Brielle was pressed for time. When she slipped from the house a while ago, the sun was still colossal and glorious, blinding her if she stared at it long enough. She had to squint and cover herself with a woolen shawl before going about. Now, the sky was a warm orange glow, the subtle beginnings of dusk falling like a shadow on their city. The sun, which had partially left her sightless, had turned into a small ball. It could fit nicely on her palm if she held them against the sky, but Brielle had no time for such games, and so she walked on to her destination.
The city was restless. Any other day, only people coming home from work would be seen on the streets. They'd be dog-tired, shoulders slumped, and quick to walk to reach their homes. It was different today. Everywhere she went on the market, Brielle bumped into someone. She didn't recognize any of their faces, but she was sure that if they stared long enough, they'd know who she was. Hers was a face people wouldn't likely forget.
There were high and low buzzes of conversations all over. Sometimes the talking was an incomprehensible sound, like the buzzing of a bee that was meant to stay in the background. Sometimes the words made sense, and when they did, Brielle tilted her head to listen.
"It's tonight, isn't it?" an old woman by a fruit stall said. Her voice was loud, carrying, as if the man she was talking to wasn't a few feet away.
"Yeah," the man said. "They're going to announce our defender on the square. Have you heard what they were saying about her?"
"Talin? What of the girl?"
The man gave a dubious look. "And I thought you were updated with the rumors. Some market seller you are." He beckoned the woman with a finger until they were close enough to whisper. Still, Brielle could hear them when she paused. "They said she's cruel, brutal. She murdered kids when she was ten years old."
It was the woman's turn to look dubious. "You talk as if they wouldn't kill Talin back. She was doing herself, and us, a favor." She noticed Brielle listening and frowned. "Run along, slave. You have no business here."
Brielle ducked her head and wrapped her woolen shawl tighter against her face before wandering off. She was relieved that no one saw who she was, only her clothes.
Slaves of their time were required to wear coarse tunic that were usually hand-me-downs from the masters. Though hers were newer than what others wore, everything was the same, she was a slave, a nothing, an anonymous stranger who wasn't out and about without permission from anyone.
Snippets of conversations about the announcement happening later made it to her ears, but Brielle wasn't listening anymore. She'd heard enough about it, not only from the market-goers, but from the master himself. She concentrated on the smell instead. One couldn't go into the market ignoring them.
When she rounded the corner, the citrusy aroma of oranges, lemon, and lime changed into honey-cured bacon, so powerful that she could taste the sweetness on her tongue. Why did she torture herself so? Brielle knew that she wouldn't eat until after the announcement was done. Even then, her master had to be served first. She had a long way to go.
There was another turn, another corner. She passed several alleys, crossed roads, entered shop's front doors and exited through their back doors, before she finally broke through the street that she came for.
Brielle gazed at the lonely house with mixed feelings. There were other houses on each of its side, yet that particular house was all she could look at. Three stories tall, a basement, an attic, and a garden at the back. She had it burned at the back of her eyes, memorized each room, every nook and cranny. Brielle swallowed the lump on her throat and crossed the street towards it.
There was a puff of cloud when the door was opened. Brielle waved her hands so the dust wouldn't get through her nose. The other week she had a sneezing fit because of it. She'd learned her lesson.
Aside from the dust, many dangers lurked when going to an abandoned house. For example, she knew that rodents could be waiting in a cupboard or a small hole. They'd surprise her when she least expected them. The nasty creatures.
The wooden floor creaked under her worn shoes. Brielle didn't weight that much. She was lean, light, and nimble, but the floor had always creaked at the slightest of pressures. She paid no heed to it and continued to the stairs, then the second floor, all the way to the attic. There was no point in exploring the other rooms when it was the study she was aiming for.
The knob was warm on her fingers, and the room was stifling when she opened the door. Brielle could only blame it to the erratic weather. Her father once told her that people of The Old relied heavily on the weatherman. They could tell when the temperature would shift, or when it was suppose to rain or snow. Nowadays, the New World would scoff at the idea. Who needed a weatherman when the weather changed at a moment's notice from scorching hot to freezing snow? People would never believe their forecasts.
Brielle let the door fall behind her as she entered the study. Her reaction was much anticipated, but it still baffled her how a few furniture's and a small square room with a single window could provoke such response. Like clockwork, her breath caught in her throat when her eyes flickered to the antique desk and its accompanying black swivel chair. There was a pulsation at the back of her head, almost as if her heart had traveled there.
Trapped in a daze, her feet moved on their own, taking her to the cedar table. Once in front of it, she took the liberty of running her fingers on its smoothness, its fineness, until she came across a partial indentation. She glanced at it by habit. The letters carved on the wood was still clear even after all these years. Brielle.
A million memories went through her head; each flash a reminder of something or someone. She dug her fingernails on her palm and concentrated on the physical pain. By the light coming from the window behind the desk, nightfall was upon them. If she wanted to read, she had to do it quick, and bitterness had no room for someone so impeccably late like her.
Brielle darted to the shelves on the left before she could change her mind. There, she plucked a book, a special one that wasn't bound on the spine like the others. Its papers were collected and stuffed into a leather folder for safekeeping.
With the book clasped in her hand, she took eight steps back and stumbled on the sixth. The soft couch caught her, along with its fine powder of dust. Brielle scrunched her nose. She'd always forgotten that she wasn't ten anymore. Obviously the steps would be shorter.
She opened the leather when the feeling of sneezing subsided.
No matter how many times she examined them, a fresh wave of euphoria would settle on her stomach whenever she saw her father's handwriting. They were slanted, small-spaced, some lines on the 't's' were misplaced, or an 'i' was missing a dot. Her father had always been in a hurry. If it wasn't his notes he was rushing, it was his meals or something else.
"Father," Brielle remembered saying once. "Chew your food properly, or you'll end up looking like a donkey."
"Where'd you learn about them?" he asked incredulously. Donkey's had been extinct since the war.
"On your notes."
Her father looked proud, but still, he chewed the vegetables noisily on purpose, making Brielle laugh. "Donkey's make for good scientists," he said.
At present, Brielle shuffled through her father's notes. They were full of lines, arrows, and symbols that she couldn't decipher. They were the reason for many of his sleepless nights and why he was always out of the house. They were the reason why he was gone.
Brielle bit back the saltiness and turned page after page. It was the last of his notes that interested her. The story of the war.
It happened eight generations ago, too long for the dead, too short for the living. Nobody knew who started it or what weapons they used. It was a war to stop all wars. None of them had been alive then, of course, but those who survived recorded it for their descendants.
The damages the war caused weren't so much as for the infrastructure. It was the people who suffered. Humans were on the brink of extinction. Animals numbered more than individuals. The buildings were deteriorating because of lack of maintenance. The weather started acting irregularly as an aftereffect. It was sheer chaos.
Had she been there at that time, Brielle would have done what most did- stop the war immediately, and rebuild. What little of the survivors, 22 countries and what was left of their people, made a pact. The war would be no more. There would be a New World, a new start, and with it came a new leadership where no one would commit genocide for power and treasure. Thus, The Offering was made.
