Revival
patreon
Chapter 75 Questions
🕑 Added 2025-12-03 14:00:08 +0000 UTCChapter 75 Questions
The sun had risen high enough to burn streaks of gold through the Hollow’s mist, but the valley still felt like a bowl of smoke. Caelen and Pit walked the curve of the mound at the Hollow’s mouth, their boots crunching against loose shale.
Pit was grumbling again. “Straight lines, he says. Measure it, he says. Like I’m meant to see through fog and trees. Dam it if you want straight lines, you’ll need a string longer than this valley.”
Caelen shook his head, crouching to drag his stick through the dirt. “No. Easy. Survey. Pole here, pole there. Rope tight. Walk line.” His voice was halting, but his eyes were sharp. “Time men. Work fast. Done right, strong walls.”
Pit wiped his brow, unimpressed. “Done right, I’m still digging trenches while you sketch dreams in dirt.”
Caelen gave the faintest of smiles. “No. You… learn. Architectus Engineer.”
Pit nearly choked. “Engineer? Me? Veils forbid and help everyone, Caelen, you’ve gone mad. First, you turn me into a pig, now you want me counting stones.”
“Better pig… than fool,” Caelen replied, deadpan.
Pit sputtered, then laughed despite himself. “One day, my lord, that tongue of yours is going to get you a black eye.”
Before Caelen could answer, the sound of crashing brush and ragged panting reached them from the river valley floor. Both boys turned. Through the fog came a man in torn Gray robes, pale-faced and wide-eyed, clutching his thigh where blood seeped through cloth. Behind him thundered a massive boar, tusks gleaming, eyes red with fury.
The man ran hard—until he saw them. Then, to their astonishment, he simply stopped. He dropped his shoulders, planted his feet, and stood trembling but still, as if two boys in cloaks and chainmail could somehow solve the problem he’d brought with him.
Pit gawked. “He’s… he’s stopped. Caelen, the fool’s stopped running!”
The priest raised one hand, gasping. “Brothers of Avalon—please—”
Pit cut him off, shouting over the squeals of the charging boar. “You, priest, are dumber than any animal I’ve ever met! Even donkeys know when to run!”
The man flinched at the words, but his legs refused to move.
Caelen didn’t hesitate. “Pit! Get him. Up mound. In trees. Now!”
Pit groaned but darted forward, catching the priest’s arm just before the boar reached striking distance. The beast’s tusks gouged the earth as Pit hauled the man stumbling toward the slope.
“Up!” Pit barked, shoving him toward the roots of a tree. “Climb, unless you want your insides outside!”
The priest clambered awkwardly, his sandals slipping, but Pit shoved again until he was halfway up, robes snagging in branches. The boar wheeled, furious, but Caelen was already reaching for his sling, a stone in his palm, and his jaw set.
The boar wheeled at the base of the mound, its snout tearing the ground, tusks snapping roots as it circled. The priest squealed almost as loud as the beast, his robes caught in the branches, his feet dangling helplessly.
Pit drew his short sword with a hiss of steel. “Well, Caelen, here we are again—pig for supper or a pig as our butcher!”
Caelen had already slipped a stone into his sling. He whirled it once, twice, the hum of the cord rising over the boar’s snorts, and loosed. The stone cracked against the beast’s shoulder with a sharp thud. It wasn’t a killing blow, but it staggered the boar sideways, bellowing in rage.
“Nice scratch!” Pit barked, dodging as the animal lunged. “Maybe next time try oh I don’t know… the head?” He slashed low, blade biting into the thick hide of its flank. Blood sprayed, hot and rank, but the beast only squealed louder, enraged.
Caelen was already setting another stone. His face was calm, eyes fixed, movements efficient. The sling hummed, and this time the stone struck higher—just above the beast’s eye. It reeled, half-blinded, head thrashing.
Pit ducked behind a tree. “Oh, now you’ve really upset it. Watch out!” The boar swung at the trunk, tusks gouging bark, splinters flying. Pit darted out the other side, sword flashing again across its haunch.
“Caelen!” he shouted. “Now would be a good time for that miracle shot you’ve been saving!”
Caelen didn’t answer—only whirled the sling again, faster this time, when he suddenly added a complete body turn to the release. The stone flew, cracking against the back of the boar’s skull with a sickening sound. The beast staggered, legs wobbling, before it crashed sideways into the dirt, kicking once, twice, then lay still.
The Hollow fell silent except for the priest’s ragged wheezing and Pit’s heavy breaths.
Pit leaned on his sword, glaring at the corpse. “Pigs,” he muttered, “I’m doomed to fight pigs till the end of my days.” Then he jabbed a finger at the priest, who still dangled half in the branches. “And you! You’ve less sense than a pig! At least they run toward something when they charge.”
The priest blinked down at him, pale and trembling. “I—I thought… you looked capable.”
Pit threw his arms up. “Capable? Boy, you nearly made me dinner for that tusker!”
Caelen only chuckled, already kneeling by the beast to test its weight. “Meat,” he said simply. Then he nodded up at the priest. “Come down. Safe now.”
The man scrambled down, robes torn and blood seeping from his flank where the tusk had caught him earlier. He pressed a hand to his wound, grimacing.
Pit shook his head, exasperated. “You’re lucky, priest. Dumbest animal I’ve met yet—but lucky. Name?”
“Brother Renn,” the man managed between gasps. “Of… of the Ashen Veil.”
Caelen’s brow furrowed with interest. Pit only groaned. “Perfect. A holy man in pig country. Just what we needed.”
But even as he grumbled, he caught the faintest smile tugging at Caelen’s lips, and he knew: their strange company had just grown stranger still.
…
Up by their camp, they pulled the boar, whose size meant lots of food, although Pit hated the idea of skinning another pig. Brother Renn sat slumped on a rock, one hand pressed to his thigh where the tusk had gouged him. His robe was torn and stained, his face clammy with pain, though his eyes still darted anxiously to the mist as if more beasts might come thundering out.
Caelen crouched beside him, inspecting the wound with a practiced calm that unsettled Pit. The boy’s touch was careful, his eyes sharp. He rinsed the cut with water, ignoring Pit’s muttered complaints about wasting their precious supply.
Renn winced. “I… I thank you. You have a healer’s hand.”
Caelen’s expression didn’t change. He gave the faintest shake of his head. “Not healer. Careful. Stitch later.”
Pit leaned against a log, arms folded. “You’re lucky he doesn’t have to stitch with rope. He is skilled. I’ve seen him patch a waterskin better than most surgeons.”
The priest tried to smile, but only grimaced harder. His gaze turned to Caelen. “And you, young one—your name?”
There was a pause, and then Caelen answered slowly, words halting but deliberate. “Caelen… Pit’s brother.”
Pit’s jaw dropped. “I’m sorry, what?”
Caelen looked at him, eyes steady, almost daring him to object. “Brother.”
For a long heartbeat, Pit just gawked. Then he huffed, threw up his hands, and muttered, “Fine. Yes. Brothers. Saints above, I’ve have the worst family.”
Renn blinked between them, a flicker of relief crossing his pale face. “Brothers of Avalon, then. I… I am glad. For a moment, I thought I had stumbled on brigands.”
“Brigands?” Pit barked a laugh. “If we were brigands, you’d already be roasting on a spit next to that boar.”
“Eat pig,” Caelen corrected. “Not priest.”
Pit glared at him. “Not funny.”
But Caelen’s lips twitched into the faintest smile, and even Renn gave a weak chuckle before clutching his leg again.
When the bleeding slowed, and the bandage was tied taut, Renn finally exhaled, shoulders sagging. “You’ve my gratitude. Truly. I had little hope left in me when I ran from that beast. I have… not much to offer, save a story.”
Pit groaned. “Ah, thank the Veils, a story. I knew there’d be a sermon in this somewhere.”
But Renn ignored him, eyes fixed on the flames.
“I am Brother Renn of the Ashen Veil,” he said at last, his voice steady but frayed by weariness. “I was sent in the service of the Second Acculate, charged to go before and prepare the way. Yet I could not rest— not while Avalon lies silent. No temples, no shrines, no voice of the gods.”
He drew a slow breath, gaze never leaving the fire. “So I left the halls and took to the road. I earned what I could—thirty silver, scraped from a caravan’s labor—enough to pay the tribute for this valley.” His tone fell almost to a whisper. “And here I find only fog, beasts, and boys who are not boys at all.”
Pit raised a brow. “Not boys? We’ve got the scars, the blisters, and the bad stew to prove otherwise.”
Renn shook his head. “No. There is something else here. You”—he looked at Caelen now, sharp-eyed despite his weariness—“are no mere child. I saw how the fog twisted when you stepped into it. I saw how the stone hummed beneath your sling.”
Caelen stiffened, his hand tightening on the bandage knot. His eyes narrowed, dark and watchful.
Pit noticed and quickly stepped in, his voice light. “You’ve had a blow to the head, priest. Don’t read too much into mists and rocks. Trust me—he’s just a boy who drags me into every cursed corner of Avalon.”
But Renn only smiled faintly, wincing as he shifted. “Perhaps. Or perhaps I’ve found what the Veil themselves refused to show me.”
Caelen rose without a word, stepping back into the shadows of the cave. His wariness was plain, his gaze never leaving the priest. Pit sighed, rubbing his face.
“Perfect,” he muttered. “Now we’ve got a holy man, a dead pig, and a boy who thinks I’m his brother. This trip gets stranger by the hour.”
But as the fire popped and the mist curled beyond their camp, Pit caught the look in Caelen’s eyes: wary, guarded, but not dismissive. The boy had accepted Renn—for now.
…
Brother Renn was recovering by degrees. The boar’s tusk had ripped a deep gash in his thigh, and though Caelen’s stitches were neat, every movement pulled fire through the wound. He hobbled about with the help of a branch he used as a crutch, but most of the time he sat by the fire, watching the two boys go about their odd routines.
It fascinated him—this camp carved from the bones of a cave. The deep fissure that was the entrance had logs placed until it lay flat like a carpenter’s floor. The fire was cleverly set inside, smoke drawn up and away, yet warmth curling through the chamber. It was no rough bivouac of wanderers. It felt deliberate, almost permanent.
“You’ve done all this,” Renn said, voice tinged with both awe and disbelief. “You’ve made this cave into something… livable.”
Pit smirked. “Course we have. You think we’d freeze in the mud like common shepherds?”
Renn chuckled, then gestured toward the water skin resting nearby. “And you’ve a supply of fresh water too. Where do you draw it from?”
Pit, perhaps too proud of his own words, blurted, “From the aqueduct.”
Caelen’s head snapped around, sharp eyes fixing on him.
Renn blinked. “The what?”
Pit froze, mouth half open. He glanced at Caelen, then back at Renn, and gave a weak laugh. “Oh, you know. A… bucket system. Fancy name I made up for it.”
Renn’s brows drew together. “Aqueduct… I’ve heard the word, but never seen one. What do you mean by it?”
Pit scratched the back of his neck, stalling. “It’s… ah, nothing. Just rocks and mud, channeling a trickle. Hardly worth a sermon. More like a ditch, really. You wouldn’t understand—”
“Wouldn’t understand?” Renn’s sharp tone surprised him. “I’ve walked half the breadth of the kingdom, spoken with merchants, masons, priests, and soldiers. I’ve seen wells dug, canals marked, and bridges raised. If you are building something here, I'm sure I would understand.”
Pit winced, shooting Caelen a look that said plainly: help me out here.
But Caelen only stirred the fire with a stick and muttered, “Later. Not now.”
Renn let it drop, but his curiosity didn’t fade. His gaze drifted toward the mist that curled through the Hollow. “This place, though… this Gloamhollow. Why are you here? What draws you?”
Pit seized on the change of subject like a drowning man grabbing driftwood. “Ah, yes, Gloamhollow. Fine holiday spot, if you like the smell of rotten eggs and pigs with knives on their faces. We came for the charm and stayed for the food.”
Renn smiled faintly, though his thoughts quickened. He dodges the question. Too quickly. As though trained to protect a secret. “It is cursed, then? That would explain the bitter yellow coloring, the water that turns the river foul.”
Pit shrugged. “Cursed, blessed, take your pick. Caelen sees something in it. I just see fog and bad stew and stink.”
Caelen raised his head at that, eyes shadowed but steady. “Not curse. Not blessing. Broken.”
The word struck Renn like a bell. Broken. A thing can be broken. A person can be broken. But a valley? Renn leaned forward, his crutch balanced against the log he sat on. “Broken? What do you mean, boy?”
Caelen hesitated, as though choosing each word carefully. “Hollow… not dead. Not empty. Waits.”
The priest shivered, not from cold but from something in the way the boy said it. He clutched the seal hanging from his neck and whispered, “The Veil touches here. I feel it, even through my wound. I thought I had come to another forsaken place, but perhaps not forsaken at all.”
Pit groaned, tossing a twig into the fire. “Here we go. Mystical nonsense. Next, you’ll be telling us the pigs are holy messengers.”
Renn didn’t answer, his eyes still on the mist. But Renn wasn’t listening to him. His gaze lingered on Caelen. This boy. These two. They’re not wandering vagrants. One slips when he speaks, the other guards the silence. And that word—broken—he said it as though he knows what must mend. Saints of the Veil, what are they?
Caelen, silent, poked the fire once more, his face unreadable.
For the first time since arriving, Renn felt less like a guest in a cave and more like he had stumbled into the center of something far larger, something the boys weren’t ready to explain.
Comments
Digui
Thank you for the chapter.
