THE REALM JUMPER’S OFFER

I wake to a splitting headache with dried blood in my hair.

The damp, mildew smell of the dirt cell.

The loud shouting as the door opens.

Someone is shoved in, bringing me out of my stupor.

As the man turns around, I realize it is the son of my clan’s enemy, Vorn.

“Guard, guard,” Vorn yells while hitting the door, “you have many cells. Put me in another. I refuse to be contained with him!”

“Vorn, calm yourself, they will not move you.”

“Do not address me like you know me, Zekk. Our families have been at war for generations,” Vorn replies. “Because your grandfather stole my grandfather’s intended.”

“I know! Our family feud is not new to me. I cannot stand your blubbering!”

This is not my day.

I would rather be home than stuck here with my enemy… my head bleeding and hurting.

Vorn is not the warrior I am.

I entered battle years before he did, even though we were born the same spring.

“Oh, shut up! My head is already splitting. But I am about to bust you in the mouth.”

Before Vorn can reply, the sounds of boots strike stone near our cell.

The man—with the guards—enters our cell.

I see that the Realm Jumper—is lacking.

He is small and pale.

He looks like a sickly child.

The elders warned us about this.

Pale, sickly, and slight stature are signs of the black magic it takes to realm jump—jumping from realm to realm.

He is unnatural and weak.

Disgusting!

As he walks forward through his guards, entering our cell, he states:

“Sons of Othzekh, I came to Othzekh, your realm of warriors. I am gathering my army. I offer you a choice—join my ranks, or rot like milk in the sun. I will have you join me for supper. Decide by then!”

The door slams with a bone-shaking finality.

We look to each other knowingly.

“I know that look. I have seen it in battle. What are you planning?”

“Well, this Realm Jumper threatens our home. We must come to a truce. Even temporarily, to take him down!” I speak.

Our arms raise to clasp in a warrior’s embrace.

Wrist to wrist, hands clasped around each other’s arms, with index fingers over a pulsing vein.

A warrior’s embrace gives you a slice of the truth.

With a finger on a pulsing vein—if they try to lie, their pulse will race—even if their face stays neutral.

So far, Vorn is being honest and honorable—my hope is for him to stay this way.

“Survival sometimes depends on uniting with those you were taught to hate,” Vorn says. “I guess you are the lesser of two evils.”

“Agreed. My thoughts are we accept his offer, while looking for a way out.”

“Did you notice the look of disdain in those guards’ eyes? It seems they cannot stand him.

Why would they work for him?”

“I am sure they fear him. Realm jumping takes a lot of power.”

“We should rest a bit. Supper will be sooner than we think.”

***

We wake to our cell door screeching the way only rusty metal can.

Two guards call us forward.

“Come, Sons of Othzekh, it is suppertime,” the larger guard says.

“Once we are upstairs, we can take you to wash up, so your sullen clothes and blood-caked hair do not ruin the appetite of Lord Vagus Veilis.”

“Hurry it up!”

We enter a meager dining room, if you could call it that.

Having only a wooden table and four chairs, with one candle.

The small guard stays by the door.

“Captain, bring them and come sit. I am starving,” says Lord Veilis.

We sit across from each other.

The guard sits across from Lord Veilis.

“Let us eat.”

Vorn fills his plate.

I watch to see what the guard goes for first.

He takes some roast with carrots, celery, and potatoes, pouring brown gravy over it all.

Grabs two rolls.

Then begins eating.

Lord Veilis takes small portions of several dishes.

I get the same as the guard.

I hear my own heartbeat over the scraping of forks to plates, and manly mastication.

At least the food tastes good, the roast and veggies are tender even if the gravy is too salty.

That is until Lord Veilis stops eating to blow his nose.

Which is my opening to motion to Vorn.

It is time!

This must work—he can’t know what we’re planning.

I signal Vorn silently.

Vorn tenses, grips his knife.

“That is—it! I will kill you, Vorn!” I exclaim.

The guard jumps up at the same time, looking confused.

Vorn stands with his knife in his hand.

Lord Veilis stays seated.

“Guard, kill them both if you must,” says Lord Veilis, looking annoyed.

“You know it can be another way. We have a choice,” I say.

A bead of sweat runs down Vorn’s temple.

“Never, I will not fight with you! Only against you,” says Vorn, side-stepping toward the guard away from me.

While the guard is getting out from between us, he steps toward Lord Veilis.

The guard hesitates, shifts his weight.

His hand twitches near his sword.

Lord Veilis notices but makes no sudden move to react.

I take a careful step toward Lord Veilis.

Vorn shifts closer to the guard—knife raised, eyes locked on the guard.

My pulse thunders in my ears.

If I misstep, it’s over.

The guard blinks, uncertain.

I inch closer, hand trembling slightly, waiting for the perfect moment.

“Enough! Have you decided to join my ranks?” Lord Veilis asks.

“No!” Vorn and I shout, in unison.

“Guards seize them!”

The captain pulls his sword from his sheath.

“Lieutenant, stay put. I will handle this!”

Vorn makes it to my side.

Just as we were going to kill Lord Veilis, the captain’s sword pricks through his back.

“We resign from duty!” says the captain, as Lord Veilis sputters blood all over his plate.

The captain retrieves his sword from Lord Veilis.

The smaller guard joins us.

“Well, that was a surprise. We were about to do that,” says Vorn, breaking the stare-off.

“He must have deserved it,” I say.

“Yes, very much so. He came to our realm and did the same. His army was so small they snuck into our village and killed our family. We are the only two left, this is my little brother,” the captain explains.

“Now, about this temporary truce,” Vorn says.

“Not this again.”

“Nah, when I said—'Survival sometimes depends on uniting with those you were taught to hate’—taught me that we really are more alike than I would have thought,” Vorn admits.

“Our families will not agree, but I see your point. Thanks for at least trying.”

“We could help with that. It looks like we will be staying.”

Then we leave—and for the first time, I do not see only an enemy.

Aubrey Coop hails from the mountains of Utah. When she’s not writing, she's spending time with her husband, five children and dogs, reading, or fishing making jewelry. She's pursuing a B.A. in Creative Writing at Full Sail University.