[Mordred]: 676.Deeper Sense: Hymn I - A Tangible Answer

Deeper Sense
Hymn I : A Tangible Answer

Tryste yawned loudly as he slammed his hoe down into the soil. Nightmares had dissolved any hope of sleep the night before, and his mind was far from his work. He wanted nothing more than to lie down and…

“Hey!” A gruff, irritated voice startled him out of his drowsiness, “I’m not paying you to sleep in the fields, boy. Get back to work!” Rolling his eyes and moving his mouth to mimic his employer’s words, Tryste continued tilling the soil. Within minutes, he was sweating profusely – with his slim, bony build, he was not cut out for field work. The fact that the sun was directly overhead and beating down mercilessly on his head didn’t make things any better.

Nevertheless, being the miserly thing he was, Tryste continued to work. By the end of the day, his entire body throbbed and ached from the nonstop monotony of tilling fields. But he wasn’t so lost in his pain that he didn’t notice that his employer had tried to shoo him off without paying.

“What’s the big idea, Contadino? Aren’t you forgetting something?” Contadino stopped, aware he had been caught, and turned around. He was a huge man, with skin darkened and roughened from years of farm work. His arms were heavily muscled, and though his close-cropped hair and bristly moustache were iron gray, he looked very young for his forty-odd years of life. And despite that age of forty-something, Contadino was a very intimidating man. But Tryste wasn’t about to give up without a fight. He worked hard for his money, and Lozzia be damned if he was going to let himself be cheated.

“And what would that be, little old man?” Tryste snarled at the jibe. He hated being the village joke - just because he was eighteen years old with hair as silver as Contadino’s, everyone figured they could get their kicks by teasing him about it. He knew that the farmer was just trying to put him off, but he wouldn’t have it.

“You know what I’m talking about, Abramo Contadino. I didn’t work twelve hours in that god-forsaken field of yours just for the satisfaction of a job well done. You owe me three hundred soli! Pay up, old man!” The two gray-haired males glared at each other silently for about ten minutes before Contadino finally relented.

“Fine, you little rodent. But I’m docking you fifty soli for sleeping on the job.” Tryste scoffed, indignant. Fifty soli? How dare he?!

“Sleeping! Pah! I wasn’t sleeping, you imbecile! I worked my ass off out there – and you have a perfectly tilled field out there to prove it! I had better get all three hundred soli, or I’m not coming back. And then, who else will prepare the soil, eh, old man?” At this, the elder man actually looked worried. A few years ago, Contadino had hurt his back trying to work a new type of plow, thus rendering him unable to work the fields. Since then, he’d hired Tryste to do the work for him, offering to pay three hundred soli for his services. The problem was: Contadino was as much a penny-pincher as Tryste, and just as stubborn. Despite this, however, the two of them had kept the arrangement going, regardless of their constant butting heads. With a defeated sigh, the farmer handed over a pouch of coins.

“You can count them – it’s all there,” he added tersely. Though he was greedy, the man was honest – he’d tell someone if he paid less than what was agreed on. Tryste knew that for a fact. That, and the man couldn’t lie to save his life. With a two-fingered salute, Tryste took the satchel and headed off for home. He was exhausted, but he knew that the aches in his muscles and joints wouldn’t let him sleep worth a damn.

At home, he fixed himself supper (but not before counting his pay – it was all there, as he knew it would be), the meal being nothing but the leftovers of the night before. After finishing that, he got ready for bed, though he knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep. Despite this, he knelt by his bed, clasping his hands together and bowing his head with closed eyes, and prayed.

“Lozzia, Divine Woman, I beseech Thee tonight to grant me safe slumber and timely waking. I lay my soul in Your Arms this night, and beg Thee to hold it gently until the dawn. In the holy Name of Eminent Lozzia I—“ In the middle of his pious plea, Tryste choked on his words. Just like every night. Looks like Lozzia still doesn’t listen to the prayers of demons.

With a sigh, Tryste snuffed out his candle and climbed into bed, joints smarting with every move. To his surprise, he slipped quickly and easily into sleep.

The village stands deserted. No people bustling about the streets, no shrill squeals of children playing, no haggling merchants. Nothing. Somehow, Tryste is not surprised. He glances mildly about the empty town before moving down the main road toward Contadino’s farm. The fields are dry and blighted, the crops withered. Inside the farmer’s house is the same unsurprising barrenness. The only thing different is the trail of red footprints – a child’s footprints – leading up the stairs. Mildly interested, Tryste follows them. The vermilion tracks lead him to the master bedroom. The door is ajar and the footprints lead inside. The door opens with a creak, and Tryste looks up to find the scene of a violent murder. Contadino and his wife, both completely naked, lie butchered on the bed. Organs are spilled across the sheets, and blood is splattered along the floor and the walls. Two sets of dead eyes stare at him, eyes wide with last-minute terror.

It’s a gruesome scene, yet Tryste is only focused on one thing: the form of a small child – a little girl, to be exact, with long, flowing blonde hair and large, green eyes – drenched in blood not her own. In her hand is a hatchet, and on her lips is a sick, twisted smile. She turns to face Tryste and her lips move to form words, though no sound issues forth. A single word blooms on Tryste’s tongue, and in a low, growling voice, he speaks.

“Lozzia.”