Polathrin's Ruins

Rozmo fiddled with an instrument on his ledge of the ship. It was overtaken by various pieces of metal and wire that the group had collected over the last year or so. He had a pattern, making sure every piece was set in an order based on size, material and shape. It was so meticulous, most of the group opted to stay away. It suited him well. Rozmo enjoyed the company of others, but he didn’t always want to be around them. It was hard to find inner peace when the outside world demanded so much of you. He preferred solitude sometimes, and he preferred to create things.

He would love to share in his ideas and creations, but no one on the ship was at his level. It wasn’t to demean them, just the truth. Rozmo could recall his first days as a child; he could remember his first steps, his first words, his first food. He could remember nearly every detail of his life, including everything he had read and heard. It was painful, but worth it. It meant that he had the intelligence of his father, of his mother, of complete strangers. He used it to help his sister, who he could never forget. She had been beside him all his life, though sometimes he was more curious about her than the sor in the sky. He did not understand Ramza the way he could understand most anything else, but he couldn’t imagine a single day without her. Perhaps it was because they were twins.

Inseparable. That’s the word they used. No, his sister and him were not alike in the way most twins, or even siblings, are, but they were always together for each other. Rozmo was smart, while Ramza was brave. Rozmo was secure, while Ramza was bold. They were not opposites necessarily, just two pieces of an intricate puzzle that didn’t need a larger picture, at least not yet.

Rozmo created weapons for Ramza; he fixed what he could and discarded what he couldn’t. Every piece was important, but bullets were hard to make, and scraps were scarce. Guns were the hardest to keep up with, but knives and arrows were easier. He helped her with hiding them, aiming with them, maintaining them, and anything else that would keep her alive.

Rozmo was content to stay aboard the ship, but Ramza needed to leave. She was one of the people who traveled for the group’s supplies and information runs. Zak, Akio and Ramza left the ship, Rozmo and Mia did not. The strong were able to venture out, they were able to fight, but Rozmo was far from a real Fighter. He wasn’t even sure he could kill someone if it came to his life or a stranger’s. Ramza certainly didn’t think her brother could hold his own, so she protected him.

The light of the day was fading fast, but a new light had started to rise. Rozmo’s eyes looked out past the end of the stern. Arji’s blue-purple glow was bright as it rose from the darkness of the etray region. The water ready to reflect her perfect glow, and Rozmo sighed as he reminisced a time when the mother planet was a signal for peace and hope. Now it was just an evil planet in the sky; forever baiting the people it deserted.

Rozmo’s vision was impeccable. He had inherited a gift from his father, the ability to adjust his sight to see at a far distance or extremely close. The exact measurements had changed since his father and him had tested his abilities, but Rozmo knew his own skill. Though it wasn’t as good as he would have hoped. Every night he would try to see as far as he could onto Arji, wondering what people and places the surface held safe. Though he couldn’t see anything clear enough, only clouds passing far above water and land. For all he could tell, nobody remained on the planet.

Turning back to two pieces in his hand, he looked close to see where dirt had invaded the trigger of the gun. To the naked eye, it would be impossible to tell what the problem was, but Rozmo merely cleaned it and adjusted the trigger back in its place. The smallest of grains seemed to disturb even the greatest of inventions; one annoyance quickly becoming a problem for the whole device.

Rozmo smiled, but it was contentedness, not happiness. There were few things that made him smile genuinely in this terrible world. He had the group, and he was glad for them, but seeing them all fight to survive was no dream life. Zak was strong, literally stronger than anyone else in the world so far. Zak could punch a person hard enough to split bone, pummel someone to death with only a couple strikes, and lift heavy stone that would normally take a team of five. He was also strong mentally; Zak didn’t doddle with anything that wasn’t immediately important. He was straight forward and honest. It always came down to survival for Zak, and that was all he could think about.

Zak hadn’t always been that way though, even Rozmo could remember a time when their leader was more carefree. Unfortunately, grief had robbed Zak of everything but the breath in his lungs. It was hard to be carefree when the world demanded so much of someone young.

Akio made up for what the others lacked. He was the humor in the group, always trying to keep situations as lively as possible. Rozmo often didn’t understand his jokes, but he tried to go along with them. Akio might have had a bright skin tone, but it was his smile and big heart that lured people toward him. If the world had been different, Akio would have made a great businessman, or perhaps a politician. His comedy helped relieve the group daily from tension and despair.

Outside of his humor, Akio had a skill with his swords. He kept them sharp – just as his father had taught him before The Great Blast. Akio could slice through just about anything with his twin blades, and his agility and balance was unlike anything they’d ever seen. Most Fighters were reckless and chaotic, but Akio glided like a dancer. Part of it was training, as Akio’s father was also a swordsman, but there was something almost inhuman about his skill, just like Zak. There was one time during Akio’s daily training sessions where Rozmo witnessed him balance his entire body on two fingers; it was enough to convince Rozmo that there was something unique about him.

Ramza stood next to them as one of the most cunning. She could see and understand her enemies; she knew where they lacked strength or speed and played against it. She pulled a gun faster than someone could blink, but she was not on the same physical level as Zak and Akio. Rozmo didn’t think it was because his sister was smaller, nor did he believe it was because she was female, but instead because her training began so late. Ramza only picked up weapons around ten or eleven when the need presented itself, where Zak and Akio had started as young as four or five. The boys gained training from life one way or another, where Ramza had only started when the world demanded it.

Rozmo was distant from his sister. He was sure he could eventually catch up physically, but fighting wasn’t where he was needed. Before The Great Blast that ruined Polathrin, he was already considered a genius, and in this world his brain was what he contributed to the group’s survival. He watched for invaders from far off with his vision and worked on the ship and weapons when supplies allowed. He wasn’t proud of the fact that his sister was the one who left to defend the group, but he knew she was far better at it. There was something about doing something out of necessity that drove the two siblings. Rozmo could see the hunger in his sister’s eyes when she left; he knew this was a part of her now.

Rozmo leaned back, suddenly exhausted by his work. The light of Arji was glowing now, consuming the sky as the sor drove Polathrin into darkness. Arji gave off a much different hue. Where the sor was warmth and light and heat, Arji was calm and peaceful and cool.

How could a mother desert her child? Polathrin was a moon to Arji, smaller and dependent in more than one way. Yet the two were separated in a swift motion that still made no sense to Rozmo. He could remember the day perfectly. Nothing was different until the ships departed to Arji – then nothing was ever the same. There were stories all around, Ramza preferred to investigate each, but nothing concrete. Only questions remained, and they would go unanswered.

It didn’t stop Rozmo from staring. What it must be like to live as an adult on the surface; to breathe clean air, to eat fresh food, to sleep deeply. He wondered what it must be like to look up at the sky and see a dirty moon and think nothing of it. Polathrin was destitution and death, but Arji was fuel for imagination; one a dying moon and the other a planet of hope.