A World's Curse

They arrived at Alm Peak early the next morning. Outside the porthole window, Atlas saw snow—lots of it.

Hills and mountains and points rose up around the small town. It wasn’t any bigger than a village; it had some cottages, an inn, and an airport for the airship that was transporting Atlas. Yurvina came into Atlas’s room as soon as the peak was in sight. She still wore the same outfit she had yesterday, just green tights today.

“What’s with the tights?” Atlas asked. He still wore his white shirt and pants—hardly suitable apparel for this kind of weather.

“Purple and green are symbols of the Sacrificial Force,” she said simply—as if Atlas knew what that was. “You, on the other hand, are going to be wearing all black. Come with me.” She escorted him down the hall, around the corner, into the cockpit of the airship. It was a spacious room with a large window in front, exposing the Kurl mountain range in its entirety. Escealous stood at the ship’s wheel, steering the ship. Brimure leaned against the wall behind him, examining his axe to make sure it was of adequate killing power.

Yurvina escorted him across the cockpit, down into another hallway, and all the way through the very last door—parallel to his room. Inside, boxes were stacked to the roof and coats and pants and shirts hung from racks on either side of the room.

“Get dressed,” Yurvina said. “You have ten minutes until we unload. If you’re not out by then, we come in here and kill you.”

“Okay,” was all Atlas said, with a gulp.

Yurvina left, slamming the door behind her. Atlas turned and examined the coat racks and the shirts. He settled on a thick, black cotton shirt, a heavy wool coat with a cowl, a pair of heavy black pants, and big leather boots. He got dressed in just under nine minutes—rushing down the hallway, trying to pull on the last boot as he turned the corner. The three sat in the cockpit, in front of the—rather small—door that led outside. Through the giant windshield, Atlas noticed that they were in a large warehouse-like building. People bustled about below the ship, carrying hoses and large ladders all around for the refuel.

“Another minute and I would have come in there to bludgeon you,” Brimure told Atlas.

“Of course,” Atlas noted, breathing heavy. “But I wouldn’t let you guys down.”

Yurvina forced a laugh. “We’ll see about that,” she said.

They all turned to the door. After a moment, nothing happened, but then there was a gasp of air from the locks on the doorway and it opened. They spilled out of the ship into a spacious warehouse floor. Men with hoses and tools filed into the ship, walked around the outside, and connected hoses to holes. Atlas saw the outside of the ship for the first time: it was gold plated, shiny, with silver trim and high-tech engines Atlas imagined blasted fire out of the back. On the side, in purple and green letters, were the words ‘SACRIFICIAL FORCE AIRLINES’. It was like this whole ordeal was one big commercial gimmick to get money—advertising the airship, signature colors, a tour around the world, no backing down. Atlas didn’t like it.

They were escorted across the warehouse floor to the large, metal door. It opened as the neared it, revealing a snow-white landscape, a fierce wind, and a giant crowd of people.

Atlas was stunned at first. How could such a small town hold so many people? They were grouped together outside the doors, held back by velvet gates that stretched down the road to make a pathway. It was like they’d rolled a red carpet down the aisle and Atlas was now a big celebrity. Brimure got behind Atlas, while Yurvina and Escealous walked in front of him slightly to the sides. As they passed people, they screamed and threw flowers and whistled; they thanked and complimented; some even offered their children, or their hand in marriage.

But there was one girl who stood out. Near the end of the line, at the entrance to the town, a girl stood buried in the crowd. She had medium-length blonde hair and pointed ears. She stood with her head down, holding the hand of someone near her. Atlas couldn’t tell who; the crowd was too thick and hid the person from view. He thought it was her brother—mom or dad, maybe. To the average person, it might have seemed like she was weird or depressed; like she was just some kid who was too strange to have friends. But to Atlas, they connected. Just by looking at her, he could tell she didn’t like this. Dragged here by her family, only to glorify and adore the sacrifice of some lone citizen—for what? To Atlas, that meant the world, that someone out there felt like he did and cared about the person being dragged to their death.

He wanted to meet her.

---

They stayed at the inn. It was a large, three-story building. They all got the top floor and their own rooms. Guards had been stationed throughout the town, along with the regular patrol, to ensure no one wearing all black leaves the peak. Atlas wasn’t sure who would want to leave in this weather, but he figured other people would be more determined to save their own lives than worry about frostbite.

Atlas collapsed onto his bed, relishing in the warmth of the building. It had to have been at least below zero out there, let alone a habitual temperature for humans. Then again, they weren’t really humans—were they? They were elves and dwarves like Escealous and ogres like Brimure.

A crowd was out front, cheering on and throwing stuff at the building. Atlas peeked through his bedroom curtains, causing an uproar amongst the guests. They shouted louder, whistled, and threw stuff harder. A rock hit his window, causing a crack to appear in the glass.

Sick monsters, Atlas thought. All of them. I’m off to die and they cheer? “Despicable,” he mumbled, crossing the room to the bar. He opened the cupboard, grabbed the first bottle he found, and poured himself a glass. Though he wasn’t old enough to drink in the real world, it sure as hell wouldn’t stop him from doing it in this one.

Sitting on the bed, he sighed. The emotion was weighing on him. He was going to die, and still there was no sign of his grandfather. What could have happened? Could he possibly escape? Did everyone else sucked in have to go through this?

Probably.

Everyone consumed by the cursed book probably had to do the same thing as him—they probably had to go through the Peak, the cities, and then climb a mountain only to be sacrificed to some god he didn’t even worship.

The girl crossed his thoughts, standing in the crowd with her head low as if she was too sad to care; as if this whole ordeal was so idiotic, watching someone prance in fame to their demise just made her sad. He wondered if she was out there, in front of the inn, shouting with the crowd at the windows. He imagined the girl standing there, her hand still held by her father or mother or brother, silently wishing death upon everyone who cheered the Sacrificial Force on.

Atlas stood and set his glass on the bedside table. He threw on his coat-and-cowl, pulled on his boots, and walked out the door.

“Where are you going?” Yurvina asked, turning back to look at him. She sat in the middle of the hall in front of the small Escealous, playing a board game and smoking some strange stick.

“I’m just gonna go look around some…” he said, only half-lying.

“In this weather? You’ll be lucky your bullocks don’t freeze off.”

Atlas shook his head and walked down the stairs. His boots tapped against the wood with each step until he reached the lobby floor. No one was there, just a lone woman standing at the desk reading a book. She didn’t notice him, which made Atlas a little relieved.

He opened the door and stepped outside, starting another uproar. Everyone threw flowers and jewels and even clothes at Atlas as he made his way down the walkway. Two guards who had been standing at the door had to escort him away from the house; the whole time he was looking around, trying to find the girl. She wasn’t there, lurking in the crowd. She must have had enough of this sickening glorification.

Atlas decided to eat. There was a small coffee shop and bakery on the other side of the village. He walked across the street, his feet crunching on the snow, down the sidewalk and to the coffee shop. It was a quaint, wooden lodge with a sign hanging above the door. It was called ‘Marley’s Snowside Coffee Bakery’, which Atlas thought was ironic because it wasn’t exactly snowside. It was more right in the middle of a gigantic snowstorm, but he figured ‘Marley’s Right-in-the-Middle-of-a-Gigantic-Snowstorm Coffee Bakery’ was a tad too long.

Inside, it was warm and calm. It smelled freshly of coffee beans, baked goods, and the crowd was thin. Everyone must have been in front of the inn. Atlas walked up to the counter. He didn’t have any money, but he figured he could take advantage of the fame while it lasted.

“Hey, you’re the Sacrifice, right?” the woman asked. Atlas guessed she was Marley; she was mid-height with long tawny hair that went past her shoulders. She was pale with elfish ears and freckles sprinkled across her face. She had indigo eyes, soft and bright at the same time.

“Yeah,” Atlas said, trying to seem nonchalant.

“Ooh,” Marley cooed sensually. “What would you like?”

“Just a coffee,” Atlas said. Marley nodded, turned around to a coffee machine and poured the beverage.

Handing it to him, she asked, “Anything else?”

“Could I get a cookie?” Atlas asked, eyeing a platter of chocolate chip cookies on the side off the counter.

“Go ahead,” Marley said and Atlas took one. She didn’t make him pay; Atlas was thankful for that.

He sat down at a table in the back corner, enjoying his—albeit small—meal alone. He watched everyone commune about the room. Most of the people were elves, some were hairy dwarves and the minorities were ogres. Ogres were big, colorful, and brutish. There was one standing in the corner with a broom—the janitor, Atlas presumed. He had dark green skin, large yellowed teeth and a large horn protruding from his forehead. He was tall, fat or muscular (Atlas couldn’t tell the difference), and generally quiet but very loud when he spoke to someone.

Towards the end of his meal, an unexpected guest walked into the shop: the girl. She was alone, bundled in a coat. She walked up to Marley, ordered her coffee, and turned back to the door to leave. Atlas panicked. He pushed himself to a stand and walked towards the door behind her, leaving his coffee and half-eaten cookie behind. On their way out, he bumped into her, and her coffee fell from her hands onto the cold snow.

“Oh, great…” the girl sighed, kneeling down. She had the same Euro-mix accent as everyone else there.

“Fuck—I’m sorry,” Atlas apologized as she up the coffee cup. She kept saying “Oh, god,” under her breath, softly, as if there was something wrong. “I can get you another one,” Atlas offered.

The girl turned around to look at him; she looked like she was about to cry, but upon seeing Atlas a stern look spread across her face.

“No thank you,” she said and turned away.

“Are you sure?” Atlas asked, reaching his hand out for her.

“Yes, I’m sure,” she said. “I definitely don’t need your help.” She stood and walked away, the cup in her hand. Atlas felt bad; it was as if she was angry with him or something. He turned around, walked into the shop, and ordered another coffee for her. He wasn’t sure what kind she’d gotten, so he asked just for a plain one.

Walking out of the shop, he caught her down the street.

“Here, you can have this,” he said, offering her the coffee.

She looked at him, then at the cup, and then back at him. “I said no thank you,” she reminded him.

“I know—I know, but I felt bad,” Atlas reasoned.

She thought for a moment, her brown eyes traveling from the cup, to the snow, to Atlas, and back. “Oh well,” she finally said, “better to not let it go to waste.”

Atlas smiled as she took the offering from him. He laughed a little, then asked, “So what’s your name?” as the two began walking together down the street.

“Flora,” she answered, sipping the coffee. Atlas liked the way she spoke; the words fell from her lips like a gentle waterfall, lightly vibrating the cold air around them.

“Pretty,” he said. “I’m Atlas.”

“I know,” she replied. “Everyone does.”

Atlas shivered a little at the thought. People he’d never even spoken to or seen before knew who he was, and were now cheering on his death. “It’s kinda weird,” Atlas said. “I didn’t expect everything to be this big.”

“Everything is this big,” Flora said. “This isn’t even the biggest! The gladiatorial battles are way bigger. You’ll be begging for mercy before you get to Sio City.”

“Gladiatorial battles?” Atlas asked, furrowing his brow.

“You didn’t know?” she asked, looking at him as they stopped walking. “You have to defend your dying honor. You volunteered to be sacrifice, but other people volunteered too. It’s either you die running away from the Force, you die in the battles, or you die on the mountain. It’s all a load of crap, if you ask me.”

“Why are you here, then?” Atlas asked. “If you hate it so much, why are you here?”

She laughed. “Though I dislike the sensationalism surrounding the Sacrifice, I kinda of like traveling across the world with them.”

Atlas thought for a moment. “So you’re going to follow us?”

“Yep,” she said. “Every step of the way, I’ll be there. That’s why I was so worried about the coffee—I don’t have much money, so I need what I can get while I can get it.”

Atlas felt horrible. “I’m sorry,” he muttered.

“It’s okay,” Flora said. “I expected you to be big and arrogant, but you’re actually really humble. I like that. You’re not like the others.”

“There are others?” Atlas asked.

“You didn’t know?” She seemed surprised. Atlas felt kind of embarrassed; he was supposed to be acting like he knew everything. He shook his head. “This happens every two-hundred years, the gods need a sacrifice or they’ll end the world.”

“Two hundred years?” Atlas echoed, a little shocked. “How old are you?”

“Six-hundred and thirty-two,” she answered. “You?”

Atlas thought for a moment. How could she be that old, how could she be six-hundred and thirty-two years old? Should he tell her he was sixteen, would that be out of place, or did elves just age differently?

“Sixteen,” he answered, hopeful.

“That explains it,” Flora said with a sigh. They began walking again.

“Explains what?” Atlas asked.

“It’s just… It’s just…” she scrambled, looking for the right words. “Humans are so… weak. Like, they thirst for fame and power, but they can’t get much in their miserable, short lives so they try to get everything they can in the seventy-plus years they have to live. Did you know there hasn’t been one elf volunteer? We elves are humble. We know that we don’t have to kill each other for power; we know we have long lives to get stuff. It’s kind of sad. I wish humans could understand.”

The two eyed each other for a moment.

“What I’m trying to say is,” she continued, “that is explains why you volunteered.”

“Are you calling me greedy?” Atlas asked.

“Yes,” Flora answered. “That’s exactly what I’m calling you.”

“But what good could come from dying?” Atlas asked.

“Are you blind?” she asked. “Look around,” she pointed to the inn. “People are literally screaming for you and throwing their belongings to you. You fly on a luxury airline with personal body guards and you get to stay in all of the nicest hotels and you’re selflessly throwing your life away so the world can continue spinning. People look upon you as a martyr. You’re a saint, you’re rich, you’re famous. Do you not see it?”

Atlas considered it, feeling bad. I didn’t ask for this, he wanted to say. I didn’t want to have any of these things—I didn’t even know what was going to happen. But he couldn’t say any of that, it would give him away; it was too dangerous.

“I’m sorry,” was all he could manage. “I didn’t realize…”

“No—it’s okay,” Flora said. “They never realize it until they’re standing at the top of the mountain begging Yurvina to not put the sword in their heart. They never realize what they had until it is gone.”

Atlas wanted to defend himself, he wanted to yell at her and tell her that he wasn’t any of those things she was saying about him, but he couldn’t. He had volunteered for this, they thought. He had asked for the fame, the luxury, the glory. He has asked them to stab him for a mountain god. He had asked to be paraded around the world to be gawked at, proposed to, and given free food. He was greedy.

I wish I never opened the book, Atlas wanted to say. For some reason, he wanted to tell her everything. He wanted to defend himself and tell her how he got here and how he has no memory of volunteering for this, but he decided to just keep his mouth shut.