TravelingDreamer
patreon
B4—Chapter 34: A Chasm of Joy and Sorrow
🕑 Added 2024-11-03 07:18:07 +0000 UTCWhen night fell, we turned invisible and made our way to the residential area to distribute the food. Before setting out, we’d sketched a rough map of the slums, dividing the areas among us to cover. Each of us took a section to make sure we missed nothing. But as soon as I reached my assigned area, I knew I wouldn’t be able to do my part. The residents were celebrating—not in the usual way, no food or drink passed around, no music filled the air—but it was unmistakably a celebration. They talked in excited voices, and their movements didn’t have the usual heaviness. They hugged each other and exclaimed enthusiastically, sharing looks of victory and relief.
I listened closely, catching fragments of conversations. The story unfolded in bits and pieces, but it didn’t take long to piece it together. The prince had died that night during the attack on the palace, along with a lot of his enforcers. Those who escaped had met their end at the hands of the Silk District’s residents. It had been a full purge.
I could understand the slum dwellers. I’d seen their lives, their daily grind just to survive in conditions no one should endure. The twisted price necessary to join the prince’s enforcers was terrible. Having to kill your own child or abandon your family to demonstrate loyalty and get a chance at a better life was monstrous. To these people, the enforcers weren’t just enemies; they were the worst monsters they knew, a reminder of everything taken from them. But still—they were people.
When we left the palace, I looked at the bodies, scattered like discarded garbage around the palace walls—forty, maybe even fifty, slumped in unnatural poses, lifeless. Their empty eyes starring unseeing at the sky. That sight alone had been hard enough to digest. But seeing the residents celebrate this mass death, no matter who the fallen had been, struck me hard. I couldn’t join them in celebrating such slaughter.
Even though I hadn’t killed any of these people with my own hands, in a way, every dead body lying around the palace was on me. Because of what we did, a fight started that spread to the palace and started a chain of violence that killed all these people. I found it hard to accept the truth. It weighed heavily on my chest and wouldn't leave. I killed people before, to protect myself or others, but this was different. The scale was different. More staggering.
I could only hope that whoever filled the empty seat of power would make things better so that the people could see a glimpse of actual change. If all this violence and death could make their lives better in some way, then maybe—just maybe—they could hold on to a thin thread of comfort. Something good to come from all this death.
I flew over to the wealthy part of the city, hoping that maybe the quiet night air would help clear my head. But as I got closer, I realized there were celebrations here too. Only this side of the city had an entirely different atmosphere. The smells were almost overwhelming—rich scents of roasted meats and spiced foods drifted through the streets, wafting from grand houses and mansions. People strolled about with crystal glasses in hand, their drinks sparkling under the soft glow of lanterns strung high above. Musicians filled the place with music, playing lively tunes that echoed down the alleys, weaving an atmosphere of joy and indulgence that permeated every corner. It was as if the entire city had erupted into a grand festival, buzzing with energy and laughter.
Yet, each burst of laughter, each clink of glasses, felt like it grated on my nerves, pressing into my thoughts like sharp, jagged knives. The sounds were jarring, almost mocking in their cheerfulness. They clashed with the images that still lingered in my mind from the slums—the quiet, haunted celebration, where there’d been no food or music, only hushed voices and the occasional tight embrace. There, they had celebrated survival, a slight relief from a lifetime of fear, their joy muted, contained. Theirs was the joy of simply existing, of having lived to see another day.
But here, in the wealthier streets, they were reveling in luxury and newfound freedom, their voices carefree, their eyes bright with the thrill of victory. It was as though I was in two different worlds. The divide between them was so sharp, a chasm of understanding that mere proximity couldn’t bridge. These people had never known the pain the slum dwellers lived with every day. They never went hungry, didn’t lose children to disease or monstrous demands. They didn’t beg for rotten vegetables.
Their celebrations felt foreign, even intrusive, each laugh and clink of glass widening the gulf between the two. And somehow, it only made me feel worse. These people were celebrating too, but their joy had nothing to do with the chance of a better life. They were just reveling in the absence of the power that had kept them in check. As if it was a victory worth toasting with fine wine., to the sound of cheerful music.
This was their world, and as I hovered above it, I felt like an outsider. Out of place among the laughter and the lights. The weight of those lifeless bodies and hollow stares sitting on my chest and crushing my conscience. The vibrant music and voices faded into a dull buzz in the background as I realized just how deep the divide ran—not just in the city, but in everything we had done here.
I found myself on the roof across from the palace—the same one where Mahya had fired the first shot. The memories were still raw, so close I could almost feel the tension of that night in the cold stone beneath me. I hugged my knees, pulled them close to my chest, and lowered my head on my hands. And finally, I released the iron hold I had on my emotions since the previous night, and my tears fell. The sounds of celebration faded into the background, leaving only the silence of the night and the pin in my chest.
I hate this world!
I wanted to shout it from the rooftop, grab Rue, and get the hell out of here. A big supply of cores wasn’t worth this. Sitting there quietly, my tears falling and wetting my arms, I tried to bring myself under control. I sat there for a very long time, processing everything I saw since we came to the city. Not only the previous night, but everything. The conditions in the slums, the funeral we attended, Cloud’s sort of betrayal, the deaths and the resulting parties.
When dawn broke over the horizon, painting the city in soft pinks and oranges, I sat there, letting the quiet light wash over me. In that stillness, I made a resolution: we wouldn’t get tangled up in the troubles of this world again. At least, I wouldn’t. This wasn’t our world—its struggles and burdens weren’t ours to carry. The responsibility to fix things, to find a way forward, belonged to its own people. They knew the nuances, the hidden threads connecting power and survival, better than we ever could.
We were outsiders here, strangers in a place whose history we barely understood. The meeting with the mothers had made that painfully clear. We might step in with the best intentions, but intentions only go so far when you’re blind to the full picture. How could we ever presume to know the right course of action in a world where we hadn’t lived, where we couldn’t fully grasp the consequences of every choice?
The weight lifted, just a little, as I accepted that sometimes walking away wasn’t failure—it was an acknowledgment of our own boundaries, a recognition that we couldn’t take on a world’s worth of problems. Yes, I’d still help if I came across someone in need, a sick person in pain or a child with nothing to eat. I wouldn’t turn my back on individuals who crossed my path. But stepping in to tackle the larger issues? That wasn’t on me. It wasn’t on us. Our efforts resulted in stirring up chaos instead of solving the problem.
Even now, the celebrations in every corner of the city suggested that maybe, just maybe, we had helped. Perhaps we’d opened the door to something better, or at least to the chance that things could improve. But that didn’t change the fact that this wasn’t our world, or diminished the price in human life. And while there might be a certain satisfaction in knowing we’d created the possibility of change, it still wasn’t our place to shape this world’s future.
No, it wasn’t my place. I couldn’t let myself forget that, no matter how tempting it was to think otherwise.
Comments
TravelingDreamer
Keep reading
JJB4345_80_815
Thank you for the chappy! Dumb question: Did John distribute the food?
Angela Roberts
Mmm. I don't think John was ever a murderhobo and I don't think Al and Mahya are either. I do think Al and Mahya are more realistic, probably from having traveled more worlds, and already knew that their biases, were just that, their biases. But that they acted any way at the proof of evil is to their credit. John really does have a savior complex which just got a reality check. I don't think Al or Mahya had many illusions about long term change, a hope maybe, and they both come from worlds where death doesn't hold the same weight as earth (although, seriously, looking at Earth's history? Not sure most Earth humans do either.)
TravelingDreamer
🙏
Faces The Wind
Thank you, Traveling Dreamer, for making John more than a murder hobo. This pause to consider the consequences and wrestle with morality is a rare and wonderful thing in this genre. Bravo!
Faces The Wind
Talk about hard lessons.
Danielle Warvel
Good character development. John is getting more and more wise.
