Part V, Resurrection

"Now I've lived through my share of misfortune
And I've worked in the blazing sun
But how long should it take somebody
Before they can be someone

Cuz I know there's got to be another level
Somewhere closer to the other side
And I'm feelin' like it's now or never
Can I break the spell of the typical?"
-Mute Math, Typical

Life as a mercenary was peaceful enough. The solitary conditions suited him. There were only a few members of the mercenary group and Oric knew enough to only use Aashe on the less intensive missions. With all the extra time on his hands, Aashe resorted to various hobbies to keep his mind occupied. For amusement, he maintained a little garden next to their campsite. It was nothing special: some sul plants, carrots, beans, katch and peas. He found it soothing for some reason. There was something about tilling the soil with his hands. His fingernails covered in dirt. The pain in his back after a day spent hunched over, pulling weeds. It was like penance for his failures.

Somewhere along the way, the little garden of vegetables grew. His yield of suls grew every year. Not knowing what to do with them all, he dabbled in the art of brewing. The men seemed to enjoy his try at sul paga. It snowballed from here. The garden grew bigger; he began brewing more and more paga. From a small garden grew an actual business.

In fact, the paga brewery eventually became more profitable than the entire mercenary outfit. Soon, the outfit turned from a mercenary band into a paga tavern and delivery company. Umbra, they called the company- which meant shadow. The mercenaries by themselves could not handle all the work orders; outsiders and friends were brought in to pick up the slack. The women worked in the distillery and bottling plant; the men rode the delivery wagons and protected the storehouses. Contracts kept coming in. Wagons rolled out to many cities: Midgaard in the North to Rovere in the Delta to Kasra in the Southern regions. Soon, seemingly every tavern in every corner of the world served Umbra paga. He never planned it; it just happened.

The dull ache of misery deep within him returned soon enough. Despite all the financial success, the thriving business, there was something wrong. He couldn’t identify what it was, but he knew it was there. He couldn’t enjoy his success. He thought of everything to try and solve his problem: he tinkered with the recipe to content himself that he produced the best paga; he even traveled with some of the supply shipments to prove that he was not afraid of no location. He even returned to Midgaard. He ventured to Port Kar and Fina and stood toe-to-toe with his old opponents. He looked them in the eye and they looked back at him. It wasn’t a question of honor; perhaps he was not the same man he once was, but he no longer felt ashamed. He could look at himself every morning in the mirror.

On one of his trips towards the southern regions, he passed through Tuchuk country. Perhaps it was Fate that drew him to that isolated trading route in the middle of nowhere. For in the middle of the desolation and blackness was a dilapidated old shack. Curious, he knocked on the door and soon found himself face-to-face with a grizzled old haruspex. She was a ghastly sight; one eye was missing, and her naked wrinkled body was covered in odd colored streaks. He could not guess what the origins of the marks were; undoubtedly most of them were feces based on the way she smelled. And yet, it was almost as if she had expected him.

“Come inside, Aashe.” She beckoned him into the shack with one gnarled finger. The only thing inside the shack was a large fire with a pot boiling over it. He had no idea what the woman was cooking, but the odor offended his senses. His eyes watered and he gagged, desperate for fresh air. It was so bad, he was sure he was going to die. But before he could even make a move towards the door, her bony hand seized his wrist. Though he was much stronger and more powerful than her, he could not move. The woman somehow dragged him to the lip of the cauldron and forced him to peer into the boiling liquid.

“Look.” Her wheezing breath sounded like fingernails scraping against a chalkboard. He looked. He was not sure what he was supposed to see. At first, he saw nothing. The steam of the concoction stung his eyes and clouded his vision. But the woman’s grip never faltered for a second and he was powerless to move. The heat singed his skin. Soon enough, the picture cleared. He did not recognize the figure looking back at him. It was not his reflection- of that, he was sure. As best as he could tell, it was the figure of a woman, surrounded by a silvery sheen. He could only look at the image for a moment before he was dragged back towards the door. It didn’t make any sense. Who was this woman? What did it all mean? The haruspex offered no advice, hints or explanation for what happened. Instead, she took him to the door and pointed at him in an accusatory way. What had he done? He protested, ready to strike her for she was mad. But the door shut in his face.

He stood there, perplexed and confused. What had that all meant? He thought about it for a moment, but the more he thought, he more he became confused. Just before took his seat on his wagon, he saw a metallic object glistening in the sunlight not too far away. Curious, he picked it up. It was a silver piece, stamped from the mines of Tharna. Figuring that some good at least had come out of this odd encounter, he whistled a tune and rode away.