Phoenix of the Ashes: Asche

CHAPTER 3

Jorg had been sick, and his fever was worse than ever. Asche had barely been able to comfort him, knowing that the burden of their lives had reached its peak. He had no ware to sell. That meant no more customers.

When he entered the cave, the fire that had flickered weakly earlier was nothing but embers. The wind outside had begun to pick up, blowing cold drafts through the cracks. Asche stood there for a moment, watching the dim shadows dance across the walls. He wasn't sure if it was his tears that blurred his vision or the thick weight of despair, but he couldn't seem to focus on anything for long.

Their father coughed violently. Asche sighed and dragged himself to grab food from the pot and propped his father on his lap to feed. After his father woke up and ate the food, he reached out to take the medicine he kept by the side of the bed and found that all the bottles were empty.

He sighed. Of all times, it had to finish today.

Asche gently placed his father's head down, careful not to wake him, before grabbing the small money box from the stone ledge above the stove. The room was silent save for the crackling of the dying fire, and the weight of the evening pressed heavily on his shoulders as he set out.

The streets were dimly lit, the marketplace nearly deserted. Most vendors were packing up their stalls, casting wary glances at him as he passed. Asche kept his head down, his steps quick but unsteady, until he reached Geo's Medicines. The shop was a small, unassuming place, but the acrid smell of chemicals and the faint glimmer of light through the window made it unmistakable.

He pushed open the door, a small bell jingling to announce his arrival. The cold draft he brought in mingled with the sharp, pungent scents of the shop. Rows of jars and bottles lined the shelves, their contents ranging from innocuous powders to preserved body parts. The eyeballs, in particular, seemed to follow Asche as he moved, making his skin crawl.

"Mr. Geo?" Asche called softly, peeking around the rows of shelves. The chemist was hunched over a table at the back, his ginger hair catching the dim light as he carefully poured a viscous blue liquid into a glass vial. His hands were steady, his concentration absolute.

"Hello, Mr. Geo," Asche tried again, louder this time.

Geo flinched, his hand jerking slightly before he steadied it again. He turned to look at Asche, irritation flickering in his otherwise composed features. "Don't speak when I'm mixing," he said, his voice firm but not unkind.

"Sorry," Asche muttered, lowering his gaze. He shifted awkwardly as Geo secured the flask in a holder and wiped his hands on a rag. The chemist's movements were deliberate, his expression unreadable as he walked to the front, Asche trailing behind him.

Geo grabbed a ledger and began to write, ignoring Asche's presence for several tense minutes. Finally, with a low sigh, he set the pen down and fixed Asche with a steady gaze.

"You're still here?"

Asche swallowed hard. "I need another dose of hyremenia. I have the money this time." He fumbled with his pouch, pulling out the coins with a desperate urgency.

Geo's brows furrowed, his face hardening. "Asche, you can't keep doing this."

Asche froze. "Please, Mr. Geo."

"Asche," Geo interrupted, his tone sharp. "You know... what he's done. To you. To… everyone. And you still went ahead and lied to me."

Geo's words struck deep. Asche's heart sank. He had lied about the recipient of the hyremenia before, but Geo had found out.

"Please," Asche tried again, his voice trembling. "It's only a month. I won't come back for more after this—"

Geo sighed, frustrated running a hand through his hair. "And what happens after that month, Asche? What then?"

Asche couldn't answer. His silence seemed to weigh on Geo, who leaned back against the counter, his expression clouded with something that looked like regret.

"You are asking..." Geo said quietly. "You're asking me to help the man who… who took Mirella from us." His voice cracked. "Asche, are you trying to torment me?"

Asche's face twisted in pain at the mention of his mother. "I have the money," he said, thrusting the pouch forward.

Geo's eyes flicked to the fancy pouch, his lips pressing into a thin line. "Is this from Kael?" he asked, his voice tinged with bitterness. "I've been hearing interesting rumours about your frequent visits to his house. Care to explain?"

The question stung, but Geo's voice lacked the venom it might have carried before. He looked at Asche for a long moment, his expression torn between anger and anguish. Asche's shame confirmed what he didn't want to know.

"I can't believe you would---," Geo murmured, his voice cracking slightly before he quickly masked it. "You always bravely come here to buy. Couldn't you bravely do the same to take money if you were desperate?"

Asche's hand lowered, his knuckles white as he clutched the pouch. Tears burned in his eyes, but he refused to let them fall. He wished he could do as Geo said, eat Geo's food and spend time with him, but his hands were tied.

"I can't stop you," Geo said finally, his voice weary but edged with frustration. "But this is the last time. Ten gold."

"What?" Asche's voice cracked. "It was two gold last time!"

"Then leave," Geo said simply, though his tone carried a weight of resignation.

Desperation clawed at Asche as he dumped the contents of the pouch onto the counter. His fingers trembled as he counted the coins Feather had given him. He had just enough.

Wordlessly, he pushed the coins toward Geo, who swept them into a drawer and began packing a large prescription.

"Here," Geo said, placing the package into Asche's hands. His expression softened briefly, and he hesitated before adding, "Take care of yourself, Asche. And think about what you're doing."

Asche's head snapped up, his eyes wide with surprise, but Geo had already turned away, returning to his workbench.

Outside, the night was colder than before. Asche paused by the shop's window, his breath fogging the glass. His heart sank further as he spotted a familiar figure standing in the shadows across the street—one of his father's goons, watching him with a predatory gaze. The man's presence was a stark reminder of the chains Asche could not yet break.

Clutching the package tighter, Asche turned away and hurried into the night, the weight of his choices pressing heavier with each step.

Outside, the cold bit into him, but it didn't cut as deeply as the shame. Each step felt heavier than the last, his mind replaying Geo's words on an endless loop.

She's watching you from heaven… Why didn't she kill you when you were born?

A single, intrusive thought clawed its way to the forefront. Maybe I shouldn't have been born at all.

Asche stopped in the middle of the street, the package almost slipping from his grip as his knees buckled. He sank to the ground, unable to breathe, unable to think beyond the oppressive weight crushing his chest.

It would be easier… if I just… disappeared.

Returning home walked over to the small, battered table, picking up the bowl of untouched food he had prepared for Jorg. The smell of it filled the air, but it only made him sick. With trembling hands, he set the bowl down and began writing.

Jorg,

By the time you read this, I will be gone. I know this will hurt you, but I have nothing left to give. Take what's left—my money, the stall, whatever you can sell. There is someone named Feather in Borden. He's a kind soul and will help you. He's a friend of mine, and I trust him more than anyone else. Please, Jorg... leave this cursed place. Leave our father to rot and start fresh. This is my final wish.

Love,

Asche.

Next, he wrote the letter to Feather. His handwriting was shaky, the weight of the moment pressing down on him, but his words were clear and precise.

Feather,

If you get this please take care of my brother, Jorg. I am writing this for I am placing trust in our friendship. It's the only thing I can do for him. I don't have much to give him, but I'm sure he'll be safe with you. He's young, and he's not strong. He's been through too much. I ask this as my last wish. Keep him from becoming like me.

Asche.

With the letters finished, Asche laid Jorg's on the table next to the small stack of silvers he had left, the few coins that remained from his desperate trip to Brymoor. He didn't need them anymore.

He knelt by Jorg's pallet, his younger brother caught in the grip of a fevered sleep, murmuring incoherently. Asche brushed a damp curl from Jorg's forehead and pressed a kiss there, lingering for a moment as though trying to leave a piece of himself behind.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, the words trembling in the still air.

The cave felt impossibly small as he stepped outside like the life he had tried to hold together was suffocating him. The guilt clawed at his chest, but it wasn't enough to turn him back. The path ahead was clearer now than it had ever been, etched with a finality he could no longer fight.

The journey to Brymoor stretched out in hours, though Asche hardly noticed the time. The road blurred, the world dim and colourless as though it, too, shared his resignation. At the outskirts of the town, he found a courier and handed over Feather's letter, its folds heavy with everything he couldn't say aloud. He didn't wait to see the courier leave—he couldn't.

Instead, he wandered further into the town until he saw a secluded pond revealed itself on the edge of the woods, the water unnervingly still, reflecting the gray sky like a polished mirror. He walked into the clearing, his eyes set on the deep water that promised an end to everything.

He jumped.

The icy shock of the water enveloped him, and he pushed further, letting the cold creep up his body until it consumed him entirely. Asche's body felt like it was sinking as he struggled to breathe.He stopped struggling, letting the current cradle him, pulling him toward the quiet he longed for.

Then, in the distance, he heard a voice—a soft voice, almost like an echo in his mind.

"Hey! Are you alright?"

Before he could answer, strong hands gripped his shoulders, pulling him from the water with such force it sent a shock through his aching body. His head broke the surface, and he gasped for air, coughing and sputtering as cold water poured from his mouth.

A man, older with a grizzled face and a kind, yet firm expression, was holding him steady. 

"Don't try to move, lad," the man said. "You're not well."

Asche tried to lift his hands to steady himself, but his arms felt like they were made of lead. The man didn't let go, keeping him steady, his voice a steady anchor in the chaos.

"Don't… don't…" Asche rasped, struggling to sit up, his body still trembling with cold. He tried to push himself upright, but his legs buckled under him, and he collapsed back into the man's arms.

"Easy there," the man muttered. "I've got you." Asche's vision blurred, the world spinning. He wanted to push away, wanted to be left alone, but the warmth of the stranger's grip was the only thing holding him together. The man didn't ask questions. He simply moved, pulling Asche towards the shore with practised ease.

When they reached the edge of the pond, the man helped him sit, supporting him as Asche leaned against a weathered crate nearby. The cold wind cut through him, but it wasn't the chill that made his teeth rattle. It was the exhaustion, the fever that burned through him like fire.

"Stay with me now," the man said, his voice low but commanding. "It's okay."

Asche barely registered the words, his head spinning. He shut his eyes, sinking into the man's shoulder, too weak to protest. It was only then that he felt the warmth of another presence. A young woman knelt beside him, her hands gentle as she pressed a damp cloth to his forehead.

"Just stay still," she whispered, her tone soothing, almost maternal. "We'll get you somewhere warm." Despite the fever that clouded his thoughts, Asche felt a vague sense of relief. The pain in his body didn't stop, but the people around him didn't seem to care. They were focused on one thing—getting him back on his feet. The woman motioned to the older man. 

"Liam, we need to get him back to the market. He's too sick to stay out here. Let's get him where we can watch him." The man nodded and gently lifted Asche, supporting him with surprising ease. They moved quickly, the town of Brymoor bustling around them. It was as if Asche had simply vanished into the background of their day-to-day lives, his existence no more than a fleeting moment.

When they arrived at the market, the woman, whose name he now realized was Lena, directed Liam to a small corner near a stall. A soft mattress was spread out under a canopy, the sun still bright in the early morning. Lena sat next to him, wiping his brow with the cloth, her face set in concentration. 

"Rest, alright? You're safe now." The quiet hum of the market faded into the background as Asche lay back, too weak to keep his eyes open. The last thing he saw before succumbing to exhaustion was Lena's concerned face and the steady presence of Liam, standing watch over him. He woke some time later, the fever still burning but now accompanied by the distant chatter of the market. He was no longer in the cold of the pond, but nestled under a thick blanket, the sounds of the world outside muffled. Lena was sitting beside him, a small bowl of broth in her hands. She glanced up when he stirred, her face softening. "How are you feeling?" Asche didn't respond.

The hours passed, and Asche found himself drifting in and out of consciousness, the noise of the bustling market blending into a soft murmur around him. He barely noticed the first few people approach, until he felt a light tap on his shoulder. It was an elderly man with a hunched back, wearing a patchwork cloak and holding a small bundle of dried herbs. His hands were weathered, but his eyes were warm. He kneeled beside Asche with a knowing look.

"I saw what you went through yesterday, boy," the man said softly. "These will help ease the pain. A bit of rest, and you'll feel better soon." Lena took the herbs, thanking him quietly, and the man gave Asche a nod before slowly rising to leave. As he shuffled away, another figure approached—a young woman with baskets of fruit balanced on her hips. She smiled faintly when she saw Asche's still form and walked over to the cot.

"I don't have much," she said gently, placing a small bag of dried apples on the ground beside him. "But these might help with your strength. I hope you're doing better." Asche tried to speak, but his throat was too dry. Instead, he gave her a weak smile, and she offered him a nod of reassurance before leaving with the same quiet grace.

One by one, people stopped by, each offering a little something from their stalls: a bit of bread here, some honey there, a small pouch of salt, a few herbs to soothe the mind, a bit of warm cloth for comfort. There was no talk of repayment or obligation, just the silent understanding that Asche needed help—no questions asked.

Lena stood at his side, making sure to organize everything, laying out the food and supplies carefully on the nearby table. Her hands were calm, her actions smooth as she continued to care for him, watching the steady stream of people who came and went, offering their small gifts without hesitation.

Even Liam, the older man who had rescued him from the pond, came back after a while, this time with a flask of warm, fragrant tea. "I know you can't eat much," he said quietly, handing Lena the flask. "But a little warmth will help." Lena gave Asche a sip, the hot liquid sliding down his throat and offering a bit of relief. He didn't know what to say. It was all so overwhelming—kindness from strangers, from people who didn't ask for anything in return, who simply saw a boy in need and did what they could to help. Then, a sudden rush of frantic footsteps broke through the haze.

"Asche!"

Jorg burst into the stall, his face flushed and his hands trembling as he gripped the edge of the stall. His wide eyes were filled with fear, scanning the area as though he feared Asche would disappear if he looked away for too long. Without a word, Jorg dropped to his knees beside his brother, his small hands shaking as they hovered over Asche, unsure of where to touch him. The panic in his eyes was evident, and the weight of what he didn't understand pressed down on him. Asche struggled to lift his head, his vision blurry, and his body too weak to comply. He winced, unable to meet Jorg's gaze at first. The sight of his little brother, so full of worry, made his chest tighten with guilt.

"Jorg…" Asche's voice cracked, barely a whisper.

Jorg didn't respond with words, his eyes just frantic as they searched Asche's face for any sign of clarity. He glanced around the market stall, still trying to make sense of what had happened.

"I ran all the way here," Jorg's chest heaved, and his hands balled into fists. "I thought you were gone... I thought—" He couldn't finish the thought. Instead, he reached for his brother's hand, his grip firm despite his small fingers trembling.

Asche's heart twisted as Jorg's face crumpled in fear. It wasn't until Jorg's eyes darted to the stall keeper, who hesitated before saying. "We found him drowning in the pond." It hit him—Jorg understood now. His face went pale. He didn't speak, but his hands began to shake violently as he clung to Asche. Fear, panic, and something more—anger—burned in his eyes. Jorg's breath came in sharp gasps, his panic turning into a desperate, wordless plea for Asche to wake up from whatever dark place he'd fallen into.

Jorg didn't notice the people helping; he couldn't take his eyes off Asche. His brother's brokenness was unbearable to watch.

In the midst of the silence, Jorg's anger surged, but it wasn't directed outward. His small hands gripped Asche tightly, his face buried in his brother's side as he choked back tears. There was no need for words anymore. The reality of what nearly happened sank in, the raw emotion cutting deeper than anything Jorg could say.

Asche's chest tightened with guilt as he felt the weight of Jorg's emotions, the little brother who had loved him so fiercely, now clinging to him as though he could hold him together. Slowly, Asche's shaking hand reached out, brushing Jorg's hair with a feeble touch.

"I'm so sorry…" Asche whispered, his voice barely audible.

The walk back home was silent, the weight of the past days hanging heavily between them. Asche's body was weak, and Jorg, still shaken by everything, didn't know what to say. The fear, the confusion, the anger—they all sat heavy on his small shoulders, but he didn't know how to voice it. Asche was silent too, exhausted both physically and emotionally, his own thoughts a tangled mess.

When they reached their small home, Jorg didn't question Asche about the events of the day. Instead, he simply followed his brother, trying to make sure that Asche didn't collapse under his own weight. The house was as cold as it had always been, the fire in the hearth long since died out. Jorg lit a new one, quietly, and set about making a meagre meal with what little they had left.

For a week, the two of them lived in a quiet routine. They didn't talk much. Jorg would help Asche when he could, handing him bits of food, making sure he rested, and occasionally watching him with those wide, innocent eyes that still carried too much worry.

Asche, for his part, tried to keep himself busy with making food from the donations they'd gotten. Jorg looked up at his older brother with a hesitant frown.

"Asche," he started, his voice soft but unsure. "Why don't we sell food now? You're a darn good cook!" Asche froze, his gaze focused on the small plate in front of him. For a long moment, he didn't speak, as though the statement itself had caught him off guard. He'd never thought about it.

Jorg's eyes were earnest, filled with a childlike hope that maybe, just maybe, this would make things better. "I think people would buy food," he added, a little more insistently now. "It's something everyone needs, right?"

Asche finally looked up at him, his expression thoughtful. The idea of selling food wasn't a new one, but it was different from the stall he had set up before. It was simpler. People didn't need to gossip about food. They just needed to eat.

"Maybe," Asche said softly. He pushed his plate away and stood, his legs a little unsteady but stronger than before. "Maybe we'll try that. It's not much, but it's a start." Jorg's face lit up, his small chest puffing with a mix of relief and excitement at Asche's response.

"You mean it?" Asche smiled weakly, his heart aching at the sight of his brother's joy. 

"Yeah. We'll give it a shot, Jorg." And just like that, a small, simple plan took shape between them. They would sell food, something people couldn't turn away from so easily.

It turned out Jorg's idea was brilliant. The profit wasn't as great, but they were selling better. Plus it helped Asche take his mind off things. Asche was busy stirring the pot of food when a sudden voice called out to him, cutting through the noise of the market.

"Asche! There you are!"

Asche froze, his eyes darting up. Through the crowd, a familiar figure appeared, but something was off.

Asche recognised him. Feather!

Feather was dressed well—too well for what Asche was used to — and his usually carefree and cheery demeanour was replaced with an expression of concern, worry, and something else—something darker.

Feather's servant trailed behind him, looking silently observant, but it was clear that Feather had come alone with one purpose: to find Asche.

"Asche," Feather said again, his voice low and urgent now as he hurried toward the stall, his eyes scanning Asche's face. "I've been looking for you everywhere. I didn't expect to find you here... I thought—" He stopped short, his words caught in his throat.

Asche felt his heart race as he saw the look in Feather's eyes. He wasn't sure what was going on, but Feather wasn't acting like his usual self. There was a weight to the air, and Asche didn't know how to feel about it.

"Feather?" Asche asked, his voice quiet but wary. Feather paused, eyes flickering to Jorg standing silently by the stall. It was clear that Jorg didn't fully understand what was happening. Feather took a deep breath, trying to steady himself.

"Jorg, is everything okay?" he asked, his voice much softer now as he turned to the little boy. But Jorg didn't say anything—his face still worried, unsure of what to say. Feather's gaze shifted back to Asche. He took a step forward, eyes full of concern. "I… I found the letter, Asche. The one you wrote." His voice faltered slightly. "You didn't... you didn't tell me what you were planning, but I thought—"

"Ah, that one."

"The one you left for Jorg," Feather continued, his voice thick with emotion. "It didn't say everything, but I... I saw the signs. And I thought—" He paused again, his emotions raw. "I thought you had... I thought you were going to—" Feather's voice cracked, but he swallowed hard and took another deep breath, forcing his words through the tightness in his chest. "I thought you tried to end it." Feather stepped back, his expression softening slightly as he processed everything. He knew how stubborn Asche could be, but there was something weighing on his mind.

"So," Feather said, his voice still low but filled with concern. "Why didn't you come to me for help? You know I've always got your back, right?" He paused, rubbing the back of his neck, clearly trying to choose his words carefully. Asche's breath caught at the question, his hands fumbling at the edge of the stall. The truth was that the thought of asking anyone for help—let alone Feather—had never crossed his mind. It wasn't that he didn't trust Feather, but… well, there was too much pride, too much guilt. And more than that, he hadn't even known about Feather's wealth. He shook his head, a bitter laugh escaping his lips. 

"I didn't even know you had money," Asche said, his voice quiet but edged with frustration. "All this time, I thought you were just like me—struggling, barely making it. You always dressed like... like us, so I just thought…" He trailed off, rubbing his face with one hand, exhausted. "I thought you were just another one of the people I should try to protect, not someone who could help me."

Feather's face faltered. More customers flocked to Asche's stall.

"Can we meet when you close?" Feather observed. 

"Why not?"

As the sun began to set and Asche was packing up his stall. His body ached from the long hours of standing and the exhaustion of the past few weeks. Jorg, tired as well, was helping him wrap up the remaining goods, folding up the cloth and securing the baskets.

Feather approached just as Asche finished the last bit of cleaning. He had been keeping to the edges of the market, watching from a distance, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. He didn't want anyone to start asking questions. As much as he wanted to help Asche in every way he could, he couldn't afford to have rumors spread about their friendship. Not yet.

"I'll take you back now," Feather said as he stepped into view. His voice was steady, calm. But there was a faint edge to it, something unspoken. Asche gave him a tired nod, though the gesture wasn't lost on Feather—he could see how much it had taken out of his friend.

"Thanks for the help," Asche muttered, starting to load up the last of the things into a small cart Feather had come with. Jorg, who had been watching them quietly, looked up at Feather with a grateful expression. 

"Thank you for being here, Feather," he said softly, his eyes still wide with a mix of exhaustion and relief. Feather smiled gently, patting Jorg's head. "Of course. I promised to look out for you, didn't I?" Jorg's confusion was evident.

By the time they made their way to the outskirts of Baelridge, the light had dimmed and the streets were quieter. Asche's heart felt a little lighter with each passing step, but a part of him remained guarded. Feather stopped the cart at the edge of the town, just out of sight of the main road leading into the heart of Baelridge. It was a discreet location, far enough from prying eyes. He didn't want anyone recognizing him—not yet. No one could know that the humble young man in front of them was the Duke's son.

Asche and Jorg dismounted, their tired legs feeling the strain of the day. Feather stepped forward, his face serious now. "Here," he said, pulling out a leather pouch. He pressed it into Asche's hands.

Asche's fingers curled around it, surprised by the weight. "What's this?"

"It's for you," Feather said simply. "To help with whatever you need. I know you don't like accepting help, but I won't let you keep struggling like this. It's enough to keep you both safe for a while. You won't have to worry about money for now."

Asche hesitated, his gaze flickering between the pouch and Feather's sincere expression. He wanted to refuse, to say he didn't need it, but the words stuck in his throat. He didn't know what else to say.

"Thank you," he finally murmured. Feather gave a small, reassuring nod. "Stay safe."

With that, Feather climbed back into the cart, and his servant flicked the reins. The cart moved away, disappearing into the growing shadows of the evening.

Asche stood there, feeling the weight of the pouch in his hands. Jorg, ever observant, looked up at him, his expression softening.

"Do you think… we're going to be okay now?" Jorg asked quietly.

Asche didn't answer right away. He simply looked down at the pouch, the coins inside a symbol of something he couldn't quite grasp. Hope, maybe. Or a future he hadn't allowed himself to dream of.

"Yeah," he said finally, his voice low. "Yeah, Jorg. We're going to be okay."

A month had passed easily for the first time in ages. Asche was now of legal age—barely—but it was enough to give him a sliver of freedom. He was no longer a child bound by the whims of those around him. Jorg had been recovering too, slowly but surely. The fever that had once gripped him was gone, though there were still times when he looked far too pale for comfort. Asche watched over him like a hawk, refusing to let him out of his sight, and for a time, the world seemed a little less oppressive.

But then, after weeks of believing their father would die, the unthinkable happened: he started getting better.