Lokos

"I brought back some fish," Peturabo said.

Mors grudgingly lifted his heavy head, which had been resting on the top of the rattan chair's back. He'd bet his life that any living person who drank the aged barley wine buried behind his house wouldn't fare any better.

"Good, very good," Mors said, lazily waving his right hand, his soft finger movements conveying his utter indifference. "Roast them yourself, or do whatever you want with these fish... what does it have to do with me? Farewell, Peturabo."

Peturabo stared at him for a moment, then left the house, closing the door behind him.

Mors placed his palm over his eyes, quietly blocking out the sun for a while, until the persistent sun painted a hazy, light red hue across his vision.

He knew, of course, that the sun on Olympia wasn't called the sun, or rather, that the scientific name shouldn't use the term unique to ancient Terra; but the people here still reverently and fearfully called the pale, scorching solid disc in the sky the sun. Perhaps that was humanity.

He slowly and deliberately rubbed his thumb and middle finger, then his index finger, snapping his fingers twice, once louder than the other, to help himself regain his senses.

Then Mors hopped off the rattan chair, pushed open the wooden door, leaned against the doorframe, and crossed his arms over his chest.

The weather was still dry and crisp today, as if any cloud containing moisture was deliberately avoiding the territory of Lokos. Some birdsong, the chewing sounds of Lokos deer, and the distant sounds of Lokos people walking and moving... Mors's psionic senses picked up these trivial movements.

Mors retracted his psionic senses, focusing on the present.

Peturabo was cleaning his fish in his yard, the smell of blood drifting everywhere.

"If you insist on polluting the clean, dry forest air that enters my nostrils, I will demand compensation," Mors said.

"Can I pay on credit?"

"No."

Peturabo silently and forcefully snapped the fish's spinal cord with his stone knife, his shoulders heaving with effort as scales were stripped away layer by layer by the stone knife.

Mors had only taught him once how to handle fish from the river, and Peturabo had learned very quickly.

Then the boy said, "What do you want?"

"Give me one of the fish."

"Okay."

"Two?"

"Dream on."

There wasn't even a second's delay between Peturabo's answer and Mors's request.

Mors staggered over to Peturabo, leaning down exaggeratedly, forming a vertical posture between his upper body and legs like the corner of a table and chair. Peturabo said nothing, just continued to chop his fish as usual.

The fish's eyes emitted a somewhat eerie glow.

Mors grinned and was about to leave to get his unfinished stone carving from the corner.

Ever since he had smashed the head and hands of the statue of Perseus last time, he had conceived the idea of completely renovating the entire statue.

He hadn't yet decided on the material for his next carving.

Perhaps a beast, perhaps plants, perhaps a replica of another precious yet lost artifact from humanity's long history, or perhaps a new depiction of his own life experiences, like a photo of him and Peturabo eating grilled meat side by side.

Mors didn't know.

He had been idly swinging his chisel at the marble these days, waiting for the sculpture to emerge from the stone itself.

He personally picked up the heavy, damaged statue, let his tools float behind him, and prepared to walk towards his comfortable, long-worn hand-woven grass mat.

As he passed Peturabo for the second time, the boy suddenly called out to him.

"Mors?" he said quietly.

"Hmm... What is it?"

"What do you want?"

Mors patted the stone carving; the smooth surface of the marble was always reassuring. This heavy, stable, unchanging, cohesive, immortal, only subject to the erosion of time, intimate, never rebellious, straightforward, dear stone deserved a loving embrace more than any living creature.

"I don't know," he said. "Do you mean long-term, short-term, or today, right now? If it's the latter, then I want you to finish the fish quickly."

Peturabo stopped his movements. Several fish lay cleanly on the smooth stone slab beneath his scarred palms, their innards and scales discarded to the side.

He looked up.

"Long-term," his rare steadiness and self-control lent his words a pleasing quality, like the sound of finely tuned machinery. "The longest term, otherwise I will never know what I should give you, nor will I ever know how you can be satisfied."

Mors's gaze lingered on the stone in his arms. "Do you think I know how you can be satisfied? No, Peturabo, you have to tell me your dreams too."

"This is fair," the boy said. "We trade what we need from each other."

"You certainly learn quickly."

Peturabo's gaze lingered around Mors for a moment, from his messy, medium-length black hair, to the black clothes and pants that covered his body, and the cold white stone he held.

He wiped his hands, still covered in the cold blood and slime of the fish, on his own woven grass mat.

He had been sleeping on this grass mat in the courtyard these days, with the cold, dark sky as his cover, enjoying the caress of the sunlight reflected by the planet's satellite above Olympia—similarly, Mors had only taught him how to weave once.

"I'll go first," the boy said, gripping his mat, his Adam's apple bobbing, his throat tightening and loosening. He cleared his throat, pulling two broken grass stems from the mat in his hand.

"I don't know where I came from," he said. "I want to know."

"Is that your greatest wish?"

Mors put down the stone carving, one leg propped up, the other stretched out, his elbow supporting his slanted body as he sat in the grass mat.

He thought for a moment and shook his head, "I apologize to you, I owe you one, because I have no wishes."

"I can only tell you that I am a failed craftsman, I hate puzzles and riddles, and I am naturally incompatible with grand futures and magnificent galaxies. I am just a small, masterless piece in this vast sea of stars, with no ambition, no hope."

The ground transmitted a warning vibration to his elbow. Mors remained unfazed, sat up straight, and smiled, "The only thing that can give me a sliver of petty comfort now is that I guess the craftsman who built this vessel for you wasn't very successful either."

"That's conjecture," Peturabo said displeasedly. "Slander without reason!"

"I always feel like you get more agitated than I do when I belittle your creator."

"More nonsense." Peturabo bit his lip, looking unwilling.

Mors let a short sigh escape his tongue. "Alright, anyway, I owe you one, you can remember that. Now, we have more things to deal with."

As Mors reminded him, the clanging of gold and iron became clearer.

The authority of these manufactured soldiers was constantly creating characteristics of existence through the sounds arriving from afar. New iron boots trod upon the dry woodland, heavy sword hilts cracked through obstructing branches and vines, and the colored helmet decorations were utterly incompatible with the harmonious emerald and light orange of the forest. This was almost a testament to some human nature—natural conquerors, whether of nature or of others.

"Lokos..." Mors whispered. "They are here for you, Peturabo. I guess you haven't assassinated their tyrant?"

"I suppose I am just too obviously excellent," Peturabo said.

Mors tilted his head back and smiled.