This is the first part of Springs of Death: Awakening.
The story takes place on the western coast of Ashëthis, a continent where magic is the lifeblood of the soil and stone its inhabitants walk upon. The magic is ancient, and therefore often forgotten and looked over.
Awakening takes place twenty years prior to the core Springs of Death tale—a prequel of sorts.
The story contains violence, profanity, and other adjacent things.
Wind and rain thrashed against the sandbrick walls with relentless stamina. The open window had long since extinguished the candles, leaving Thistle alone in the dark. She laid on the floor where she fell, body curled into a ball, hands clutching her bald head. She was hairless from head to toe, like all Crüneans, with pearl-gray tusks that protruded from her upper jaw. Her body shook as she tried with all her will to push the vision away. It was to no avail. The visions were getting stronger. The more she repressed them, the more they burst through her mind uninvited. The spirits of the Springs were calling to her, angered that she ignored the gift of sight bestowed upon her.
The first time she had a vision was on a visit to the Springs of Life with her family. She was but fourteen then, over seven season-cycles ago. Too young to show signs of sight. But the soft green waters called to her, whispering for her to dip her hand in the Springs. She barely brushed the spray when vivid images ripped through her mind like a hurricane. Her family was so pleased when her aunt's son Riit possessed the gift that they didn’t notice Thistle gaping at her illuminated fingers.
At fourteen she was excited at the thought of being a Seer. She felt special. Chosen. When she told her parents she had a vision, they scolded her for trying to take the attention away from Riit. No one got visions that young. Ashamed, she clamped her mouth shut and waited for her turn. But watching Riit grow exhausted, sunken-faced, and bitter over the years made her terrified of the powers. He told her of his visions, a rockslide that buried hundreds alive in the Strata Mountains, a ship, thirty cycles in the future, overrun by undead, and the occasional sight of his possible deaths.
Thistle decided that she would not suffer the same fate. She spent her young years isolated in her room, pouring over books of study in order to get accepted into the Academy of Ashëthis in Vectrum City. It was known that something in the Strata Region quelled magic. She wept for hours the day she got her letter. The visions rarely plagued her there, and when they did, they were quieter. Calmer.
Now, she was back in the coastal Nortahl Region of her birth. The seaside city of Lakkehlpin was quiet and hazy, forever cloaked in the damp, thick fog of the ocean. Her parents begged her to come home for the festival of Two Moons—a sacred time to the Nortahls, Watüüas, and Crüneans alike. And although the Springs of Life lay almost 400 miles south in Crüne, the home of her ancestors, their screams of protest lashed against her mind. Coming back was a mistake. How could she have been so foolish to think aging out of the Rite would stop them?
The door to her room swung open. The images that tore through her head were so strong she forgot to lock it. A negligent misstep.
“I’m sorry to barge in Thistle, but there’s a-”
The voice of her neighbor trailed off as she tried to quickly uncurl her body. The dark might be her savior. If he couldn’t see her eyes, he wouldn’t be able to tell.
“I’m quite ill, Malli, don’t come in,” she gasped desperately, looking at the floor, the fresh vision of a bloody knife to her throat fading.
When Malli didn’t move, she peeked up through her lashes. His mouth hung agape, eyes locked on hers. “You had a vision! At twenty-one! This is a miracle, Thistle! The town will be elated. This is unwritten of!”
“No, no, it’s not what you think.”
But Malli moved into the room, cupping her face and pressing his forehead to hers in celebration. “Your eyes are black as obsidian. You’re a Seer, Thistle. You’re just shaken. Here,” he grabbed her by the arm and gently pulled her to her feet. “Come, we must tell the commune. Gosh, the Commission is going to be thrilled...”
Thistle barely registered the walk to the dining hall. Her world was crumbling. She’d have to run away. She wouldn’t suffer through a short and miserable life like Riit. Like all Seers.
When they reached the crowded hall, Malli let out an excited howl. Curious heads turned in their direction. Thistle looked up to see her mother and father enjoying dinner with her uncle. Tears welled in her eyes as she struggled to speak. To say anything. When no words came, Malli rubbed her back affectionately.
“Thistle’s Eclipsed!! She’s a Seer!” He shouted joyfully.
The hall erupted in chatter. Questions, yells, excitement. Her mother and father ran over as a crowd formed.
“Is this true?” Her mother asked, placing a protective arm around her.
“It cannot be. She’s past the age.”
“She missed the pilgrimage on her twentieth cycle because she was in Strata.”
“We must send word. She’ll need a Guide!”
“The gods grant us with another Seer!”
Hot bile rose in Thistle’s throat as each resident of the commune cupped her face and pressed their heads to hers, even those that were not Crünean. All congratulating her on what she knew was life in chains.
She leaned into her mother for support.
“Momma…” She rasped, watching her father help roll kegs for celebration. “I feel ill.”
Her mom stroked her hair and pulled her to her chest like she did when Thistle was sick as a child. “There there, my love. Let’s take you to bed. You don’t need to watch the commune get drunk. There will be plenty of celebrations for you to attend before you leave for the Springs on your Rite.”
Thistle let her mother lead her down the hall. To her surprise, her mother crawled in bed with her, pulling her close and continuing to stroke her hair. “I’m sorry they found out. I hoped your schooling in Vectrum would shield you from this pain. Now, it is your duty to fulfill the Rite. You must be strong. You must stop running, Thistle.”
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A fat sea lion popped its head above the waves, chattering noisily at Gunthor. It dashed over and under him as the water tumbled them forward. When the swell died down, the animal circled him playfully, goading him towards another wave.
“Not today, you smelly seadog. I ‘ave things to do.” He splashed water at the creature and began paddling towards shore. The sea lion barked in protest but Gunthor ignored it, smiling and shaking his head at its candor with the locals.
When he reached the beach's cool sand, his smile relaxed into a playful smolder, eyes resting on Lappka bathing in the warm sun. They set aside their book and smiled as he approached.
“What’s a scoundrel like you doing with a cute creature like that?”
“Hey now, Lappka, I ain’t no scoundrel. Despite what you’ve heard, I’m a nobleman at heart.”
Lappka raised their eyebrows and burst into laughter.
“A gentleman, Gunthor, not a nobleman. Proof further that you’re no learned folk.”
“Same thing,” He shrugged, a bit embarrassed to confuse the two.
“You don’t need money to be a gentleman, just manners.”
Gunthor grinned widely, plopping down beside them. “I’ve got plenty of manners.”
“HA! If I ever hear a more outrageous lie, I’ll be dead.”
Gunthor leaned forward and planted a sea salt kiss on Lappka’s lips, sprinkling droplets of sand and water over their dress.
“Gunthor!” They squealed, sitting up and slapping him with their book.
Gunthor chortled, springing to his feet and plunging back into the cold water.
To his delight, Lappka followed, their long green hair brushing the waves as they hurtled in after him. He couldn’t help but notice the way their dress clung to their figure when wet, the light material practically see-through when the waves lulled.
Gunthor scanned the beach, grateful it was mostly empty. “Oi, your dress!”
The words caught in his throat as they pulled the fabric off over their head and laughed joyfully as the waves hit their body.
“Hell you doin’!?”
“You don’t own my body, Gunthor Imlack. I can do what I want with it.”
Gunthor couldn’t suppress the smile that crept up his face, grabbing Lappka and swinging them around in the waves. “What about when I marry you?”
White shock spread over Lappka’s sharp features. “What?”
“You heard me,” he whispered, leaning in for a kiss.
They placed a finger over his lips and moved his head back. Gunthor’s heart dropped.
“My body is still my own,” a teasing smile on their lips as they leaned in. “Even after we marry.”
Gunthor closed his eyes in relief, but instead of a kiss, he received a face of water as Lappka dove into the waves. He went to follow when he heard angry yelling from the beach. He recognized the voice of his father in an instant. Clenching his jaw, he turned to see the stocky man standing cross-armed on the shore, glaring in his direction. When they made eye contact he motioned Gunthor to him with a flick of his wrist.
“What is it, Pop?” He asked when he returned to the beach, the air heavy with a cold he hadn’t noticed before.
“Yer sister is dead.”
“What!? What happened? When? How?”
“If you paused yer senseless yapping yud hear how.”
Gunthor stiffened, fighting back the tears that welled behind his eyes. He tried to control himself under his father’s piercing glare, but the look of distaste on his wrinkled features told Gunthor he’d noticed the brimming tears. That would surely be a beating later.
Lappka joined them, dress back on and beach cloth wrapped around them. “Is everything alright?” They asked, steel in their voice.
“Leave us.”
Lappka placed a protective hand on Gunthor’s shoulder. He shook his head. “Haili is dead.”
“This is a family matter. If yuh could fuckin leave us.” his father growled low.
Gunthor didn’t dare move. Two breaths passed as his father and Lappka glared each other down.
Three. Four. He willed Lappka to leave, knowing each breath would be another painful lash of the belt later. Five. Lappka squeezed his shoulder and strode away. He released his held breath, trying his best to look unaffected by the standoff.
“You’ll stop consorting with that asshole 'mediately.”
“Like hell I will!” Gunthor spat, shocked as the words left his lips.
His father grabbed him gruffly by the arm and shoved him to the ground. A kick to the ribcage knocked the air from his lungs. His father squatted and leaned over him. “Yer sister was murdered this mornin’ yeh fuckin’ fool. Now listen to me. Yer to take up her mantle as a Guide. Like it or not, it’s the shit curse our family’s chained to. Get home. Get cleaned up. Say goodbye to yer useless mother and pack yer things.”
Gunthor opened his mouth to protest, but the brute fist of his father connected with his cheek, sending a pain rocketing behind his eyes. He steadied onto all fours, but another blow caused a sickening crack in his cheek and his hands flew to his face, body rolling in the coarse sand. He felt like his eye was going to explode, barely registering his father’s next words.
“Try not to be an embarrassment like yer sister. Killed in her sleep the dumb shit.”
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Check your inboxes in the coming weeks for part two <3
Loved this Anna! I’m intrigued by the characters you’ve introduced us to. Your world-building is beautifully done and I love all the different names of characters and places. Excited to read the next part!
Oooo! How many parts will there be? This is good. Excited to read more!