Chapter 156: Teklavit: False Hope

"Teklavit," a voice echoed inside an empty room. Five men stood at the corner with anticipation—but they never looked at each other's eyes? Why is that? Teklavit grimaced with the thought. Light shone deep orange: deep enigmatic orange, coming from a crystal-like bulb. Like an early morning flower bud, it shone bright, flickered, then cut-off: the process repeated the same pattern. The air felt heavy, followed by a low murmuring of a man from his left side.

That would be me. Teklavit thought. "I." Raising his hand, dirty sleeves hung loose on his right. His left sleeve was torn, bruises and cuts formed like a tribal tattoo. This is it. He thought. Walking toward the center where the man raised his name.

In the middle of the deep-orange room was an iron door. There, the man, holding some sort of paper, looked at Teklavit with curious eyes. He then raised his left hand, pressing the flat toward Teklavit. "Hold," he said, aside from his grey eyes, his face was obscured by the shadow coming from the heavy iron door. His hand pressed against Teklavit's swollen chest.

The pain swept from his chest down to his waist. He almost arched from the pain. Teklavit hissed, the man took a step backward. He felt like a monster as the man in black avoided him. The same as how the people from his farming village avoided him because of his indifference. Was it wrong to dream? Teklavit thought, spun around, and walked back to his corner. There, he stood, staring at the flickering bulb. Hazy orange light flared his pockmarked face. Nomadic eyes complemented his raffled copper hair: he stunk, like a sewer never been drained for years.

How long has it been? Four days? Four weeks? No, it was four—has been four months. Four months of torture, pain, and screaming. He smiled.

But in here, at least the people in black fed me. Fed me food, and promise, and hope.

Teklavit shook his head, smiling. He never smiled genuinely back from his farming village. Hope, huh. He thought, leaning his head against the ridged wall.

"Why are you smiling, peasant?" The man to his right said. No name, it wasn't important. He doesn't need to know their names. Twenty of them, six were left including him.

No name; wasn't important. The words echoed Teklavit's mind. He scowled, he didn't answer. He never knew who they were. Who the man was.

The man snorted. Orange light polished his balding head, a scar from both his eyes: the scar blinded his left, the other eye going there.

Next to the scarred man, a kid. A little older than Teklavit, eighteen maybe nineteen. But he looked his third century. His arms trembled uncontrollably. His eyes ran the room in terror, saliva drooling, chest swelled.

To Teklavit's left, the one closest to him, was an old man almost touching his elbow. Head slumped down, he never looked up. Like a man carrying the weight of all the sins of humanity, he never looked up. He murmured: "For the Emperor, for the Emperor, for the Emperor."

Four months, and a thousand murmur. Repeated for four months. For the Emperor. Chest swelled.

To the left of the murmuring old man, standing in six maybe seven feet. A blonde guy, staring deep at the flickering light. He was silent, never talked for months. His eyes: brown, deep, and sane. A man from the North. Teklavit thought he has heard of them. Traveling merchants often talked about them. White skin, blonde hair, brown eyes—always brown eyes. A man from the North. North, where the air was frozen, water rarely flowed, and mountain made of white cold sand. I wonder if they were true? Teklavit remembering the merchant's story. An air almost freezing, house made of frozen water, the North.

Teklavit sighed. Looking at the man in black, scribbling something on his paper with what looked like a quill but more metallic, sleek. The man eyed Teklavit, he nodded and started writing again. His back leaned against the door, he looked back to Teklavit and said: "Wait for you turn Teklavit. Come out after the other one comes back."

I thought no names? Why do they say my name now? Four months and this was the first time they say my name. Why?

The man in black stared at Teklavit, and as if he knew that Teklavit was about to ask him. He shut the door close. The room went orange. Aside from the murmuring old man, it was quiet. And hoped that the old man would do the same.

Aside from the Northern guy, and maybe—just maybe, the scarred man. Teklavit thought that the rest of them were mad. He was even surprised he was sane after four months of torture. I thought I was recruited to do labor for the factories. Teklavit thought, shaking his head. The scarred man kept on staring at him. As if waiting for him to answer. With all this? Why am I smiling? Why? "Hope," Teklavit answered the scarred man. "Yes, hope. Back at my village, people there stole hope from me. And here, the man in black said they will give me one."

He didn't laugh, the scarred man didn't laugh. Unlike from Teklavit's old village, every time he spoke about hope; the people laughed at him. Saying that a farmer doesn't need hope, they need seed—plant them, grow them, plow them. That was all the farmers have. Seed. No hope.

"What you have is a false hope, child," the elder of his village once said. After that, Teklavit left.

But the scarred man didn't laugh. "Where?" He said.

"What, where?" Teklavit replied in unison with the old man's constant murmur.

"Your village," the scarred man said. "Your farming village."

Teklavit frowned. They didn't speak for a spun of four months. Yet, the man knew he was a farmer. "How did you know I'm a farmer?"

The scarred man snorted. His seeing-eye focused closely on Teklavit. "Knew a lot of men; killed a lot of men. One look at you, I already knew. So where?"

Teklavit sighed. The man's insane, suicidal. Perhaps this was his attempt, to talk before he dies. Are we going to die here? He thought. But they told me about hope. Am I going to die here? But I need to die, they said. The man in black said I need to die first.

"South of Ekan," Teklavit said, shaking his head, raffled hair danced along. "Very South."

The scarred man smiled, more like a grin. His seeing-eye broaden. "South; North. Doesn't matter. We're going to die here. Here! Die!" He bellowed. Yet, he remained standing, fingers crackling. He laughed, the old man laughed, the drooling kid laughed; saliva spattered toward the center. They laughed, Except for him and the Northern kid.

The door wedged open, iron door grated along with the iron floor that made a high screeching sound. The insane went quiet, then a man stumbled inside. Blood splattered the iron floor, flesh jutted out his chest. He was the sixth guy. Dead. But he needs to die to live. That was the man in black said. To die. Was it possible?

"You," the man said, pointing at Teklavit, not in black but white—covered in all white. A mask covering his face and attached to the mask was a tube and the tube was attached to some sort of leather bag slung behind his back. "You," he said again. "Come."