Chapter 5
TASK
NEXARIUM
It’s been a week since the conversation with Draven. Since then, Task has been sent on two missions to retrieve suspected rebels from various hideouts in Nexarium, to “deal with the problem,” as his uncle so eloquently put it.
Task doesn’t entirely understand the reason for the uprising.
Draven commands the planet well, in his opinion.
People have enough to eat, have roofs over their heads, livelihoods to sustain them.
Sure, the Lows have to offer Draven and the Ruling Class power tithes, but that is a product of living in Nexarium.
Security and stability, in exchange for a bit of power.
He shoves another shirt into his bag, looking around his chambers once more.
He ensures the loose stone beneath his bed is fully in place before closing the iron door behind him.
He’s scheduled to travel to Lumaria today with the ambassador, his chief of staff, and Voss, per Draven’s orders.
This is supposed to be a routine update of a treaty Nexarium has had with Lumaria for the last decade, renewing allyship, but Task feels like they’re walking into chaos.
The Nexarian Embassy sent through a cable yesterday about an illness – Crimson Fever, as they’re calling it colloquially -- spreading rapidly across Lumaria, informing the High Council that the Ministry of Health has designated a state of emergency on the planet.
Citizens have been ordered into lockdown, but from what Task is hearing, people are in a state of panic, hoarding supplies, looting in some of the smaller villages on the outskirts of Aventia, Lumaria’s capital city.
None of that is enough to pause a diplomatic mission, and certainly not when the diplomatic mission includes scoping out Task’s prey in person.
It does mean Ambassador Remulus and his chief of staff, Grayson, are traveling with extra security — Task and Voss.
As the only member of Draven’s High Council with the power of divining, the ambassador is too precious a resource for Draven to let any harm come to him.
Task finds Voss fully suited up and walking around the outside of the Hopper that will take the group to Aventia, performing the last routine checks before they are airborne. The captain will do it again, but Voss likes to do it himself.
He turns from where he’s inspecting the wing of the ship, grinning at Task. “Ready, Shadow?”
Task hasn’t been able to shake the nickname despite significant, repeated pleading.
The only saving grace is that Voss will not use it when others are around, when they’re in formation, lest it undermine Task’s leadership.
The men of the Force are hard; they have been shaped to be that way.
But it also means that there is little room for vulnerability.
Task sometimes wonders whether they’ve made a mistake in that, whether the Guardians would feel more bonded, more loyal, had they allowed for more laughter, a bit more softness.
Battle isn’t soft, though; warring between worlds is chaos and loss.
Though the Consortium is presently at peace, it feels it is always on the precipice of something.
One wrong move, a broken agreement, and Nexarium will swiftly step in to repair order, to bring the Consortium back into equilibrium.
“I suppose,” he drawls, climbing into the Hopper through the side hatch and throwing his bag into the hold towards the back of the ship. “I’d prefer if we didn’t have to interact with the Lows of Lumaria, but here we are.”
“You’re such a snob,” Voss says, and Task can hear the eye roll in his voice.
He sticks his head back out of the Hopper, jumping back down to where Voss stands. “It’s the truth.”
Voss crosses his arms, frowning at Task a bit. “You didn’t used to be like this.”
“Like what?” Task retorts, knowing Voss is about to lay something out for him that he won’t want to hear. Something that Task should see that he’s not seeing. Voss is good that way — about saying things as they are, calling people out on their bullshit.
“Such a fucking elitist. It doesn’t look good on you.”
Task supposes he’s partially right. But Voss also hadn’t grown up hoping he’d manifest a power strong enough, valuable enough to be worth something to the only family he had left.
That kind of desire was insidious, crept into all Task’s crevices.
He’d seen the way his uncle valued those on his High Council, those in the Ruling Class, and it’s where he’d wanted to sit.
That had been the objective that drove him, still drives him. To be valuable over everything else.
Task wants to argue with Voss, but he doesn’t. Instead, he says, “And you’re too soft for your own good.” It is unkind, and he should have expected that Voss would not simply absorb the words.
Voss swings at Task, catching him directly in the stomach.
“Fuck,” Task coughs out, the air leaving his lungs.
The place where Voss’ hand connected with Task radiates pain, tiny pins and needles spreading outward towards his ribs, upward towards his chest. He wove again last night, but it was only enough to take the edge off.
He’s being generally stupid, not taking better care of himself, but there is a part of him that feels he deserves to feel the pain, that it’s a small price to pay for the pain he exacts on others.
Task rolls on to his side as the pain flickers through his veins, closing his eyes as Voss shouts.
“Goddammit,” he’s yelling, over and over. “You are such an idiot sometimes, you know that?”
Task hears his feet shuffling around the hangar, jumping into the Hopper, hands tearing through his bag. Voss is trying to find the wooden disks, cursing Task under his breath. Task chuckles a bit, despite the pain flowing throughout his body, into his hair follicles, his nail beds.
Voss is kneeling beside Task again, though he avoids touching him. “Sit up,” he demands. “Sit up, you idiot. You need to weave right now. And not one disk, ten. You are weaving ten. Until you can travel safely.”
Task manages to push himself into a sitting position, taking the disk from his outstretched hand. He doesn’t like to weave in front of other people — it feels deeply personal in a way he can’t fully explain.
When he weaves, he thinks of her. It’s like reopening an old wound, even if it’s helping to manage a new one.
It was Noemi who taught him weaving. He had only just manifested the power, and had not yet understood the depths of it, what it could do to both him and to other people.
He’d been carrying on as he had been, not recognizing that even a light touch, an elbow to the stomach when he was sparring, was filling him up with pain.
He didn’t understand that he could use that pain, force it outward, but that there would always be a sliver of it ingrained in him, that would live on in him.
A power of that nature, of that force couldn’t be used without impacting the bearer; how could it?
It had been after one of his training sessions with Draven, when Draven had forced Task to stab Voss with the surge-saber despite Task’s protests, when he’d then commanded Task to put him into a headlock.
Task felt like it was some cruel punishment, though he wasn’t sure what either he or Voss had done to deserve it.
Had Draven found out about their outing to Vermaxian last weekend?
He’d thought they’d been sly, that they’d made it back before anyone had noticed they were missing.
He was already brimming with pain from the sessions Draven had been coaching him through all week, different subjects brought in for him to play with.
Today, when he placed Voss in a headlock, the pain was so severe that it brought him to his knees.
He’d dropped Voss to the ground and grasped his own head in his hands — screaming, yanking at his hair, the agony overwhelming him.
Draven was yelling something at him, but he couldn’t hear it through the rush of the pain.
It was everywhere. He had his eyes screwed shut and tears were streaming from them as he struggled to breathe.
He felt two hands on his shoulders, and it was all he could to do grind out “don’t touch me!” at the assailant.
And then she was there. Noemi. The girl who he’d befriended when he was fourteen while she was an apprentice to the Grand Healer, who cast him secret smiles when he slipped into the infirmary after hours to lounge on one of her tables while she finished mixing potions.
She was telling everyone to take a step back. That he needed space to breathe.
“Hey,” he heard her say. His eyes were still shut against the pain, but he’d removed his hands from his head. “Can you open your eyes?”
Task shook his head slightly. He could, he supposed, but he didn’t want to. Didn’t particularly want to see what scene he’d caused. But he did, and saw Draven standing stiff as a board near the doorway, Voss next to him, Noemi on her knees in front of him, her blonde hair tied back loosely.
“Okay,” she said gently. “I’m just going to —”
He felt the ghost of her hand coming toward him, and he lurched back on his knees instinctively, wanting to stay out of reach. He lost his balance and tumbled backwards, sprawling onto the floor.
“It hurts,” he moaned.
“I know,” Noemi said. “Just let me touch you for a second, and I promise it will be better.”
He acquiesced, allowing her to place her hands on him. He felt a wave of calm pass through him at her touch, and the pain lessened slightly. He looked at her with a question on his face. She pulled her hands away, nodding. “Better?”
“Yes, thank god,” he said.
Noemi nodded again. “You just overdid it,” she said. She cast a look at Draven, standing in the corner, as if she knew he was responsible for this. She stood and offered Task her hand. He grabbed it, and a jolt went through him.
“Is he alright?” Draven asked.