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You wake up in water, soaked to the bone in the icy current. Your senses are flooded by the greens of the landscape and the yellow striping on your clothes, overstimulating compared to the dull grays that you are used to in your circular concrete city. You do not know how you got out here but you do know that this is where you belong.
You climb out of the water, teeth chattering, lips trembling, and stumble forward, eyes darting around the landscape of Trench. Shadows fly overhead, and you lift your chin, spotting the withered, decaying vultures flying above, red-orange eyes glaring down. Your time is limited.
There are more eyes on you. You turn towards the cliffs above, trying to find the figures hiding from you. Feet tripping over rocks, you struggle to follow after them, not wanting to be left behind. You cannot remember where you are going, but you do know that they are leading you somewhere safe. Somewhere full of music and color. Somewhere full of torches and yellow.
You see a flash of green, the glint of yellow tape, the smoke from torches, faces obscured by bandanas. You cannot remember their names. There are patches of yellow flowers at your feet. You grab a fistful as you move, clutching them tight to your chest as though they can protect you.
A vulture cries above. The sound of hooves echoes against the rocky walls. You turn, seeing a powerful white horse with a lone rider cloaked in blood-red charging toward you. The figures above you disappear.
Your heart skips a beat. You flee, flowers still clutched tight in your hand. Your boots splash up water. The pounding of hooves grows louder. The figures in the cliffs are gone.
Your boot catches on a rock, and you fall forward. You hit the ground face-first, your lip splitting on a rock and spilling blood down your chin as you lose consciousness.
×××
You wake up again in the water. You are being dragged. The white horse is in front of you, the cloaked rider atop it. The taste of copper floods your mouth, choking you, and you sputter. The flowers are still in your hand, withered and broken.
A vulture shrieks overhead. The figures in the cliffs linger at the edges, watching and waiting. Your fingers tighten around the flower stems. Your tongue laps at the deep split in your bottom lip. One of your teeth is chipped.
The rope digs into your ankles through your boots. Secured to the saddle, it keeps you bound to the rider as you are dragged back to where you escaped from. You begin to struggle, the urge to flee returning. You cannot return to the city. You must follow the torches.
You try to kick your feet, trying to loosen the knot, though it holds tight. You reach for it, trying to use your fingers to untie it, but they fumble, joints achy with cold and fingertips slick from the water. Your movements disrupt the rider. He begins to turn his head, face distorted behind his veil.
You struggle harder. You will not return with him to the city. You will follow the figures in the cliffs. You thrash. You fight. You refuse to go back to Dema.
The horse comes to a stop, and the rider begins to dismount. There is a knife in your pocket. You may not know its origins, but you know it must belong to you or someone who wants to protect you. You cut yourself free as the bishop touches the ground, the edges of his red cloak soaking up water.
You try to run. You must not return to the city. You stumble. You fall. The bishop follows you, and an icy, black-painted hand clamps down on the back of your neck, pinning you into the water. He turns you over and pulls you to your feet with hidden strength.
You continue to struggle, and the bishop's grip tightens on your jaw, cradling your face with both hands. Your body slumps slightly, unconsciously calmed by the presence of your bishop, and you lift your eyes to his.
He tilts his head, his painted bottom lip pulling into a slight pout. "Child," he says softly, "don't you want to come home?"
You tremble.
"This is no place for a good citizen of Dema, child," the bishop continues, voice smooth as he moves to wrap an arm around you, pulling your head to his chest. "Unnatural things lurk out here. Remember what you've been told about."
"Banditos," you whisper, eyes darting to the cliffs as you remember who they are.
The bishops, an almost musical tone. "Yes, child. Banished things. They wish to turn you away from everything Glorious. You wish to be Glorious?"
You swallow. You nod.
"Then come back home." The bishop pulls back, holding your face. "Let's go home, child."
You blink. You stare.
"No," you whisper.
The bishop frowns. "No?"
You take a step back, his hands falling from your face. You shake your head. "No."
"Child, I will tell you again, we are going home," the bishop said, voice sharp.
You shake your head again. "No."
Hands snap around your throat suddenly. You choke. Ice burns your skin. Eyes are watching you from the cliffs. The vultures shriek louder. Your mind blanks. The flowers drop from your fingers. You slump into your bishop.
His hands leave your throat. He cups the back of your neck. "We are going home," he murmurs and steps away. He mounts his horse, reins snapping, and you willingly follow.
You would follow your bishop anywhere. You will return to the city. You will stay in Dema. You will become Glorious.
You follow the bishop on his horse through the rocky terrain. You do not remember how far you have walked, but you trust that your bishop will bring you home. Vultures fly ahead, almost guiding the way, and something falling catches your peripheral.
You turn and lift your head, ice still filling your throat. Your vision is flooded by yellow.
The eyes watching you in the cliffs finally make themselves fully known.
They stand on the edges of the rocky cliffs, proudly clutching torches in one hand while tossing yellow petals down to him with their other. They are dressed in green, with yellow tape criss-crossed over their chests and limbs, while yellow bandanas cover their faces.
One stands out among them. Instead of protecting himself with yellow tape, he makes himself known with red, staring down from the cliffs at the bishop.
The horse whinnies, spooked, and the bishop tries to regain control. His eyes dart to the cliffs, overlooking the Banditos in yellow and green, and instead lock onto the leader in red and black.
You watch them, noticing what seems to be a remembrance and a heartbreak echo between them. You notice the distraction this causes, and you run as the feeling of ice begins to leave your throat with the more yellow you see.
You do not know where you are running, but you run for the cliffs. You will be safe in the cliffs. You will be safe in Trench.
You find what looks to be a cave. You duck inside. The walls are littered with drawings and writings. It looks like your writing. It does not look like your writing.
You wait for the bishop to find you again and take you back. You know that he always does. You drag your fingers along the scribbles and scratches. You leave your own.
The sun begins to set, and the bishop does not return.
The sun starts to rise, and still the bishop does not return.
Dawn light creeping into the opening of the cave, your hear footsteps outside. You shove yourself into a corner, scared of the sight of red robes and black-painted hands.
You are greeted by the glow of torches. You are greeted by the sight of yellow and green.
A man stands before you, curls obscured by his hood, nose pierced with silver hoops that catch the glint of his torch. Yellow tape crosses his heart, keeping it safe.
"Clancy," he breaths, voice heaving with a sigh of relief.
You smile, heart pounding.
"You found me."