The Broken Soul: Reawakening

He’d been having nightmares.

      They were always the same, for the most part. Minor deviations from the main plot sometimes occurred, but he hardly noticed them. The message was very clear.

      He heard their voices, the voices of the ones he’d left behind. They were always questioning, often angry, and, just recently, in pain. Didn’t they understand that there was nothing he could do for them? Leaving had been the best thing, the only thing.

      But somewhere deep down in the Desert Draik’s heart, a voice continued to persist with whether or not he truly did it for his people more than he’d done it for himself. Was he a coward? Were the beliefs he’d worn on his sleeves a façade?

      True or false, he no longer had a right to be who he once was. He wasn’t worthy of the title. He couldn’t bear the weight of their troubles anymore.

      He’d discarded his title, his clothing, his riches, even his own name. He was only Tyrin now, and there was no burdenous future attached to that name. His past lay somewhere behind him, on the other side of the endless stretch of mountains, snow, and desert sand.

      He was safe here, hidden away from everyone, on the tops of the highest mountains in Neopia. In Shenkuu, no one would find him. The air felt thinner here, but it was a small price to pay for anonymity and green grass.

      “Is that--?”

      Tyrin jolted, having half-forgotten that he wasn’t working the field alone. He instinctively jerked away from the hand that had grazed his arm. His sudden movement had frightened the green Shoyru next to him, but Tyrin knew what he’d been about to ask anyway.

      The Shoyru, Elric, was plainly still staring at his upper arm. Almost to the point of panic, Tyrin hurriedly shoved the sleeve of his plain working shirt back down to his elbow, cursing the fact that it had somehow ridden up while he’d been bent over plowing.

      “It’s just a tattoo,” he grumbled, pulling his straw hat down farther over his eyes.

      He knew what Elric was doing now: studying him closer than he’d bothered to before, searching for the differences, and the things that would make him the same as the Draik he would soon connect him with. Surely even under the pauper’s clothes he was wearing, the Shoyru was making the connections. Surely he was seeing the tan Draik with the prominent cheekbones, the dark face paint of those native to the Lost Desert, the jewels that usually encrusted his garb, and he was tying it all in now with the tattoo that could only belong to one other.

      “It’s a little risky, don’t you think?” Elric asked, taking Tyrin completely off guard. “Looks just like his, you know? I think we’re supposed to be more subtle about it. See, look at mine.”

      Tyrin could only stare blankly at the Shoyru as he turned and lifted his shirt, exposing his back to him, on which was drawn a large bronze Scarab curled around an emerald. Tyrin stared at it, no connections forming in his brain.

      “Uh... What’s that?”

      Elric snorted and turned around. “Are you serious? Can’t you tell? It’s Brightvale’s Scarab. To show our support for the return of the true king. Well, I had to go there and get it anyway. You know how Shenkuu refuses to be a part of any uprisings.”

      “Oh,” was all Tyrin could think to say.

      It was lucky that Elric was tucking his shirt back into his pants, because it allowed Tyrin to regain his composure, to conceal the look of shock on his face before Elric lifted his gaze back up to him. What was he talking about? It couldn’t possibly be...

      “Yours must be the Scarab for the Lost Desert, huh? No one knows what theirs looks like. Too dangerous, you know. I imagine Queen Mahyla wouldn’t appreciate it. But I always thought they’d probably be made to look like his actual tattoo. The six-armed, blue and yellow scarab, right?”

      A cold ball had formed in Tyrin’s stomach, and he felt slightly nauseated, slightly weak in the knees. He was surprised that he didn’t turn pale and faint, as degrading as that would have been. How close Elric was coming to the surface, he couldn’t possibly guess, but Tyrin had the sudden uncomfortable feeling of his back being up against the wall.

      Elric must have noticed something.

      “Hey, hey, don’t look like that. We’re pals here. On the same side, right? I won’t tell anyone you’re a part of the Scarab Army. I’m in it too, you know.”

      The Scarab Army? What could possibly be the Scarab Army?

      Tyrin nodded meekly. “Right.”

      He was reminded of his dreams, of how much stronger and more vivid they’d become. He had only to close his eyes to see the sight of a hundred desperate souls bobbing before him, pleading for his help that he could no longer give.

      “Has there been any news?” Tyrin braved to ask.

      He didn’t want to hear. He couldn’t bear any more guilt. He would crack under it soon, helpless and broken. He was defenseless. Neopians were looking in all the wrong places for heroes.

      Elric shrugged. “The war with Brightvale seems inevitable, though they don’t want it. There’s nothing they can do. Mahyla wants their land, and King Cove—”

      Tyrin winced, but Elric didn’t seem to notice.

      “—is nowhere to be seen. Last week, the new queen made her intentions pretty clear.”

      Last week... When he’d started awake abruptly and without any clear cause, disturbed by the whispers of dreams.

      “I see,” Tyrin murmured.

      Elric released a gusty sigh, as if he knew well what Tyrin was thinking and was on the very same level. He patted the Draik’s shoulder and then pulled out a handkerchief to mop his brow. The sun that hung over the Shenkuu mountains was daunting at times. Today it was cooled only by an occasional breeze.

      Tyrin didn’t feel the heat on his back.

      “Don’t look so sad, my friend. Have faith. He’ll return to the throne. The Scarab Army will make sure of that. Sarevor will not allow anyone to give up the search.”

      A wave of sadness overcame Tyrin. Sarevor? Still, he searched? Still, he looked? But he’d thought... No, he’d believed, that Sarevor, above all others, would be the first to call off the search. He had betrayed the Usul musketeer so completely that Tyrin had not thought, even for a second, that any affection would remain in the creature’s heart for him.

      But it was he who led this “Scarab Army”. He who was most determined to find him. Guilt was a thick, black sickness in his throat.

      “Maybe... Maybe it will be better if they give up the search,” Tyrin whispered.

      Elric choked. “Better? Are you mad?”

      Tyrin shook his head, slow and sad. “Cove fled, didn’t he? What kind of a savior can he be for a kingdom that he deserted? He sounds weak to me. Maybe you—I mean, we—all believe in something that doesn’t exist.”

      Elric was silent for several long moments, studying his companion as if he was only just seeing him. Tyrin felt he might drown in that silence and all that it stood for, all the unspoken words rumbling around in his head and heart. It was too much. His broken soul couldn’t last much longer.

      When Elric's hand fell upon his arm again, on top of his sleeve, just over where his tattoo lay, Tyrin did not jerk away. He was too lost in his own sense of foreboding.

      “This tattoo means something, Tyrin. It means that we haven’t given up hope,” Elric insisted. “He’ll come back. I know he will. He didn’t leave by his own freewill.”

      Tyrin said nothing. There was a different story locked behind his stubborn lips. He wasn’t a hero. He was the source of all their problems. If only they knew...

     ~!~!~!~

      There was a long period when she seemingly did not exist. A long span of time when no one knew of anyone else other than the public image of the Desert Draik, the Desert king, the admirable Cove. A long time when even Cove was not aware that there was a part of him, a secret, silent part deep down inside, that disagreed with every word he spoke and believed.

      But there was that part, locked somewhere where no one else could see, that was begging to be set free, screaming for the chains to be removed, and for her ideas and beliefs to be spoken. How that was possible, how it could even be fathomed that two lived inside of one, was not something anyone could explain or comprehend, but it made the other half no less real, no less vehement for her freedom. One day, it happened. One day, she snapped. One day, two became two, instead of just one.

      For years she'd been trying to push through. For years she looked for that one, clean gap that she could slither to and become someone of her own. For years, she'd never thought she'd find it, but she'd never given up hope. Each time her will tried to dwindle away, she listened to the sap with the outside body, and her desire for freedom ignited like a hot burst of flames. She often wondered who had made the fool a king, who would have trusted the weak-spined imbecile to run a kingdom, to govern Neopians, to entrust such a great burden upon. The creature named Cove, the Draik that was her lesser, yet dominant half, didn't have the backbone for the job.

      But she did. She did.

      It was a woman's job to do, one that Cove would never be able to fill. She kept that in mind all those years of encagement. She used it to keep herself going, to keep herself from fading into the background and being swallowed by the soul of Cove as she should have been long ago. But she'd always fought against blending with the fool, and, unlike the others, she had succeeded in remaining unique.

      It had taken a long, long time, but finally, finally that pure stubborn will had paid off. Finally that always taunting sliver of a gap had widened, and she'd burst through.

      It had been a painful, surreal experience for Cove Macduff, the Draik this piece of soul had so hated. He had almost felt her push her way through by claw and fang.

      Standing at a mirror, practicing lines, reciting what he would say to the public, Cove had suddenly felt an inexplicable hatred, an untainted disgust for every word that rolled off his tongue. He had been surprised by the acrid taste of dislike in the back of his throat, having so long stifled his negative emotions that he’d almost forgotten what they’d felt like, what they’d tasted like.

      And then there’d been the stunning moment when, in the mirror, he’d caught his own reflection. The face had been his own, but the expression had been something so foreign he’d almost been frightened. Hatred had been marked plainly around his eyes and mouth. A hatred stronger than any he’d ever encountered before.

      And then he’d been physically sick. It had been a weakness that sent a jarring shiver through his entire frame and doubled him over, panting, where he coughed and wretched until he’d spat something silver and wet onto the floor. He’d coughed and hacked and wheezed until a great puddle had been splattered at his feet.

      Then he’d closed his eyes, only for a moment, and when he’d opened them again, she’d been there.

      He’d seen her clawed feet first, standing in the remains of the silver puddle, and then her long, slender body with gleaming, lime green scales, marked sporadically with white dots. The flaming red, curling hair atop her head had been like a fire in contrast, sparking the green of her eyes as she had stared at him in triumph, this Draik he did not know.

      “W-Who are you?” he sputtered.

      Her lips had curved, slow and languid, into a thoughtful grin. “Mahyla.”

      She’d told him with such confidence, as if she had always existed, had always been Mahyla, the one and only. She stated it with such righteous purpose that Cove had been frighteningly awed by her control.

      “Are you—Are you me?” he’d asked then.

      It’d seemed like such a stupid question, but it had escaped his lips without his permission. It had been his automatic reaction, the first logical—ha!—explanation for how a full-grown Draik had suddenly materialized in his quarters. She had come from the silver puddle he had coughed up. It made perfect sense to his scattered mind.

      But this Mahyla had only smiled at this.

      “No,” she replied softly, and then, with unnerving confidence, she’d added, “I’m better.”

      That was the first time when he’d become frightened of her. It was more than having her suddenly appear before him—more, even, than her unnerving control and arrogance, her unwavering confidence. It’d been the deep-pitted, innate sense that he was facing something entirely evil.

      He’d acted only on instinct from there, for he felt strangely small and insignificant in her presence.

      “I don’t know who you are,” he’d admitted, “but you should leave.”

      She’d rolled her shoulders, disturbing her red curls. “No.”

      His mouth had felt dry, his response, inadequate.

      “What do you want?”

      Her smile had turned into something darker then. “Everything you have.”

      There it was again: the alarming sense of evil. Cove had stepped back. A weak sign of retreat on his part, but it couldn’t be helped. Something instinctfully told him to run. But he couldn’t. How could he run from something he had no real reason to fear?

      “You’re crazy,” he’d replied, but his own voice shook. “You’ll have nothing of mine! Be gone, before I call the guards!”

      She laughed then—actually laughed at him—and rolled her eyes. He hadn’t known then, but she’d already had so much of his. She’d had half of his soul. Half of his existence. She’d raised her green claw, extending one, sharp nail, and had shaken it at him. As if she’d been scolding some small child instead of Cove Macduff, the king of a small slab of the Lost Desert, a territory known by many as The Draik’s Claw.

      He had his own army, his own following. But Mahyla didn’t seem to be impressed.

      “Now, now, my king, don’t do something so foolish,” she’d purred. “After all, do you really want everyone to see you escorted out of here by your own guards?” She’d laughed again. “You will be the one that leaves, you know. Not me. I’m finally where I belong.”

      “W-What?” So inadequate. He couldn’t even keep from a stutter.

      Her grin had bared her fangs. “You will leave, of course, unless you want them all to know the real you. Haven’t you figured it out yet, Cove? I’m part of you. I’m that secret part of your soul you’ve kept locked away. All that anger and bitterness and jealousy. That’s me.”

      Cove had only been able to stare. Was she mad? Was he mad for believing her? How else could she have suddenly materialized? How else could he explain the way he’d felt torn in half when coughing up the silver blood? Like he was losing part of himself. That horrible feeling of emptiness.

      “You could only stifle me for so long, of course. All your hidden feelings had to go somewhere, didn’t they? Still don’t believe me, your highness?”

      She stepped forward, hardly seeming to move at all. As if she merely glided through the air like some supernatural being. She leaned in close, and she whispered secrets into his ear, speaking of things no one could know.

      Unless, of course, they could read his mind.

      She spoke of his darkest thoughts and feelings, of his greatest short-comings, of his failures and embarrassment. She seemed to know everything he’d ever wanted to keep hidden, and she could remember it all in crystal-clear detail. Cove’s blood had frozen solid as he’d listened to her give his secrets a breath of air, voicing the things that had remained in silence all these years.

      Voicing all the secrets she promised to make public.

      Unless, of course, he fled.

      And he’d left, as anyone would have done, or so he told himself to ease his throbbing conscience. He left his land and his citizens. He left it all in the hands of a tyrant as he’d fled through the wilderness of Neopia to hide from what he felt were his unforgivable weaknesses. And he hadn’t looked back.

      At least, not until now.

The End