The Gods Are Gone- Chapter One

He who walks the paths through which the waters tread.

He who braces the sky upon his shoulders,

Let the Gods wake again,

And Unravel the World.

-Unknown.

Part One- “The Gods are gone”

On Sorrows Day, they rang the bells.

Warren set his glass down, peering into his reflection. He saw his hair-- Mottled, greasy, at least a year due a barber's knife. His eyes were sunken and ringed, his skin blotched and scarred. He ran a finger along the scar that swept under his left eye.

A knock.

He whipped around, hand darting to his side, grasping for a sword that wasn’t there. He waited a few moments, grasping the chair for support. The knock came again, louder this time, and with it was a muffled voice.

“You asleep in there? If you’re not going to pay, we’ll have the Watch over!”, the woman’s voice called. One of the barmaids. Warren tucked the knife he had drawn back into his coat, and shuffled over, cracking open the door.

The woman looked back at him, a tray in her hands.

“She says you’re out within the hour if you don’t pay-- Don’t think we won’t be calling the Watch, her Uncle heads down this street every day on duty, and…”, she trailed off, eyes narrowing slightly. Warren knew the look. Recognition.

“I’ll pay in the morning”, he murmured gruffly, swinging the door shut-- Until it met a foot.

“Wait!”, the barmaid said, wedging herself between the door and the frame, “I know you!”

“I don’t know what you heard, but it isn’t true.” He murmured, swatting her foot away and slamming the door shut. He raised the chain.

“It’s Warren, isn’t it? I heard about you! Y-you were a Seeker!”, the voice came through the door, muffled.

“There’s no such thing anymore, lady!” Warren yelled back.

He felt tired-- More than usual. He slumped against the door. Running a hand through his hair, as he gazed out of the cracked window, where rain was beginning to fall.

The whole room was broken, really-- Like everything in Kharn. The plaster was peeling, the stone crumbling, even the glass he’d been drinking from was cracked.

He thought that that might mean something. Symbolize something. He didn’t know.

He was very tired.

And somewhere, the bells continued to toll.

*

On Sorrows Day, they rang the bells.

Though no one quite remembered why. To Wren, it didn’t seem to matter so much.

A growl from her stomach broke her thoughts. She pulled the bundle in her hands closer, keeping it sheltered under her oversized cloak. Best not to take any risks. Her luck hadn’t been holding much lately.

The queue inched forward minute by minute. The place was stiflingly loud. Workers bickered over their places in the line, women chattered, wagons trundled by. She heard hooves beating on the cobbles as the Church-Hands began riding into the square and preparing the gallows. Over it all, the bells rang.

The bells.

Wren glanced up, shading her eyes from the sun. There, rising far, far above. Impossibly high above.

They called it The Salvation.

The clatter of pots drew Wren’s attention back to the kitchens. She hugged the bundle closer as she neared the head of the queue. Gods knew she wasn’t the only one pulling this ploy.

The man in front of her had reached the head of the queue, and was whispering sharply at the cook, gesturing towards his ration. Eventually, he gave up, muttering a curse and giving Wren a glare as he stalked away.

She stepped forward, cradling the bundle and holding it to her chest, as if it were a child. That was, of course, the whole point.

Wren recognised the cook-- An ageing woman who wasn’t unsimilar to a piece of dry fruit in appearance. The cook narrowed her eyes as she approached, withdrawing a small bowl and scooping out a grey, watery substance from a pot, flecked with small pieces of what might of been meat. Wren had never been brave enough to investigate just what it was that the gruel was made of, and made a point of not finding out.

The cook slid the gruel over, with a small piece of bread-- Really no bigger than a clenched fist. She paused a moment, eyeing the “baby” in Wren’s arms.

Wren forced a smile.

After a moment, the cook reached under the counter and put forward another piece of bread, lips thinning slightly. Wren nodded, murmuring a thanks and reaching out to scoop up the bowl.

Thank Gods they aren’t catching on, she thought, breathing a sigh of relief. Another day well fed. She took the bowl hastily, eager to leave and--

As the grasped for the bowl, it tipped, spilling the contents on her fingers. The boiling contents. She gasped, snapping her hand back.

And she dropped the bundle to the ground.

The chatter cut off from behind her. But no sound emerged from the bundle of cloth and straw. No mewling started, no kicking or wailing.

The cook looked up, narrowing her eyes.

Wren stepped back, stammering as she searched for an excuse, a ploy, anything. Her mind reeled.

Idiot. Wool-headed idiot.

She was dimly aware of the crowds falling silent behind her. Too silent. Surely not everyone had stopped their chatter for this. People got caught out every second day, and only got a few jeers most times.

Suddenly, the cooks too-red face paled, eyes darting behind Wren. She licked her lips.

“Jus’ run along, girl” She murmured, looking down, and pushing the bread forward.

It was at that point that Wren became aware of the clatter of armour from behind, and something cold tightening around her shoulder.

The man was unmistakably from the Church-- He wore the old armour of the Church-hands, beaten and rusted, but holding a sort of ancient grandness about it. Like the buildings in Kharn, the shattered towers, the broken masonry-- Shattered, and faded, but with a history that demanded respect.

Over it was a white sash, sweeping past the breastplate and resting as a hood around the helm, pinned with a silver signet.

As Wren turned, the gauntlet tightened on her shoulder.

“Well”, came the soft voice from within the helmet, “Isn’t that convenient. The gallows set up and all”.

Behind him, other figures watched from horseback, clothed in white, though most were shepherding men and women to the gallows. Men and women in chains. The daily roundings, they called it.

There was a terribly long moment where the rustle of the chains seeming to roar in Wren’s ears.

Eventually, the Church-hand let go, turning and making for the gallows, crushing the bundle of straw and cloth under his foot.

“Let it be a lesson, girl”, he called over his shoulder, “Times are changing in this city. This cesspool doesn’t have room for your kind”.

Feeling eyes on her back, Wren stooped to pick up one of the pieces of bread that had fallen to the ground, flushing furiously. She slipped through an alley at the square’s edge.

And began to run.

Wool-headed idiot. Idiot!

She ran, without any real thought as to where. Around her, rain began to fall. Somewhere off in the distance, she heard yells as Church-hands began covering the Beacons from the downpour.

Eventually, she came to a stop, slumping against an old statue-- Of whom, she couldn’t tell. It was little more than a weathered stump holding what might have been a spear.

She began eating the fist-sized clump of bread. Hardly enough to even ease the hunger, but then again, not even a full meal did that nowadays.

The rain intensified, and Wren pulled her cloak around her. She briefly considered heading back home-- If she could call it that-- but instead rose, glancing up again at The Salvation.

No, she had business. That Seeker still needed finding.

She began to walk, stooping under an old belfry that has collapsed atop another building. For a long moment, she looked back at the old, crumbling statue.

She thought she remembered something. Something important.

In a moment it passed, and she turned, vanishing around the corner.

And somewhere, through the rain, thought she heard nooses tighten.

Authors notes-

It's been a while, let's see where it goes. As always, rip this to shreds.