V Orion: Exodus

Pain.
Every cell in his body is raging. Longing for rest. But it is proof that Orion must still be alive.
Coarse sand clings to his blood-crusted hands. Groaning, he rolls onto his back and looks up at the sky; crystal blue and clouded. The sun hangs low, giving only meager light. How long had he been unconscious? Hours? Perhaps days?
Spitting water and blood, Orion remembers what happened: Aeolus attacked Paragon and demanded the impossible of them. Faded red bears witness to his deeds; not even the sand can hide them.
Theophilus was the first victim. Constantine fought back, but was broken. Then Silvana and so many others. Orion shakes his head as images of Philo, Scylla, and Bella rise before him.
Trembling as he gets to his feet, unsure whether from the cold or sheer exhaustion, Orion puts one foot in front of the other and climbs out of the sandbank. The fall into the well shaft saved his life. Blessed be its builders, and the gods who protected him in the flood.

Columns of smoke rise in the distance, where Paragon lies. No sign of Aeolus’s airship or his scrap barges. Is that a good sign or a bad one? Perhaps Helen and Illias are there and managed to escape as well. Hiding with other survivors, waiting for help.
Hopefully Grandfather is all right. Then again, the tough old bastard will probably outlive them all. He is safe, and Orion can hardly wait to have him greet him with a swing of his crutch.
Orion follows the river on his left, and at last the palisades of Paragon rise before him. More wooden gravestones than protection against attackers. Guardians of the final resting place of so many friends.
Carefully, Orion creeps closer and peers past the shattered wooden gate. No movement, no sign of life, only the crackle of burning wood.

Paragon is dead.

The main road, once full of life, filled with the pounding of the blacksmith’s hammer and the shouts of the tanner, now lies deserted. Silence from the tavern, no laughter or song to lift the mood. Only the wind whistles through the alleys, singing a funeral dirge.
The smoke from burning huts hurts with every breath and shrouds the devastation in an impenetrable haze.
Orion steps onto the gathering square, and his breath catches. The bodies of friends and acquaintances lie carelessly strewn across the ground. The executed are piled upon one another, stacked high. There must be dozens—no, hundreds.
In a choked voice, Orion calls for survivors and abandons all caution.
“Hello!” he shouts, but no answer comes.
Louder now, Orion calls again. Someone must have escaped the massacre.
No one?
Dropping to his knees, he buries his face in his hands and finally lets the tears come. It feels so good.

Then a faint sound makes him look up.
From beneath a mountain of corpses comes a weak moan. A broken voice pleading for help. Dead faces stare back at him.
“Help,” it groans again from somewhere farther below.
Quickly, Orion drags bodies aside, digging through stiff arms and legs. He pushes friends and strangers away until, among all those rigid limbs, two white points catch his eye.
Green eyes, wide with panic, stare up at him before squeezing shut in fear. Beneath them lies a young woman with blood-red hair, her face smeared with soot and dirt.
Again, she whispers for help, and Orion speaks to her gently.
“I’m here,” he assures her. “My name is Orion. Who are you? I’ve never seen you here before.”
Blood seeps from a wound on her forehead, one that seems to be causing her terrible pain.
“Listen to me. We’ll be safe in Oak Valley, and Grandfather will help me. He’ll know what to do with you.”
Carefully, he lifts the woman, who cries out at every movement, her thin body tensing in agony. Nervously, Orion apologizes for handling her so roughly until he manages to lay her on a nearby cart.
“I’m sorry. I’m not very good at this sort of thing.”
He looks around. This is no place to treat the wound. Not with Silvana’s cottage burning. The injury needs to be cleaned and bandaged, and only back in the valley does he have what he needs.
Normally, the healer or Helen would take care of things like this. Cover the wound with ointment and bind it. Silvana once told him about wound rot. Tiny living things that eat the body from within if you do not work cleanly.
But they are dead or gone.
Orion pulls the cart, and every bump draws another agonized cry from the woman.
The long journey home has begun.

Deep in the night, Orion takes the turn leading to his farm. Alone, he creeps toward the houses where lights still burn, well hidden by the darkness.
Half a dozen men are loading food and livestock into one of Aeolus’s scrap barges. Crockery and furniture are smashed apart as they search for valuables and other treasures.
Grandfather sits cursing on the ground, unable to rise on his bad leg. “You bastards, that’s our food. How are we supposed to feed the fat fool we left behind through the winter now? If I were only a year younger, I’d show you!”
His excuses are balm to Orion’s soul. Grandfather will tell him what to do. Tell him how everything can be made right again.
Once all the supplies have been loaded, the leader points at Grandfather. One of the soldiers shrugs and draws his sword. Another tosses Grandfather a blade.
They are supposed to fight.
Unable to stand, the old man swings clumsily at the soldier. His opponent dances around him, parries a strike, and drives his sword into Grandfather’s back.
Furious, Orion bites down on his hand and forces himself to remain silent.
With a shriek, the scrap barge rises into the air, and Orion runs.
Grandfather exhales in relief when he recognizes his face. “By Zeus, you’re all right… There were too many… they took… everything… I couldn’t do anything.”
“Be quiet. It isn’t your fault. The only thing that matters is that you get better!”
Blood pours from the old man’s chest. It does not look good.
“Where are the others? Where are the little ones?”
“They’re fine,” Orion lies. “I ran ahead. They’ll be here any moment. Please, just get better.”
“When I saw smoke rising from Paragon and that thing landed, I was worried about you… Thank the gods nothing happened to anyone…” Tears fill his old gray eyes. The lines in his face seem infinitely deep. “You’re the last ones I have left, and… I thank the gods for… every moment with…”
His head slumps weakly to the side.
Orion gently shakes him by the shoulder and whispers, “Grandfather? Wake up! Please don’t do this to me. You’re all I have left!”

Everything is gone.

His family and everything he owned.
Carefully, he carries the gaunt body to the stable. The unfamiliar silence of the place weighs heavily on Orion’s shoulders. The stable, once so full of life, is now little more than a tomb.
Grandfather almost looks as though he is sleeping peacefully in the straw. As though he might wake at any moment just to start another argument.
The old billy goat with the red blossom on his chest.
“I’ll be back soon.”
Then Orion says goodbye and returns to the hidden cart, where the young woman is crying in pain.
Restlessly, she writhes on the cart bed, digging her fingers into the wood. Her face is twisted by waves of agony.
“It’s safe here. Nothing else is going to happen to you.” Orion almost believes the reassuring words himself.
At the step leading into the main house, Orion has to swallow hard. The door lies shattered on the floor. Chairs and tables have been smashed, and his comfortable armchair lies overturned in the ashes of the fireplace. The once-cozy living room is barely recognizable.
He swallows again. “I’m going to carry you inside. It’ll hurt, but I’ll be quick.”
As carefully as he can, he reaches beneath the woman and lifts her as though carrying a basket of eggs. She thrashes wildly, screaming her pain into the night. A stray arm strikes Orion across the face, but he forces himself onward.
The hallway seems endless. Every scream echoes from the walls, sinks into him, and torments him more than the deepest wound.
Gently, as he once did with Illias, he lays her in his bed. The straw soaks up the blood, and within seconds the bedsheet is ruined.
Orion fetches water and a sponge from the kitchen and cleans the dirt from her face.
“What’s your name?” he asks again. More to distract her—and to ease his own tension—than anything else.
“Don’t… know…” the young woman answers, flinching at every touch of the sponge.
“You must know your own name. What am I supposed to call you?”
Beneath the blood and soot, freckles and a small upturned nose begin to emerge.
“If we’d ever had a daughter, we would’ve called her Alissa. Until you remember your own name, I could call you that. Would that be all right?”
She gives the faintest nod and whispers, “That’s… fine…”
Dirt and dried blood give way to pale white skin, and once Orion has washed her face, arms, and legs, he turns his attention to the terrible wound on her forehead. A deep hole just below the hairline.
No doubt about it. A gunshot wound from Notos’s rifle.
“I need to bandage the wound. Be strong now.”
Her delicate hands dig into the bedsheet, and when Orion lifts her head, she lets out a deafening scream as tears spill from her green eyes.
Orion quickly wraps fresh linen around her head, and as he tightens the knot, Alissa loses consciousness.
He studies the woman as she breathes quietly. She is young, no more than twenty cycles old, and her hair is no longer blood-red but fiery red. Long and curly, it spills in every direction across the pillow.

Weary, Orion wanders through the rooms and takes stock of the situation. The pantry has been looted, every animal is gone, and even the few valuables they owned have been stolen. Furniture and belongings have been destroyed, and most of the tools are missing.
Only the altar and his ancestor’s urn in the shed remain untouched. At least Aeolus’s men still have some respect for the gods.
With trembling hands, Orion sets the overturned armchair upright, his favorite place in the house. Brushing ash and dirt from it, he prays to the gods that the intruders overlooked Oak Valley’s secret treasure.
One strike against the armrest, and the hidden compartment reveals three bottles of moonshine.
Clumsy hands work the stopper loose and pour a generous measure into the last remaining clay cup. He takes a deep swallow of the bitter liquor, and his trembling hands begin to steady.
Only yesterday, he had wanted to drink to the successful hunt. Today, Orion raises the cup to all those who were taken.
Burning oil runs down his throat and warms him from within.
Preparing the next drink, he drinks to the girl who will probably not survive the next few days.
Now a swallow for the coming winter, which they will not survive without supplies.
Furious, Orion hurls the cup into the corner.
Impatiently, he raises the bottle to his lips and takes a drink for Philo, for Scylla, and for Bella. One by one, he honors the dead.
If Helen could see him like this, she would have given him a proper scolding long ago.
The liquor disappears far too quickly, but there is still enough left for one drink to his wife and his son.
That final swallow tastes the bitterest, and exhausted, Orion’s eyes fall shut.

The days pass in a blur.
Days when Orion walks to Paragon in search of the few supplies left behind or anything else that might prove useful. Discarded bread, shriveled vegetables, everything the raiders deemed not worth taking.
On his second visit, he began digging graves. He could not leave Theophilus and Silvana lying there, for they would find no peace in the underworld.
Three graves remained empty. The bodies of Philo, Scylla, and Bella were nowhere to be found. For the rest of the villagers, only one final cleansing fire remained. There were simply too many.
Aeolus’s men had struck the surrounding farms as well, demanding tribute and stealing supplies. Now the homesteads of those once-respected families are falling into ruin—the families who lived beyond Paragon’s protective walls and supplied the town against all adversity.
Alissa’s condition grew steadily worse. The wound reeked terribly, and pus began to seep from it. She also started speaking incoherently and developed a raging fever.
To give her some relief, Orion searched the remains of Silvana’s cottage for herbs he recognized. The wrong remedy could mean her death, so he took only thyme and garlic, the only plants he knew could do no harm.
Steeped with what remained of the moonshine, the resulting poultice at least eased her suffering a little.
He had buried Grandfather at the edge of the farm, beneath the oak where his wife and daughter also lay.
An unfamiliar silence settled over Oak Valley. Normally, the animals and the old man would be making an ungodly racket while the children chased one another around at the tops of their lungs. But now Alissa’s screams are the only thing disturbing the quiet.
Again and again, Orion catches himself whistling a song and waiting for Philo to join in. Once, he thought he heard noise coming from the kitchen. But when he entered eagerly, expecting to catch the women baking, there was no one there.
Orion is slowly losing his mind.
Hearing and seeing things that are not there.

One evening, he sits in his armchair, takes a deep swallow from the dwindling bottle, and makes a decision: no one else will die in Oak Valley.
Neither him nor Alissa.
“The little food we have left is running out. To be honest, I think our only chance of surviving is to travel to one of the other villages.” Orion shifts restlessly on the edge of the bed. Waiting for a reaction, he continues when none comes. “Platon isn’t far away. Four days on foot. Maybe two more if I’m pulling you in the cart. They have capable healers there. They’ll help you.”
Gently, he brushes the curly hair from her sweat-soaked face, which has grown even paler over the past few days. What little life remains inside her clings desperately to the frail body. “I won’t leave you behind. I won’t abandon the last person I have to certain death.”
Suddenly, Alissa grabs his wrist. Her grip is weak, her skin burns like fire, and it takes all her strength just to keep her eyes open. “Leave… me… behind,” she whispers.
Orion shakes his head vehemently. “That’s not how my parents raised me, and the gods wouldn’t approve of such a thing either!”
“Fuck… the gods… let me… die,” Alissa whispers, louder now. Tears fill her eyes as she tightens her grip around Orion’s wrist.
“Whether you like it or not, I’m taking you with me! We leave tomorrow morning. You’d better get some rest.”
He stands and gently frees himself from her weary grasp. She offers no more resistance and is already slipping away again.

Nightmares torment Orion that night.
Wild beasts lie in wait for him, chase him through the undergrowth, and bring him down. Eagerly, they sink their jaws into his body, and drenched in sweat, he wakes long before sunrise.
Once, he would have taken dreams like these as a bad omen and postponed the journey, but there is no time left.
Loading the last remaining supplies onto the cart, he prepares to leave. Moldy bread and nuts—nothing else remains. To make the journey as comfortable as possible for Alissa, Orion covers the cart bed with countless blankets and, while rummaging through the cupboards, finds the coat Helen made for him ages ago.
A beautiful piece of dark deerskin. Warm enough to survive even cold nights. The sleeves turned out a little short and are frayed at the ends, but the scent of a freshly mown meadow in spring reminds him of his wife.
One last time, Orion goes to the shrine to pray to the gods for a safe journey.
Kneeling before the altar, he lights two candles. One for Alissa and the other for himself. As he searches for the right words, anger slowly rises within him.
All his life, Orion has served the gods faithfully. Offered them sacrifices and obeyed their laws. And still they punish him and have turned him into his brother’s murderer.
His blood boils with rage, surging through his veins and flooding his face and hands. His fingers wrap around the rough-hewn altar and dig into the stone. His eyes remain fixed on the flickering candles.
With a crash, the stone smashes against the wall, scattering fragments across the floor.
Releasing all his pain and suffering, Orion rages through the shrine, overturning shelves and cursing the immortals. Where were they when the farm was attacked? Why do they not heal Alissa’s wounds or bring them food?
Blind with fury, Orion hurls his ancestor’s urn to the floor. Ash and dust cover the shattered shed, and only gradually does Orion realize what he has done.
Collapsing to the floor in exhaustion, he apologizes. Futilely gathers shards and ashes together. Never before has he lost control like this. Never before has he allowed his feelings to run free.
Splinters lodge in his bare forearms, carving burning cuts across his skin.
Something glimmers beneath the ash.
Puzzled, Orion brushes away the remaining dirt and examines the metal object. It is no larger than a matchbox and has tiny barbs along one side. Short, opaque bristles protrude from a hole. On the other side, a symbol has been engraved into the metal: three wavy lines stacked one above the other.
Held upright, it looks like flowing water. Turned sideways, like blazing flames.
Orion has never seen anything like it. Is it some kind of tool, or perhaps a good-luck charm? Maybe it is a sign from his ancestor promising a safe journey.
Embarrassed, Orion gives thanks, slips the talisman into one of the pockets of his deerskin coat, and rushes out of the shed.

Despite his thick clothing, the merciless autumn wind cuts Orion to the bone as he stands before Grandfather’s grave one last time. This time, not to pour out his worries, but to say goodbye.
Holding the bottle of moonshine with the last of the rotgut in one hand, Orion wipes his eyes.
“We’re heading out now. Keep an eye on the farm, same as always. I can’t tell you when I’ll be back. Not until Helen and Illias are safe, at least. Damn it, I don’t even know if I’ll ever make it back here at all.”
Orion takes a swallow from the bottle but leaves one last drop inside.
“Turned out pretty good. You should try some.”
Pouring the rest onto the fresh mound of earth, he fights back tears.
“If you… see Philo and the others, then… tell them I said hello. I miss you all so much… Take care. We’ll see each other again in the underworld at the latest.”
The final words almost die in his throat, and Orion has to fight himself. Fight to turn around and walk back toward the desolate houses.
Something must have flown into his eyes, because they refuse to stop watering.

As carefully as possible, Orion carries Alissa to the cart and covers the sweat-soaked woman with layer upon layer of blankets. No scream, no movement passes through her body, and then it dawns on him: she has no strength left, no reserves with which to fight. Even breathing demands everything she has, and without help, it will soon be over.
He remembers the conversation with Illias in the village square. How the simple life runs in their blood.
And now he is leaving it all behind.
Everything that has defined him until now.
“Hold on tight,” Orion calls as he straps the leather harness across his chest and sets the cart in motion.
Rough fibers bite into his skin, and after only a few steps the pressure points begin to ache. But undeterred, he puts one foot in front of the other.
The road to Platon is not difficult, but fallen branches and gnarled roots make progress along the otherwise easy southern path harder than it should be.
By evening, he has covered a good distance, and in the flickering light of the pitiful campfire, Orion examines the welts across his chest. Raw skin stretches where the leather presses against him, and several places have already been rubbed open.
The next morning, every muscle in his body aches, but without a word of complaint, Orion harnesses himself to the cart once more.
If Alissa can endure, so can he.
Wind and rain turn the safe path into a treacherous slide on the third day, but Orion keeps walking.
Deep cuts form across his chest and hurt at the slightest touch.

The next morning, snowflakes drift from the sky and spread a white blanket across the old path.
Summoning every ounce of strength, Orion presses on. In spite of every torment and hardship. The wet wood refuses to catch fire, so he lies down beside Alissa so they can keep each other warm.
Choking down the last pieces of moldy bread and staring at the ankle-deep snow, Orion begins to doubt for the first time whether he should keep transporting the injured woman.
Even the touch of his clothes against his chest hurts, yet he resolutely straps himself to the cart again. Warmth spreads around his heart. Whether it comes from the comforting feeling of compassion or from his wounds splitting open is difficult to say.
Red blood seeps through his linen shirt and drips through all five layers.

By late morning, a storm rolls in, and snow piles into impassable barricades. An unnatural darkness covers the land until Orion can barely see his own hand, and the cart becomes trapped in the masses of snow.
Furious, Orion roars into the storm:
“Do you gods really want me to let this woman die? Aeolus, haven’t you taken enough from me? Do you want to take the last shred of my humanity too?” Exhausted, Orion collapses into the snow and curses every god who comes to mind. “I don’t believe in you anymore. I’m done! Alissa, I’m sorry. I don’t have the strength to get either you or myself to Platon. I think this is where it ends.”
Through the storm, he hears her labored breaths, each rattling breath growing weaker. Soon it will be over. For both of them.
Shadows and vague shapes of faces mock Orion and laugh at him. “Let me die in peace!” he roars, striking at icy hands that grab him and try to drag him away.
Hands made of snow and ice, nothing more than illusions of his mind.
Before his eyes fall shut, a bearded face bends over him. Golden eyes flash, and Orion asks, “Is it over?”

And the shadow answers:
“No!”