Young Writers Society

A/N The actual title for this is pending, but if you have any ideas for a title, please let me know! General opinions and suggestions on the writing and the plot so far are appreciated!

“.... and so the story continues, and will forevermore.”

My horse snorted, as if to say, Tell me more!

No, I thought, more like, “Finally… it’s over. Can this please be the last time you tell bedtime stories to yourself?”

I sighed, rolled up the scroll, and rose to put another letter in the fire. No one will miss it, anyhow.

Still, no matter how many times I had told myself that the paper served a better purpose as heat, guilt swelled inside me. I supposed, in a way, the crumpled, yellowing papers were conveyors of feeling to the dead.

But, since I’m burning them, shouldn’t they make their way to the heavens anyway?

I paused a moment. That’s assuming the receiver is in heaven, I thought wryly. I put the subject out of my mind for the time being.

The moon was bright that night; even without the fire, it wouldn’t have been hard to stay on course, had I decided to continue my journey. But I always made a few routine stops on the pretense that I was praying to the gods that my journey might be successful. In reality, I took these opportunities to rest and waste time, even if it meant an occasional climb to one of the several “holy places” on my route.

I was lucky to have one of the routes that weren't patrolled hourly by passing monks and priests. That really helps when you don’t actually believe in fulfilling your duty. You may have guessed by now, that I’m not exactly a firm believer in the gods of Arnitel. To put it bluntly, I don’t believe in them at all. Which is why I chose this job.

You are aware, of course, that every job in our country is strictly religion based? That accounts for our obvious lack of immigrants. Anyhow, this job offered me privacy, good money, and a way to silently protest. Drawing occasional graffiti on the walls of abandoned temples, eating of the sacrificial food, and, of course, burning my letters; these are things I have done to vent my disbelief. Shocking, isn't it?

After all, proclaiming the heresy of these beliefs in the streets wouldn't exactly be seen as canon. So, without having to go to such extremes, this job is a way to keep my sanity (and my life, mind you) intact. As long as their gods know what I believe, I’m happy.

I have a tendency to get off track very quickly, usually made worse by the fact that I’m speaking to a foreigner. I should really see my doctor about it.

That night, I slept like a babe, but you wouldn’t know it, to see me in the morning. You should know by now that I’m not a morning person. When I finally got the incentive to actually sit up, the suns had already elevated the temperature to well beyond what you would describe as “sweltering”. Groggy as I was, I wanted to flump back into my previous sleeping position, close my eyes, and lie there forever. Unfortunately, my horse wasn’t going to let that happen.

Being flung around your campsite by a hungry horse two seconds after waking is not my idea of an ideal “waking up” moment. I’ll go out on a limb and say it’s no one’s ideal.

Needless to day, I was a bit cross after that. So, when I reached the nearest town, I had trouble restocking my supplies. Personally, I think the peddler was just being difficult. Okay, maybe, just possibly, it had something to do with the fact that I looked ready to slice his straw hat to strips. But let’s be honest, I hadn’t even bought the dagger yet.

I went to one of the diners and bought a suitable breakfast, consisting mostly of a thick red sauce. I then grabbed a seat at one of the outdoor tables. Hey, can I help it if I’m a bit anti-social?

Leaving my money on the table, I headed for the market to resupply my food bags. I needed water too, but why pay for that? Anything my horse drinks, I can drink. As long as I go first, obviously.

I led my horse into the few trees on the outskirts of town, to a waterhole I had discovered once. It’s actually an interesting story, but maybe another time, as it’s also quite long.

I left my horse to graze, and, after filling my waterbags, I leaned against a tree in the shade, watching the water ripple. After fingering my bag a while, I took out one of the letters. Technically, I’m not supposed to read the things, but hey, anything that spites the gods, right?

The letter may have been new, but the paper was old, so it took most of my patience to open the thing without ripping it to shreds. This is something foreigners don’t usually know about our country. We age our paper like we do our alchohol. The older it is, the more sacred it becomes. This may be part of where we went wrong. People started caring more about the age of the paper than the actual writing on it, and, as the oldest (and therefore more sacred) paper was only used for documents of high religious doctrine... Well, let’s just say that certain things were put into place that shouldn’t have been.

Now, considering their use in the system, the paper used for these letters is pretty old. Seriously old. Even though it had been open recently before (obviously to write it), a small puff of paper dust hovered around my nostrils. Resisting the suffocating urge to sneeze, I waved the air in front of my nose to no effect, and bent over the neat writing. Considering honestly how old this paper was, the paper dust (which was now settling onto my lap) must have absorbed most of the pen ink. Although the writer had obviously made some effort to re-ink some of the words, some of the letters were still obviously faded from the loss of ink.

Still, there were enough whole words for me to piece together a short script. It consisted of the typical sentiments:

The Gods treat you well, I know. Devote your eternity to the Gods. Your death was honorable. The family you saved was recently given the honor of devotion to the Gods, and your brother was able to carry out this task to the best of his ability.

Sincerely,

A Voice

I can tell by your obvious look of confusion that you have no idea what you just read. Allow me to shed some light. Everyone who writes these things is deathly afraid that the letters are censored by some high ranking official. Truth is, any official that would actually care to check them is too afraid of offending the gods (by opening sacred letters) to actually do anything. So, these poor souls are forced to write these suck-up letters with the highest reverence for the gods when in fact, their feelings are the exact opposite.

I can tell that the writer was trying to insert veins of factual happenings, hoping that the dead could decode it. Yes, believe it or not, there are actually many people who think like me. They just aren’t quite as lucky as me to have this kind of freedom.

Did I mention that my job is great? It’s probably one of the most stable jobs right now; even if there are those who don’t exactly spend every waking moment in humble subservience to the gods, everyone loves to send their lost loved ones letters.

So even if, say, the religious empire should collapse somehow, chances are, my job would remain untouched, especially if I just happened to be a rebellion supporter. Just as an example, of course. No facts whatsoever.

Back to the point, remember those “veins of factual happenings” I mentioned previously? Oh, yeah, trust me, they aren’t as innocent as they sound. Let’s take, for example, the family that was mentioned. I’m going to make a couple of assumptions here. Let’s just say, hypothetically of course, that this family was involved in some of the brave anti-Arnitel movements. They earned some sympathy from.. er, sympathizers, one of whom stepped forward to take the punishment in their places. There. We now have our dead letter receiver.

As for the rest, well… Almost needless to say, the rebel family was magically chosen to be “devoted” to the gods. Meaning? They were likely burned alive, their essences floating up to heavens to appease the gods, who apparently get angry a lot, and often need such appeasing. The brother, who was already suffering terribly from the loss of his brother, was then forced to pour salt on his own wound by making his brother’s sacrifice completely worthless. Meaning?

Brother was forced to be the executioner.

I think it has something to do with tying up loose ends. I mean, sure, you’ve gotten rid of a rebellion sympathizer. But why leave the original offenders alone in the aftermath? In that case, the dead sympathizer most likely wasn’t the sharpest knife in the armory. Or the kitchen.

The leaders are losing their touch, though. They seem to have forgotten the kind of revenge a brotherly relationship torn apart can create. I can sympathize. Although I may be a yellow coward to not attack Arnitel directly, I’ve at least made an effort to relieve myself of it. Have I told you how good I have it with this job?

I’ve gotten quite a bit off track here. Where was I? Ah yes, the waterhole.

I sighed, and put the letter back into my bag. I stood up and walked around a couple of trees. I learned then that I wasn’t the only one who knew of the grove. Carved into the bark of an aspen was a rather large heart with the initials of two lovers safely enclosed inside it. You foreigners certainly have some lovely customs here. In my country, the first one to take a knife to the bark of a tree would be punished severely. Trees are sacred to the gods, because they reach toward the heavens in permanent praise.

After a while, I walked back to my horse and led him back into town to shelter for the night. It wasn’t nearly nightfall yet, but the town had a strange feeling about it, and I wanted to get an early start in the morning. An early start for me, requires an early bedtime. I need my beauty sleep.

But, as fate (or anyone else who hates me, for that matter) would have it, I was to get only an hour of sleep that night. No, it wasn’t my horse, although, as you have seen, he certainly delights in depriving me of any small comfort.