|And oh, poor Atlas
|The world’s a beast of a burden
|You’ve been holding on a long time
The young man fiddled nervously with the bands around his wrist, watching as the others milled about restlessly, waiting. A hush descended over the crowd as a figure climbed, oh so slowly, up the steps. The man was bent over, as if the weight of the world had yet to be taken from his shoulders. The crowd was silent-then, in sickening waves, they began to cheer.
The young man closed his eyes, trying to avoid the man's, hoping and praying that it would be over soon. The man reached the apex, and turned, eyes grief-stricken. A scroll was offered to him, and his hand trembled slightly as he took it. The crowd hushed, waiting with bated breath. The young man shook his head, disgusted at their obvious excitement. They could never understand that what they viewed as an honor had never been more than a death sentence.
The man's voice was halting as he read, stumbling over the simplest words. The young man shuddered, knowing full well the reason for his hesitation.
His replacement would be his death.
The man took a deep breath, preparing for the name of his apprentice, killer, and only chance of a friend. He looked up at last, meeting the young man's eyes.
"Atlas."
The crowd burst into cheers.
---
The young man was numb as he followed after the man who would be the only other person he saw for the next seven years.
And the fellow wouldn't even last one.
The man stopped, and Atlas almost ran into him. As he rubbed his hand along the gold bands on his arm, the other gestured at the room he had paused at. "This will be your room, boy. The kitchen is up that hallway, and that one leads to the balcony. My room is back here, if you need anything."
The man turned, leaving the younger in front of the open door. With a small jerk, Atlas turned.
"Sir? When do you...I mean, when do I...when..."
The young man's voice trailed off as the other turned. His eyes were sad, filled with pain.
"Did you mean to ask when I will die?" Atlas nodded, ashamed. The other shook his head, mouth curling into a grimace of a smile.
"When I become a threat to you."
---
Time flowed away in thick curls, so that before anyone realized nearly a year had past. Atlas learned much from the man, in a variance of subjects. But one question still nagged, catching at his mind.
"Sir..."
The man turned, smiling at the young man.
"Anteri, boy, Anteri."
Atlas nodded, correcting himself. "Anteri, is it really necessary to pick someone every seven years?" His voice was soft, begging an answer. The man sighed. "In theory, no. However, I know of no human who has ever lasted more than seven years holding up the world." He smiled at the boy, even as a chill crept into his heart at the look on his face.
"I do believe it's time to turn in." He moved past the young man, walking down the hallway when he stopped. "Atlas?"
The young man turned, eyes still clouded with thought. "Yes Anteri?"
"Don't do anything stupid."
---
Atlas woke, breath ragged. Something was wrong. Lurching from the bed, he stumbled down the hall. A light still shown in Anteri's room, but even from here, the shadows looked wrong.
"No!" The young man was running before he even realized, throwing the door wide.
The beasts were silent as they tore at the man, ignoring his weakening attacks as if they were nothing more than flies. With a cry, the young man launched himself towards his teacher, tearing at the beasts with his bare hands. With piercing shrieks, the creatures threw themselves from the broken window, spreading gangly wings as they took to the air.
Tears streaked down his face as the boy knelt by the fallen man, knowing in his heart that it was his fault. Somehow, his question had caused this.
"Anteri..." His voice broke into a sob. The man smiled at him, breath a weakening rasp in his chest.
"Don't cry, boy." Anteri's voice was little more than a whisper, and blood bubbled round his lips as he spoke. "Don't cry."
The young man whimpered, reaching for his hand regardless of the blood. The man coughed, eyes clouding over. "Atlas? Promise me something."
The young man's hand tightened around his teacher's, as if his grip could keep him from death.
"Anything."
Seven years passed, then seven more and seven more. Before long the choosing ceremony had faded from tradition to legend. And as time flowed on, in drips and curls, the people moved on and apart, starting new traditions and becoming new legends.
And through it all, Atlas held the world with bloodstained hands.
Because he'd promised.
|Pockets full of stones
