The Evernon Saga: Journey Of Ascension, A Struggle For Godhood

The crystal-lined rock in his hand bore down with what felt like the weight of the world itself. After all, his greatest treasure had been extracted from its maximum-security storage facility.

A small ċhėst whose key was lost to time and his forgetfulness.

Placing it almost reluctantly onto the floor to the right of himself, William tallied up the rest of his shipment for the coming trade fair.

It added up to two teeth of unknown origin, an ȧssortment of iridescent fish scales, a hand-sized chunk of a fishing net, a fish hook that had been contorted into straightness, a thread-bound bundle of four fishbones, and an array of colourful rocks he had found since spring began. While inferior to his ultimate treasure, they should suffice.

Fiddling with the teeth, he couldn't help but ponder. One was unmistakably human, from the back of the upper jaw. The other, however, was a canine tooth from a source that was most definitely not human. Matching the length and thickness of an ȧduŀt thumb, it was fearsome, massive in William's eyes.

After all, its tip was sharp enough to dissuade him from testing its capabilities on his own fingers.

Closing his fist tightly around it, he cast it into his pocket. Perhaps... it could be considered one of the five most valuable things he owned. Excluding his ultimate treasure, of course.

Arranging his wares onto a spare linen shirt and storing his ċhėst, he wrapped his goods up and left the room with his improvised sack. Holding his ultimate treasure in his hands, William stared at it. While there were no answers upon its colourless surface, an epiphany struck him like a slap to the face.

That's it!

Tip-toeing down the wooden stairs with a fire in his eyes and creaks in his steps, a tentative gaze was cast around the room. The sight of his baby sister sleeping peacefully in her cradle, set him at ease.

Tentatively pushing a door next to the staircase open, the musty, dusty air of their storage room washed over him.

Wrinkling up his nose, his hands and squinted eyes scoured the baskets and sacks of the dark little space. Over a basket of eggs and past sacks of potatoes, William's hands discovered several sacks of powdery dye. Red, purple, sky blue, emerald green and amber dye sacks were lumped together in his anxious hands.

Time was of the essence!

Precariously carrying all those sacks in his arms to the dining table in the centre of the room, William readied a small, wooden plate of water. The plan was to dye the transparent crystals of his ultimate treasure, to raise its beauty to new heights!

Raising the value of his ultimate treasure would grant him an ȧsset that any child worth their salt, tears, and knee scrapes would be tempted by. Taking a deep breath, he dipped his fingertips in the cool water. His hand approached the opened sacks of dye.

He paused.

Gasping, he withdrew his hand. If he showcased his coloured rock with dyed hands, it would be the end of his reputation!

Spying an unsuspecting cloth lying about on the kitchen counter, a nascent idea bubbled its way to the surface. Swiping it, he used a corner to grab some red dye, and sprinkled some water from his fingertips to dilute it. With that, he began dabbing and rubbing randomly selected crystals on his ultimate treasure.

Lowering the cloth with a sweaty sigh, a smile spread across his face. Some of his ultimate treasure's transparent crystals had taken on a rich, reddish tone. However, the heated hurrying in his gut shouted for him to hasten. If his mother were to come home…

Using the other three corners and some sections of the sides, William finished his polychromatic product. The dull, silver-grey rock had been adorned with what appeared to be ruby, amethyst, emeralds, sapphires and amber. Blowing frantically on the crystals for them to dry, William turned his head agonizingly towards the ruined, stained cloth. He closed his eyes for a moment, to honour the cloth's involuntary sacrifice.

There would be no redeeming this cloth from its colourful demise. Not to mention…

He had to hide it, quick!

Stealthily stumbling to his room, William hastily stuffed the stained, damp rag beneath his white pillow.

Rushing to return the dyes and shut the storage room's door, William was out of the house and dashing off with his rock-in-sack before ten minutes had even passed. His snoozing baby sister, Abberline, was none the wiser.

Whilst William and Clayton made their way back, Magnar looked quite literally, over the crowd. He was eleven, and slightly more than a head taller than even the second tallest among their group. Ranging from roughly seven to eleven years of age, their ragtag group were the free spirits of Birkstead.

Too young to work, too old to be nursed!

The clacking clamour of wood echoed across the field, from two panting figures facing off amidst their surrounding audience. Magnar approached the wall of bodies, enjoying an unobstructed view from above. To his right was Aaron, and Rodney to the left.

The dry, dusty floor of their bustling arena was sprinkled with red. Red from the gladiators' bodies. The challenger, Aaron, was in rough shape. Decorated with bruises, shallow cuts and a bloody lip, he had seen his fair share of pain. He shot a toothy, bloodstained grin at his foe.

For a champion possessing a stick of his calibre, he was in undeniably bad shape. Unfortunately, that was not his only source of anguish. Glancing at the trembling stick and the reddened hand holding it, he saw the slightest hint of wear on his weapon. All focused on one spot. His eyes widened, breath catching in his throat.

Eyes shining with newfound respect, Rodney tightened his weakened grip. Aaron had struck his right hand, wrist and forearm countless times. Now it was numb and shaky, but it was all he had. His non-dominant left arm would leave him damn near helpless to defend himself.

Rodney ejected some bloody spit, "You really 'av changed, Aaron."

"I told ya, di'nt I?" chuckled Aaron, "Less' get this over wit', tha' trading fair's about ta' start-"

Rodney charged, teeth grit and breathing shallow.

He sent a whistling slash towards Aaron's eyes, despite the dishonour.

Fear rising in his panicked gut, Aaron likewise grit his teeth to battle his instincts. The instinct of self-preservation.

His mind and its logic urged him to sacrifice his weapon for the safety of his flesh.

No, he thought.

Aaron leaned forward, crouching low whilst raising his stick overhead. The twin tips of Rodney's stick combed through Aaron's hair, the latter's body bȧrėly ducking beneath the weapon. With a shoulder bash, the mid-swing Rodney was sent off-balance!

Grabbing Rodney's flailing stick with a grunt, Aaron yanked it with all the strength his prepubescent body could muster. Desperation creased his sweaty face, as this was the first real opening in this fight!

Rodney's grip bȧrėly held, the fall of his body halted by his wooden lifeline.

The surrounding crowd erupted in cheers of both their names. Stomping up clouds of dust and pumping their fists, their thrill was shouted to the world around.

The fight has reached its climax!

"If Rodney lets go, Aaron wins!" cried a voice.

"If Aaron pries the stick from Rodney, he'll be crowned the king of the week!" shouted another.

Baring his teeth, Rodney twisted his body. His clenched fist nailed Aaron square in the jaw, sending him reeling. The world spun and spiralled into darkness, Aaron's trembling knees and faltering ankles bȧrėly holding his body up.

Lights-out.

What...

Why did everything become so dark?

Across from him, a heart panicked and raced with reckless abandon. Rodney stared at his trembling, right hand and forearm. Its grip on his stick was weak, his muscles spasming.

I can't fight with this hand, thought Rodney. Even though, he grumbled within himself, it's the best fight I've had in months…

Switching hands, Rodney scanned his challenger. There he stood, unconscious, drooling and vulnerable. In Aaron's twitching fingers and staggering feet, Rodney could almost see him trying to claw his way out of the darkness. He very nearly regretted that punch.

I'm sorry Aaron, I hate that I have to end it this way, he thought.

With gritted teeth and teary eyes, the fatigued Rodney swung clumsily, unfamiliarly, with his left hand. It went too high. Flew too fast. If it connected, it would hit Aaron straight in the throat with far too much power.

And he was too tired to change a single thing about it.

Deep within Aaron, with his three years of playing and fighting with sticks, the seed of instinct began to sprout. Muscle memory, familiar patterns, it all blended together. In that moment, his body needed no visual cues.

Raising the stick with both hands, his chin lowered itself and his body braced behind it.

His body subconsciously protected itself.

The sticks collided, and a sound of finality resounded.

Snap!

The echo of defeat dragged Aaron out of his stupor. His sky tipped sideways, the ground approaching him in what seemed like slow-motion.

When did I... he asked within himself.

However, the splinters in the air held the answer he sought. An answer, he couldn't bear to accept. The broken stick he grasped, bearing a truth he loathed.

So I lost again, huh…

The warm, enveloping darkness from before swallowed him slowly as he fell to the ground.

Maybe it'd be better if I didn't wake up.

The limp body landed, raising a cloud of sandy dust with it. The silence that ensued was deafening, save for the ragged pants and bȧrėly suppressed sobs of Rodney.

The crowd exploded into cheer, "Rodney won!"

A girl ran forward, "He's the king of the week!"

Blushing, she raised his left arm overhead, stick still in hand. Beneath that hand, was the grimace of the triumphant. That right arm of his, with fingers red and muscles twitching, was more of a defeat than the minor cuts Aaron had suffered.

Peering at his worthy foe, a tinge of sadness hung in the air between them.

Ya really worked hard, didn't ya? praised Rodney in his mind.

"Look at 'im, he's takin' a nap!" jeered a boy.

"He lost the last time, an' came back talking big- justa lose again!"

Most of the surrounding crowd burst into laughter, to Rodney's chagrin. His blood simmered at the sight. A bellow was let loose from the depths of Rodney's heart.

"You lot had better shut your traps!"

Silence consumed the field.

The scream condemned Rodney's throat to rawness, but it failed to match his burning shame. His cheeks ablaze, his knuckles clenched to the point of whiteness, he voiced his dissent.

They were laughing. Laughing at the one who almost bested him!

"Ta' laugh at him, is ta' laugh at me!" roared Rodney, "Come on, keep laughin' if ya dare!"

Between gasps for air, he continued.

"Anyone who laughs can fight me tomorrow, with Beat Down rules!"

The peanut gallery felt a shiver run down their spines. Murmurs echoed throughout the crowd.

"We haven't had a Beat Down in months…"

"I don' wanta' get involved in that."

"Les' just start tha' trade fair already…"

With that, the mumbling crowd dispersed. The kids either sat on the grass and laid out their wares for the trade fair, or went home at various speeds. The blushing girl by Rodney's side had fled the moment he started shouting, leaving him standing alone. He walked on unsteady feet, to kneel beside his fallen foe.

Rodney jostled the limp shoulder before him.

"Ey, Aaron," he whispered, "Come on, wake up."

The body stirred, "Mmmh?"

Grey eyes fluttered open, revealing Rodney with the sun to his back.

"Ughh... Rodney?"

"Yeh," he replied, "Ya fought well, ya really did."

Aaron sighed, dejection scribbled on his face. "I still lost in the end, though…"

With knitted brows, Rodney slid his uninjured arm under Aaron's armpit and over his opposite shoulder.

"Come on Aaron, let's get you up."

With a tug and heave, the two only managed a few centimetres of movement before their bodies surrendered to their mutual fatigue. Unbeknownst to them, someone had made their way over to them, and contributed an arm of their own to their efforts. This arm was thicker than Rodney's and Aaron's, and braced with muscular tension.

"Need a hand?" asked a voice from above them, beckoning them to crane their necks back.

The tired two croaked in unison. "Magnar?"

An awkward smile formed on their saviour's face, as they stood up in unison. Although Aaron staggered slightly, he remained steady with Rodney's support.

"What are tha' two of yous' gonna do now?" asked Magnar.

The champion and his challenger exchanged a brief glance before sharing a painful chuckle. Rodney shook his head ruefully.

"I don't think we're in any shape ta' attend tha' Tradin' fair or anything afta' it," he explained, gesturing with his head towards Aaron, "'specially this fella' over here."

Aaron's head hung, a sigh escaping from it. "I shouldn't've grabbed yer stick like that, I left meself as open as a barn door…"

"Yeah, y'were an idiot fer that," agreed Rodney, nodding, "...but you almost got me."

A grin split Aaron's reddened cheeks, which were beginning to adopt a purplish tinge.

"A'ight, les' get you two home," sighed Magnar, wedging himself between Rodney and Aaron, "I'll take yer weight, jus' keep yer' legs moving."

Supporting them both, Magnar trudged towards the village.

Unbeknownst to them, something watched from far behind them, concealed within the forest's shrubbery. By then, two pairs of heaving breaths arrived at the nascent trade fair. Clayton scanned the chattering swarm, marvelling at the various goods on display.

"William, this week's fair looks promisin'!" he exclaimed.

William, on the other hand, stared intensely past the festivities before them.

"William?" Clayton prodded, "What're ya' lookin' at?"

William's scrutiny was aimed at a certain patch of bushes, the border between the forest beyond and the grassy field they stood on.

"It feels like we're bein' watched," said William, a slight frown upon his face, "Clayton, do you see something over there?"

"No William," replied Clayton, "There's nothin' there-"

The bushes trembled, sending frenzied rustling racing off into the distance, away from the grassy field.

Clayton sighed. "William, it was probably a rabbit or sumthin'"

Likewise, William heaved a sigh, chuckling.

"You're right, I was jus' imaginin' things, let's check out the tradin' fair."