “What refugees?”

The two soldiers scoffed at his confusion, and Rym raised an incredulous eyebrow. “Those who are against the war, who help us fight. Humans like you.”

“What?!”

“You had no knowledge of this?”

“No, I thought I was the only one,” Callum stammered, realising how arrogant that sounded as it left his mouth. Sure, he assumed others disagreed with the war, but would’ve never thought pactrids would take them in. The concept opposed everything he reckoned he knew.

Rym took his hand—giant fingers engulfing his—and led him outside, away from the two troopers who stood there with puzzled expressions on their faces.

“Where are you taking me?” Callum asked, pulling up his hood to shield himself from the rain.

Rym nudged him to the relative privacy of a narrow alleyway between two buildings, and then knelt down to look upon Callum at his level. “I waited for you because I assumed you would stay.”

“Stay here?” Callum asked, gesturing at the outpost.

Rym shook his head and let out a long sigh, trying to summon the courage to say what was on his mind. “I know our short time together has been volatile, and we barely know each other, but . . . I feel a connection between us I can’t explain. A part of me risked the hope you felt the same way.”

While Rym spoke—subjecting himself to the possibility of rejection—Callum’s stomach somersaulted. Rym’s words couldn’t have better mirrored his own feelings. Although Callum still couldn’t decipher those emotions, he felt it was only fair to share them with Rym.

“I’ll admit being with you makes me feel good,” Callum managed to say. “But we’re enemies. It’s not right.”

“Human and pactrid might be at war, but that doesn’t mean you and I can’t be friends.”

The idea of being friends with a pactrid drew a bemused smile on Callum’s face. To have such a powerful ally at his side brought on such an intense feeling of security. But then the reality of what Rym was suggesting crashed down upon him.

“I’d really like that, but I don’t see how we could make it work. You want me to stay, but what you’re really asking me is to abandon everything and everyone I know.”

Staring at the ground between them, Rym nodded sullenly, rain dripping off his large ears. “I’m sorry. You’re correct. I let my emotions lead, and didn’t properly consider the implications.”

Callum’s heart sunk to witness him so forlorn, but he couldn’t even begin to conceive a plan to make it work. “I’m sorry, too. I wish we could go somewhere else—away from all this madness—where humans and pactrids could live in peace together.”

Those words connected with Rym. He stared at Callum with an intensity that should’ve been frightening, but Callum found it strangely captivating. That he could affect the pactrid in such a way felt like a privilege. The moment passed, and Rym’s eyes softened. “There are refugee villages to the south. They would accept you, and it would mean we could see each other.”

Callum couldn’t fault the pactrid’s determination, but the idea of uprooting his life frightened him more than he was willing to admit. “I’m sorry, Rym. I can’t.”

It was then Rym accepted there was no possibility he could persuade him. Callum felt terrible, wishing he could forget his life—his past—and move on. But he couldn’t. To know his mother would be told her only remaining son was killed brought an ache to his heart. He had to go back. Not just for her, but to tell people the truth of the war—that Anberans were the aggressors. It was presumptuous to assume he alone could make a difference, to change the trajectory of the war, or to possibly end it.

But to not even try? That was worse.