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1
ARIE
Iboth long for and detest the light of the sun within this cavern. Its scorching heat would melt me, but at least in death, I might find a better existence than this one.
“How did you sleep, Mother?”
My hoarse voice startles me as it breaks the silence.
I look at the wooden totem beside my bed. It resembles a stereotypical depiction of an elf, far less grotesque than the dark elves I’ve seen in my life. Its carved and hollowed eyes portray a sense of wisdom and its long, flowing hair conveys its age.
Reaching forward, I begin to stroke the wood, running my fingers through its long, entangled hair.
Mother tells me sometimes that she procured it from an orc encampment but won’t explain which god it represents. The oddest thing is, I’ve never known orcs and dark elves to get along, so I sometimes doubt the veracity of her story. If anything, I’ve heard dark elves and orcs hate each other.
But when I challenge her on it, she stays silent, watching me from somewhere in the distance as she reminds me to finish my chores.
I like to pray to every god in the hopes of covering every possible deity. I’d like to ensure I’m honoring the right being and not blaspheming whatever entity this represents because I’ve grown very close to the totem.
But religion has always been a private aspect of Mother’s life, which she has kept to herself. So not knowing any differently, I mostly make up the gods and names, figuring that in all likelihood, the more gods I imagine, the more probable it is that I’m close to the truth.
There’s Ezekiel, the god of hammers. He helped create the world from bundles of branches and piles of stone. He also helps me build shelves on the rock walls of my home. They mostly fall down, because Ezekiel doesn’t like me very much. He makes a lot of snide, underhanded comments.
There’s Warren, the goddess of hope. She’s a quiet goddess who likes the taste of nimond and enjoys my singing voice. She’s also very opinionated and makes no apologies for it. I value her input because she tells me the things I don’t want to hear but need to.
Harold, the water god, is a bitter deity. It hasn’t rained much lately, and the water I get from him is usually filled with filth. Sometimes it makes me very sick, but it’s far better than dying from thirst.
I’ve seen people slowly die from thirst. I struggle to think of a more miserable experience than that.
I could bore myself, just listing off all the gods I’ve created. Sometimes, I do. It’s an easy way to fall asleep…
There’s also Bornt, the god of wood. There’s Laron, the goddess of unfortunate tripping, and Trinity, the goddess of lies and misdirection…
“No,” I say aloud. “What would Mother think?”
I shake my head.
I cannot fall asleep again. I’m moments away from starvation. I can feel my stomach gurgling but still haven’t decided what I’ll eat today.
I don’t even know what I’m going to feed Mother. And she’s counting on me to provide.
Though I try to pry myself free from bed, I struggle to find motivation as I watch the damp rock ceiling dripping onto the floor. My pail is overflowing, which means that today I may not suffer from thirst.
I gaze at the other bed, empty and unmade, inches away from me. Mother watches me calmly, surveying me from where she stands at the entrance to the cavern. Rags and various articles that one might mistake for clothing litter the floor.
Roots block out the sunlight, always weaving thickly inward, no matter how many times I cut it down. I’d like to find where they’re drawing their water, suspecting it must be from somewhere overhead.
“Oh, Mother,” I say. “You always were such a slob.”
I chuckle. “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of this.”
The mess is enough motivation for me. I stand up and then begin to make the bed, tidily laying out the sheets and folding the clothes that lay on the floor.
In moving forward, I jump as my bare feet touch the leathery flesh of a chirops, which flies upward in a frenzy. It disappears somewhere in the cavern, its brown fur perfectly camouflaging it among the rocks and sand.
“Son of a worg!”
I catch my breath, looking back at the mess on the floor. Thankfully, it’s free from chirops waste.
