by Justin Williams
The day began like any other, as the darkest days often do. The Clockmaker and I walked along the rutted dirt road to town and as we drew near, my sensors sparked with the scents of fruits, vegetables, and the sweetest berries the harvest could provide.
”Ah, fresh air,” said the Clockmaker, inhaling the crisp and fragrant breeze. ”Perhaps I’ve been hiding in my study more than I should.”
”It is nice to have you around,” I said, not mentioning the rise in drinking, and crying, that accompanied that time in his study. ”I am capable of worry.”
“I remained too much inside my head, my friend, and I’m sorry for it.”
We walked in silence a moment, the morning sun reflecting off my armored frame into a thousand ants of sunlight swarming the dirt below. The Clockmaker had created me as his heroic knight, shining armor and all. If only everyone in town agreed. I broke the silence. ”Do you think Reynolds will be waiting for you again?”
”We just need a few things for dinner, Bot,” he said, looking up at me with storm-cloud eyes. His dark mustache curled even more as he smiled. ”We’ll be in and out before Reynolds has reason to trouble us.”
I did not feel his confidence. Reynolds seemed to need no reason to come after us. “I do not understand his hatred of us. Your work in town should make you a hero, but he treats you as the villain.”
The Clockmaker kicked a rock in the road and it rattled through a wheel rut.
”Some hate what they don’t understand,” he said. ”Or what they fear. So often it’s the same thing.”
”If he makes trouble, at least allow me to defend you.”
”He won’t hurt me. Not this morning. And for you, your number one command is to do them no harm. Any of them,” he said. Then he sighed, his face dropping into sadness. ”They do enough to themselves.”
The Clockmaker taught me many things, but I learned most from his actions. I learned anger as he destroyed the machine piece by piece. Sadness, during the nights when he spoke of drowning. Hope, when his eyes sparked with each new creation, his efforts to build a better world.
We neared the town.
Alma stood like a sentry just outside the gate, the redness in her eyes betraying her efforts of hiding tears. She jumped in front of us, gasping to catch her breath.
”Edgar!” She inhaled deeply. ”Reynolds is on the hunt. You have to go home.”
The Clockmaker grinned. ”It’s always a pleasure, Alma,” he said.
”Please, Edgar. I don’t know his plan, but I’ve heard it’s far worse than his usual threats.”
“Believe nothing you hear,” said the Clockmaker, “and only one half that you see.”
”He’s been appointed Protector, you know.”
”I’ve planned a grand feast tonight,” he said. “No bully will stop me.”
She turned to me and her eyes squinted. Her hatred hung always over me like a thundercloud ready to strike. Only desperation would have caused her to look my way.
”Please, Sir Robert,” she said through gritted teeth. ”Make him go home. Why do you exist if not to keep him safe?”
The Clockmaker spoke before I could respond. ”Sir Robert is my companion and my assistant,” he said. ”And I created him to follow my commands, so you’ll have no luck turning him against me.”
Alma growled. ”Listen to me, Edgar.” She grabbed his elbow. ”For once, listen. He won’t stop until you’re dead. Both of you.”
The Clockmaker touched her arm gently. ”I accept my fate, Alma. But I’m certain I have at least one more good meal before Lady Death knocks at the door.” He winked.
Alma appealed to me with eyes like cornflowers in the morning dew.
”I am sorry, Alma. I cannot stop him.”
”March to your death, then.” Alma wiped at her eyes. “Fools.”
She turned and stormed away, shaking her head, and disappearing into the growing crowd.
We stood like stakes in the ground until she was out of sight, then the Clockmaker turned to me. ”In and out, Bot. Then home to prepare our feast.”
We walked in through the town gate. I hoped leaving would be as easy.
Reynolds lurked among the crowd. I could not see him, but with my heightened senses I could hear him, the uneven beat of his footsteps, his aggressive breathing, like a furious bull.
”Over here,” called the Clockmaker. He stood at a vegetable-laden table, towered over by a man with a soil-stained shirt and a rooster chest. ”Look at this fennel, Bot. This is the best harvest I’ve seen since I arrived.”
”It is, it is,” said the vendor. ”Perfect for a stew, or a caramelized delight. And here–” He shoved a bundle of carrots toward us. ”The sweetest carrots you’ll ever eat.”
”How can I say no?” asked the Clockmaker, laughing. He dropped a few coins into the vendor’s hand, and passed the fennel bulb and bundled carrots back to me.
The Clockmaker inhaled deeply and smiled. ”Let’s make our way to the baker next.”
We weaved in and out of the crowd as the Clockmaker made a few more purchases, handing me more and more to carry as we went. The baker stood arranging a display of long and narrow loaves as we stepped through the open doorway.
”I could smell your shop from the town gate,” said the Clockmaker. ”I have a feeling you’ve outdone yourself today, David.” He dropped two gleaming gold coins on the counter. ”Two loaves, please.”
”I think your vision is going, Edgar. It’s good bread, but not that good.” The baker wrapped two loaves, laughing, and not touching the coins.
”A gift,” said the Clockmaker. ”For years of kindness.”
”Edgar—”
The Clockmaker reached over the counter and rested his hand on the baker’s shoulder. ”Take it, David. You’ve been a good friend, and a reminder of better days. I’ve done well in my work here, and I want to share that blessing.”
The baker slipped the coins into the chest pocket of his flour-dusted apron. ”I don’t know what to say.”
”No need to say a thing,” said the Clockmaker. Then he glanced out the window. ”We better be on our way.” We turned to leave, and at the doorway the Clockmaker looked back over his shoulder. ”Take care of yourself, David,” he said, with a tone of finality that made my sensors spark.
My arms laden for our feast, we turned for home. Then I saw Reynolds.
The Clockmaker kept walking, but for a second I saw him hesitate.
”Edgar Perry.” Reynolds said, his voice like gravel grinding underfoot. ”I’ve been looking for you.”
”And now we’re found,” said the Clockmaker.
”As of today, I’ve been appointed Protector of Saints Crossing. I assume you know what that means.”
”You’re out quite a bit of coin?”
Reynolds didn’t laugh. ”It means the Saints themselves have entrusted me to keep our growing town safe from evil.” He looked at me, and his nostrils flared. ”And it’s my duty to purge that evil when it comes to pass.”
”The town grows because of the good we do, Reynolds,” said the Clockmaker. ”Look around you. You may not understand our work, but that doesn’t make it evil.”
As if on cue, someone opened a music box, releasing its melody to float on the breeze. Past Reynolds’ shoulder, a young boy tossed a wind-up bird into the air, laughing as it fluttered a moment before falling into back to his waiting hands.
Then, as the town clock began to chime the hour, a crowd began forming around us, their anxious faces looking on. Reynolds seemed indifferent to the marvels of clockwork on display all around him. He continued his predetermined deliberation.
”I understand perfectly well what you do,” he said. ”There is no denying your skill. But to claim that skill explains this—” He knocked on my chest, shaking his head. ”Ah, the beloved Sir Robert. Tell me Edgar, why does this clockwork move so silently, smoothly, swiftly? Why does it seem to think on its own? It’s like you’ve found a forbidden relic, yet you claim it as your own creation. That can mean only one thing, Edgar. It’s not clockwork at all. It’s a demon.”
”Easy, Reynolds. Sir Robert is no demon. He only does what I’ve designed him to do, and that is help.”
”The creature speaks,” he said, holding his worst accusation for last. “Even the greatest relics of the Saints have no voice.” Reynolds turned his voice toward the gathering crowd. ”You’ve all heard it. And I ask you, faithful citizens, does clockwork speak? Chime, maybe. Play a tune even. But to speak? Like a man? No.” He turned to face the Clockmaker. ”But a demon speaks with sweet lips.”
Reynolds waved his hand, summoning his underlings from the crowd. Saintsmen, he called them, but in action they were mere thugs. They came pushing through the gathered townsfolk. Wilken led the way, holding a blade in his iron hand, the hand itself a brilliant creation of the Clockmaker. With a shove, he ordered his partner, Rand, to circle to the left.
”You see, Edgar, I can no longer look the other way. I don’t want to harm you, but if I do nothing, I allow you to continue harming the very people I’m now sworn to protect.”
”It’s not time for this yet,” said the Clockmaker with a glance toward the sun.
”Not time?” asked Reynolds. ”It is always time to purge evil from the world.”
”That’s not—” The Clockmaker hesitated. A low rumble of voices drifted out from the gathered townsfolk, pulling his attention. Then, just as he turned toward the commotion, Alma burst from the crowd.
”Leave them alone, Reynolds,” she said.
”Careful with your choice of friends, child,” said Reynolds. ”I’d hate to see you fall to his spell.”
”Edgar makes our lives better, plain and simple. You’re jealous of his genius.”
Reynolds scoffed. ”I am a righteous man. I feel no jealousy. I feel only my duty to the Saints, and to protect the purity of our glorious Union.”
Alma glanced at the approaching henchmen, then at us. Metal flashed, and before my sensors could even register her movement, she stood behind him, a knife at his neck.
”Run!” she screamed.
Reynolds pulled at her arm, but her strength must have surprised him. He squealed. Rand and Wilken ran to his aid.
The Clockmaker and I fled into the crowd.
”He’ll come for us later,” said the Clockmaker between breaths. ”But Alma bought us our last supper.”
Someone screamed and I looked back over my shoulder. Reynolds clutched at his neck, blood oozing between his fingers. A warning, I thought. Not a true attempt on his life.
Reynolds and his thugs scanned the crowd, but Alma had disappeared. As had we.
Dark clouds hung on the horizon as we neared home. My sensors had mimicked adrenaline well, but as we ascended the stairs to our cottage, the impression of panic fell away.
That night, I stood at the window and watched the fiery colors of sunset paint the sky, the storm I had seen earlier now easing in. Then, catching the scent of dinner, I went to set the polished oaken table for two. After lighting the candles of the centerpiece, I cranked the phonograph the Clockmaker had built in the spring, and the sound of the town’s best quartet danced through the room. When the Clockmaker came in from the kitchen, I joined him at the table.
He had prepared a true feast: roast lamb, with sweet carrots and smoky fennel, fresh fruits, warmed bread, a blackberry pie, and a dusty bottle of a dark red wine ready to wash it all down.
”An impressive display,” I said.
He answered with a fading smile.
The feast fueled my system like never before, and, finally satisfied, I set down my fork and watched the flames of candlelight sway to the harmonies of the quartet. I admired their beauty, so much brightness in so small a fire. The Clockmaker drummed the table with his fingers.
The evening was too perfect.
The Clockmaker glanced at the clock. Then his gaze settled on the machine, or rather, its remains.
The ruins of the machine sat in exile in the farthest corner of the room, a dusty, sheet-covered mass of lumps and points, some rounded, some sharp. Cobwebs hung from the corners above, the only cobwebs in the cottage.
The Clockmaker spoke of the machine as a source of pride, a great accomplishment he never quite explained. He would say only that some secrets do not permit themselves to be told. It was a pride I knew to be false.
His vengeful glances and whispered curses, the ones he thought I would not notice, told a different story. Then there were the dreams, his calling out from sleep for another place, or perhaps another time. In his heart, I knew, he loathed the machine and the memories it carried.
I often wondered if he regretted building me. It would stand to reason that his feelings for the machine would carry over. As dissimilar in appearance as we were, it was the deliberate dismantling of the machine that provided parts for my construction. At times, even, I felt it somehow calling to me, as if we remained linked. Still, if the Clockmaker regretted me, he never admitted it. At least I gave him a semblance of companionship—a being with whom to share the burdens of life.
The machine was never so lucky.
The song of the quartet faded away, followed by a soft static as the turntable spun. I turned off the phonograph and went to the window for a moment, searching the darkness that had descended. Once upon a midnight dreary, I thought.
The Clockmaker broke the silence. ”I’ve truly enjoyed our years together, my friend.”
”Tomorrow will be just as good,” I said, turning toward him.
He checked the clock again, then looked at me, but said nothing. His head fell back against his chair.
We remained in that silence for several minutes. Crickets chorused outside, and my usually silent gears seemed to squeal as I came back to my chair.
”I dread the events of the future, not in themselves but…” He trailed off. ”Bot, there’s something I must tell—”
Voices rumbled in the night.
Reynolds.
And more. Many more.
”I’m sorry, my friend,” he said. ”It looks like I’m out of time.”
He blew out the candles, leaving the room in darkness. Then the Clockmaker went to the door and pulled it open, letting light cut into the room from the porch lanterns. He sighed, and remained standing there like a man awaiting sentencing.
I came alongside him as the mob approached. Reynolds and his thugs, and around them, so many more. Townsfolk we would have called friends just that morning, now marching upon our door. Years of love had been forgotten in the hatred of a minute.
I stood with the Clockmaker as we watched them trod through the dirt and dormant grasses of late autumn. Fallen leaves of fiery reds and oranges and yellows crunched beneath the black soles of their boots.
It was clear the Clockmaker had no intention of fighting. I looked at him, gaunt and pale from too many days alone in his study. I wanted him to fight, but he seemed even more resolved to accept his death.
I was not.
”I am as strong as twenty,” I said. ”We can fight them off. We can escape to a new life somewhere else.”
”If I could reason with them, if I could save them from themselves…” He squeezed his eyes and shook his head, as if remembering a nightmare. ”But to try and explain would only fuel their fires.”
I grabbed his arm. ”There must be something—”
He pulled away.
”I am weak. Weary. I can’t flee the Fates. But perhaps even in the grave, all is not lost.” He turned to me, putting a skeletal hand on my shoulder. ”It’s my fate, but not yours. I want you to flee.”
I could say nothing.
”I’ve been selfish keeping you. You could do so much good in this world.”
Shadows shifted across the faces of the mob as if darkness itself engulfed them. The flames of their torches licked at the night.
The Clockmaker spoke again. ”You will be my legacy, Bot. Go and do good in the world. And to these men be merciful. They act only from fear.” There was a break in his voice, and I knew he was afraid as well. “Lord help their poor souls.”
The mob stepped into the light of our porch lanterns.
”Judgement has come, Edgar Perry.” Reynolds led the mob, a coiled rope hanging from his hand.
Another voice cut the darkness.
“This has gone too far, Reynolds.” Alma appeared from the shadows and pushed her way to the front of the crowd.
Reynolds jerked his hand to his neck, his eyes flashing in the torchlight. ”Get her out of here.”
Wilken came around and reached for Alma, but she jumped away. She rushed to the porch steps and stood, blocking the path to the Clockmaker.
”You have no right, Reynolds. Protector or not.”
”I have all the right I need. God’s right.”
”And the Saints approve? You can’t just kill a man.”
”I am Protector.” He growled, rubbing at the fresh wound on his neck. ”I could put you to death for what you’ve done. Tonight, though, I have a greater evil to execute.”
Alma stepped toward Reynolds, but the Clockmaker pulled her back.
”This is how it has to be,” he said. ”You’ll never know how much I wished it could be different.” He kissed her then, his lips lingering on hers, her cheeks aflame. ”Keep her safe, Bot.” It was the last time I heard his gentle, soothing timbre.
”You come out,” said Reynolds, ”or we come in.”
The Clockmaker guided Alma to the side, then stepped softly through the doorway. I pulled him back.
”Please,” I said, replicated sadness spreading through my circuits.
He tried to pull away.
I tightened my grip, feeling the bone of his shoulder pushing against my fingers.
The Clockmaker placed his hand on mine and looked up. That knowing glimmer was gone from his eyes. Pain had stolen its place. He was already dead.
I let him go.
Never has a man gone so peacefully to his own death.
The mob swarmed him. Rand came forward to bound the Clockmaker’s wrists behind his back, the rope tearing into his skin. With another rope, Wilken led the Clockmaker away, pulling him ahead of the group. The Clockmaker stumbled, falling to the dirt.
Wilken laughed. ”Not so impressive without your demon.”
The men pulled the Clockmaker back to his feet and marched him to his death. Still, he remained silent.
Alma started toward them but I grabbed her. She struggled against me.
”We have to save him,” she said.
”He forbids me to fight them,” I said. “We have no choice but to let him go.”
”I’ll never let him go.” Alma twisted herself away and, afraid to harm her, I let go. She pulled her dagger from its sheath. ”Maybe you can’t fight. But I can.”
Alma’s blade flashed across the night like a comet, and if there had been mercy from the Fates, Reynolds would have been dead. It was not a night for mercy.
Reynolds ducked away as the dagger disappeared into the darkness.
Alma crashed into the mob. Someone dropped a torch, its flame soon trampled out underfoot. A man screamed among them.
Alma screamed next.
I stood in the doorway, lunging forward, then pulling back, stuck in a cycle of conflicting commands. She fought like a mother bear, but before I could force myself to act, they had her pinned against a tree. Reynolds stood before her, grinning.
Alma spat in his face, and he slapped hers in return. Another rope appeared, and my hope was lost. ”I should have handled you back in town,” said Reynolds.
I slammed my hands against the wall as they dragged her away, the truest simulation of anger I could remember. I wanted to go after them, but my systems seized up in conflict.
The remaining men turned to me, torch fire reflecting in their eyes.
There was no beauty in this fire, no flames dancing among candles. The fire in their eyes burned with hate and nothing more.
”There’s the demon,” one said. ”Kill it!”
I hesitated as they came after me, part of me wanting to avenge the pain they caused my creator, my companion, but his words echoed in my memory: do them no harm. I fled into the cottage.
There was no chance at hiding for long, but I sought sanctuary in the shadows as the mob followed with their torches. They would destroy me if they could, and like the Clockmaker, I would not harm them. Still, I would at least try to live.
Their flames flickered through the room, casting long and sinister shadows along the wall. I crouched low behind the machine, hoping it would grant me life once more.
The men gave up their search too soon.
And I heard my damnation.
”This is a waste of time,” said Reynolds. ”The demon has no escape.”
He paused, a long, dead silence. Then thunder rumbled, and he spoke again.
”Let it die in its own fiery hell.”
The men raised their torches, letting their fires flood onto the drapes, soon spreading to the furniture as well. Then they dropped their torches to the floor, all but one.
Reynolds carried his torch deep into the room, comfortable as a demon in the spreading fire. He lit the sheet covering the machine and the fire burst into a rage. I leaned hard and still against the wall, fearing he would see me, but the brightness of the blaze forced him to look away.
”Everyone out,” he said, ”before we burn as well.”
My sensors screamed for escape, the heat too much for even me, but I waited. My armored body flared red as the flames lashed against it. Still I remained hidden, desperate to flee, but refusing to give in. They would believe me dead, and they would move on to their next evil.
Only two of Reynolds’ men remained, left to guard the door. The rest of the mob withdrew to the spectacle of execution.
There was no other way out, no back windows large enough to squeeze through, no other door. Still, my sensors insisted I act. I would survive. I would be his legacy. I moved low against the wall, hiding from sight as I sought an escape. Behind me, a fiery beam crashed from the ceiling to the machine. Others followed, and the flames flared. I shielded my visual sensors with my arm, but the image of our fiery home burned into my memory.
Under the cover of smoke, I ran toward the rear of the house, reaching it, and bursting through the back wall in an explosion of shattered glass and splintered wood. As soon as my feet found the dirt outside, I fled into the forest shadows. In the hidden safety of the trees, there was no choice but to bear witness to the Clockmaker’s final moments.
A great oak stretched over the path to our home. A symbol of life, the Clockmaker had called it. A symbol of the longevity and strength a living being could achieve.
Now a rope hung from its bough.
The mob stood below, and in their center, the Clockmaker, the noose hanging over his head, dancing around his neck as a cold wind pulled in the coming storm. It seemed to grab at his neck with every breath he had left. It grabbed mine as well. Alma struggled on nearby, but her captors underestimated her no longer. She would be next.
Voices shouted among the mob as the noose pulled tight. I strained my sensors, but could not make out their words. I could see well enough, though, see his feet lifting from the ground, see his instinctual struggles against death. He decided too late to fight the Fates.
The Clockmaker kicked at the night as the rope pulled him into the air. A second rope flew across another thick branch. The mob shouted, Reynolds loudest among them.
Then silence fell upon them all.
The mob turned to the cottage in unison as a growing hiss captured their attention and mine. I turned to look, and turned away just as quickly. The cottage blaze flared like the sun as the hiss grew to a shriek. I fell to the ground and covered my head, hiding my visual sensors. Something pulsed within my chest, a feeling of the machine calling to me, as if reaching out to me in its death throes.
Then the cottage erupted, exploding from within. The trees of the forest swayed like wheat stalks. The wind roared like a lion. Shreds of wood and metal, glass and dirt pelted my body, our home itself lashing out at the world.
A plume of smoke ballooned from the remains of the cottage, casting a silhouette that blacked out the stars. Dirt and ash blanketed all around me like a shroud. The few trees that remained standing, burned. My sensors struggled to make sense of it all.
I searched for the Clockmaker among the fallen bodies, scanning for signs of life, his life in particular. Among the scattered living, he was nowhere to be found. No, I thought. He had to be. I rose to my feet and ran for the great oak, charred but standing. The rope had burned away.
Then I froze.
Ahead, Reynolds pushed himself to his knees and saw me, his eyes like blood-moons staring from his blackened face. He yelled for Rand and Wilken to catch me, to kill me. Wilken stood, his iron hand glowing orange. Screaming, he ripped the hand from his arm and fled, leaving Rand behind, unmoving, dead.
The few other survivors scattered, Reynolds cursing them all with screams that would silence a banshee. He struggled to his feet, then pulled his sword from its sheath, its blade bright with heat. I turned to run, but the burning forest left nowhere to flee.
Had I a proper heart, it would have thundered with his approach. I had my sensors, though, and they were on full alert.
Still, I could not harm him.
Alma could.
She emerged from the shadows, ash sticking to her blood-smeared face, battered, but alive. She pulled a sword from the scabbard of a dead man and charged.
As much as her appearance surprised me, it blindsided Reynolds.
She speared the borrowed blade into his side before he could react, pushing the blade deeper as he doubled over in a vomited spray of blood. She kicked him then, sending him stumbling into the forest flames.
Reynolds surged back from the fire as if possessed, sword in hand.
Alma lunged, but Reynolds parried and countered with a hard slice that clipped her arm, drawing out a crimson streak.
She swung again, but her pain and fatigue were evident. Reynolds sidestepped her attack, grunting and grabbing at his side, but holding his ground. He kicked her toward a fiery tree, sending her blade falling into the flames. She caught herself before falling alongside it.
Alma turned back to him. Her chest heaved.
Then she turned to me. ”Kill him!”
”I cannot.”
”Then you kill me.”
Something within me buzzed, then snapped. With all my strength, I grabbed Reynolds and lifted him, slamming him against a tree, burning branches raining down around us. I dropped him to the ground, and he looked up at me, flames reflecting in his wide eyes.
The opening was enough for Alma.
She grabbed her sword and lunged again like an arrow loosed. Reynolds turned back, but not in time, and Alma’s sword sunk to the hilt. When she jerked the blade up through his chest, Reynolds dropped his weapon to the embers below.
His body followed.
Alma dropped the blade, her hand burned and blistered. As we staggered away from Reynolds’ fallen body, I held her by her waist, and she hung onto my shoulders.
A drop of rain fell to her cheek. Then another. A crack of thunder seemed to open the clouds next, and the rain came down upon my head. As the flames died, billows of smoke rose like spirits toward the heavens. I clung to Alma.
When the smoke began finally to clear, we surveyed what remained of the mob, the forest, the night. We turned to the path. The great oak, the strength and the life, remained, and with it, my hope. The mob had not fared as well.
Bodies lay broken and scattered beneath the tree. I scanned for him, and when my sensors failed me, I scrambled through the bodies, searching with my hands.
“Where is he?” asked Alma, joining in my search.
I could say nothing. He was gone. Burned beyond recognition, beyond my sensors, beyond her eyes. In the end, I could not protect him nor save him, and now, I could not even bury him.
Alma dug through the remains of the mob, desperate in her search, pushing aside body after body, each fire-ravaged face as unrecognizable as the next. There was no identifying them, no knowing which was him.
I grabbed her. “There is nothing we can do.”
She screamed, and hammered her fists against my chest. Alma unleashed her anger on me until her arms tired, and her sadness overtook her rage. When she stilled, she leaned against my chest, and we stood together amidst the charred and dying remains of the night.
The fire of their own fear had brought death to the mob.
It seemed a fitting end.
My creator was dead. My only friend, my only companion, gone. I could have stopped it, physically at least, but I did nothing. How could I do good in the world if I could not do good for him?
”I loved him, too,” Alma said, looking up at me. ”I’m sorry, Sir Robert.”
”He was exceptional,” I said. ”He commanded me to be his legacy, but I have no idea where to begin. I have no idea how to go on.”
”I know how you feel.”
She put a hand on my shoulder and looked up at me, and smiled. Was that compassion? With the Clockmaker gone, maybe I was the last piece of him she could cling to. Or maybe she was just being kind.
”It’ll be tough without him,” she said, ”but we have to press on. Let his memory live on with you, his dreams, his hopes. Besides, you have to follow his commands, don’t you?” She winked.
”It is my programming.”
Standing at the road, I looked back toward the ashes of our cottage, seeing darkness there, and nothing more. I considered my options, and my fate.
To the east lie nothing but ruins, and to the north much of the same, even if I could get past the Union’s borders. With the sea to the south, I was left with the journey west, through the vast and empty western reaches of the Union, and the wider world beyond. I nodded, having made my choice.
”Farewell, Alma,” I said, and I started on my way.
”Wait!” She grabbed my arm. ”You’re just leaving? What about me?”
”It would be logical for you to go home and seek treatment for your wounds.”
”I have nobody here.”
”I know not what danger lies ahead for me. I cannot risk harm to you, of all people.”
”I killed Reynolds. Others will find out. Staying is dangerous for me now. Aren’t you supposed to protect me?”
”I—“
She jerked a small blade to my neck in smooth silence. ”Do you need more proof I can handle myself,” she said.
”I do not,” I said. The blade would not cut me, but her point was well made. ”You saved me from certain destruction tonight.”
”Then I’ll come with you. We’ll carry on his legacy together.”
I nodded. ”Then we head west. Have you ever been out there?”
“I’ve never been past St. Anthony,” she said, then she smiled. “A new life for us both.”
I had lost my only companion, and Alma, the only one she ever wanted, but with Alma beside me as we left the forest that night, I knew loneliness would come nevermore.
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Header photo by Jusdevoyage on Unsplash
Justin Williams 