The sun was merciless, but not in the way it killed. It did not burn. It crushed. Slowly. Quietly. Like everything else in this land.
"God… this is hell."
Asveri's voice broke the silence of the fields. He stumbled forward, clutching the handles of the rusted plow. Dust clung to his face and arms, sweat mixing with dirt until he felt more like a moving part of the land than a living being.
Beside him, Anor'ven worked in silence. Always silent.
Asveri dragged the plow forward again with a groan. Rocks, roots, and years of untouched soil resisted them at every step.
He kicked uselessly at a stone. "I swear… this is pointless. Totally pointless."
But no one answered. Not Anor'ven. Not the other workers lost in their own exhausting routines. Just the wind and the sound of old wood grinding against stubborn earth.
Asveri sighed, wiping his face with a grimy sleeve.
"You know," he began again, his voice strained, "when that bastard gave us this job, he really didn't hold back."
He paused, eyes distant, remembering.
It had been direct. Almost lazy.
'You two. That plot. It's dead land. Make it usable again.'
No further explanation. No instruction. Just a gesture to a patch of land even the crows ignored.
It was cheaper than using machines. Easier than paying laborers.
Slaves didn't cost much.
And so, they became tools.
Every morning they plowed. Every noon they sweated under a pale, oppressive sun. Every evening they collapsed onto hard mats, their bodies heavy and unwilling.
The days blurred together.
"How long do they expect us to do this?" Asveri muttered as he fought against the earth. "Years? Centuries? This land isn't going to change."
He glanced sideways at Anor'ven. Still calm. Still working.
"Seriously… you don't even care, do you?"
No answer.
"I mean, why are we still here?" Asveri pressed. "We could leave. We should leave. You could tear through this whole place. Nobody could stop us."
Anor'ven's hands did not falter. His gaze stayed fixed on the dirt ahead.
"There is no need," he said simply.
Asveri's frustration boiled over. "No need? You're seriously okay with this? Being treated like trash? Working until our arms fall off for nothing?"
Anor'ven paused then, straightening slightly. He looked at Asveri — not coldly, but distant, like observing something far away.
"This is a task," he said slowly. "A simple one. That is reason enough."
Asveri stared, disbelief coloring his face. "Reason enough? That's insane."
Anor'ven turned back to the plow, pulling again without hesitation. But his words lingered.
"In doing this… I am still connected. To something. Purpose. Motion."
Asveri frowned deeply. "Connected? To what? This place? These people? You don't even talk to them."
Anor'ven didn't answer. Not immediately.
But his steps slowed, just a little.
"To the act of existing," he said quietly. "To… being."
Asveri let out a sharp laugh, bitter. "That's… dumb. You're just distracting yourself."
He did not mean it cruelly. But the words hung heavy in the dry air.
The two worked in silence for a time. Others joined them across the fields. A woman with pale skin and shaved hair, who smiled faintly but said little. A broad-shouldered man with tattoos, steady and tired. Others, too — eyes hollow, movements mechanical.
Not everyone was kind.
Among the workers was a thin man with cruel eyes. He muttered curses under his breath, spat near their feet, and bumped Asveri whenever he could. He was patient in his malice, content to make others miserable when no one else watched.
Asveri ignored him. Anor'ven ignored him even more.
Their lives settled into monotony. Labour, eat, sleep, repeat.
Days turned into weeks.
That evening, beneath a sky choked with thin clouds, Asveri finally broke.
They sat against a broken wall, nursing sore arms. Asveri was first to speak — as usual.
"This is madness," he whispered. "You're really fine with this, aren't you? Working like this forever?"
Anor'ven said nothing.
Asveri pressed further, frustration bubbling up.
"Seriously, what's wrong with you? We could leave! You don't need this. You don't need to be here."
Still, silence.
That irritated him more than it should have.
"You don't care at all, huh? You don't even think about it. About us. About being stuck like this forever. You—"
"Enough."
Anor'ven's voice was sharp this time. Not cold — cutting.
Asveri froze, startled by the sudden intensity.
"You speak of eternity like you understand it," Anor'ven continued, his tone heavier, darker. "You speak of leaving. Of freedom. As if such things hold meaning."
Asveri's mouth opened, but no words came.
"You don't know," Anor'ven said, his voice quieter now. "You've not watched everything rot. Everything die. You've not stood in ruins so old even memories have forgotten them. You've not endured eons of silence, where even hope dares not whisper."
He stopped.
His shoulders, always straight, slumped slightly.
And then — slowly, quietly — Anor'ven's expression twisted.
His lips trembled. His eyes, long dulled by endless years, shimmered faintly.
Without warning — tears began to fall.
Not loud. Not violent.
Silent. Weak.
The kind of tears only the truly broken ever shed.
He buried his face in his hands, breath shuddering.
Asveri stared, wide-eyed.
He had never — not once — seen Anor'ven falter. Not in battle. Not in despair. Not in loneliness.
This was different.
This was human.
And yet… achingly tragic.
"I didn't want this," Anor'ven whispered through his fingers. "I never asked for this."
Asveri hesitated.
For a long moment, he simply watched. He did not know what to say.
But something guided him. Slowly, awkwardly, he scooted closer and placed a hand on Anor'ven's shoulder.
"…It's okay," Asveri said softly. "I'm here, you know? You're not alone right now."
Anor'ven did not respond. His tears continued in silence.
Asveri stayed there, hand resting gently, unsure if it helped — but refusing to pull away.
For the first time, the roles felt reversed.
The child became the comforter. The immortal, the broken.
Night arrived quietly, wrapping the land in its cold arms.
Tomorrow would be the same.
But tonight, something small had shifted.
Not enough to heal. Not enough to change everything.
But enough to matter.
For now — that, too, was enough.