How curious it was, that a bonfire's warmth never faltered. The knight had been sitting at this one for surely a while. Had time slipped past him without notice? He was certain that when he first placed his hand over the coiled sword that the landscape had been different. As of now there was naught but ash covering the ground, and ruined buildings crumbling over each other as the mountains seemed to slowly turn in unnatural directions. Where had he first sat down? He remembered ash still being plentiful but there were no mountains nor buildings. He dimly recalled melted pillars surrounding him at the time, but to guess how long ago that was would be inconclusive. Was there anything he had to spark his memories? He was traveling so he must have had a pack with him at the time. Perhaps he misplaced it in the ashen dunes, but couldn't drag himself away from the bonfire to look. The flames were always calming but the fires of this one had an element of infancy to them. Like they were but a helpless child that could never be left alone. There must had been a reason for this. He tried very hard to think about what could be so unique about the tiny embers before him.
Strange...weren't they supposed to be more than that?
It reminded the pyromancer of when he first obtained his own fire. He was so joyful and innocent at the time. Perhaps his teacher had been a bit irresponsible to let a mere child hold what could've been the seed of ultimate destruction. Yes, that was a shameful thing to do, as he remembered chuckling whilst telling his tutor just that, years afterwards. The old stories of fearing the flame had been more effective on his naive mind, thankfully. It took a truely wise and brave soul to past down the art of pyromancy so early, let alone teach him swordsmanship shortly afterwards. And with a real scimitar of all things. Thinking back on it, the fact that he hadn't killed himself was more of a miracle than hurling lightning bolts will ever be.
How odd...that people would choose to throw mere sparks instead of fire.
The lightning had served the cleric well from the moment he was gifted with it. The church was hesitant at first, and rightly so. But after throughly demonstrating that he did indeed have unparalleled faith in the gods, the art was bestowed upon him to assist in his quest. That reminded him, what was his quest? If the church had given him a task then its importance must've been immense. How could he have forgotten such a thing? He tried to remember as he looked the embers dancing around the coiled sword. The first flame, it was fading and needed to be linked once again. Had he died in the process of trying? He was sitting at a bonfire after all, but something about this one filled his with a sense of belonging. Divine blessing perhaps? It was difficult to focus on what the church had taught him dispite the years he spent praying there.
Was he really starting to...forget?
Had the young sorceress forgotten any of her arcane teachings an early death would've been certain. But here she was, sitting at the birthplace of an age. What had those old ignorant lot been doing up until their hollowing? Nothing as important or grand as her linking of the fire, that was certain. They mocked her, laughed at her, and they lost their minds after she left. But with her previous problem satisfyingly dealt with, her new one was proving to be quite the puzzle. First of all, she simply must understand what was so interesting about the embers. The coiled sword seemed the same as all the others but its fire was tragically dull. Was this not the kilm that lit up the entire sky? Did the lord of sunlight not use his very soul to re-ignite an era? If that was the case, then what had happened to this ruined kingdom?
This dying corroding kingdom...
The kingdom that he had once ruled over was now sinking in to the earth. The kingdom he fought for, the people he died for, the children he cared for, all dust. His subjects had lost their minds, his people had long forgotten him, and his children...
Had he been so blinded by shame that he exiled and disowned his firstborn?
Had his most loyal dragon slayer followed in his footsteps after he realised that his post was on the grave of a dead city?
Had his first daughter absconded when she saw the unfitting stain that her fathers legacy had left?
Had his remaining son tried so desperately to keep their city under their name and that his only reward was being devoured whole?
Had his second daughter been laid to sleep in a distant city for countless millena and whose only moments of consciousness were before age and death claimed her?
Had he burned his very soul in a vain attempt to prolong an age that had been limited from the very start, and was now resting on its ashes?
A figure came into view from the stone archway at the edge of the dunes, and as they did more questions entered the old mans mind.
Is this kingdom of ash worth protecting?
Is my legacy only that of ruin?
Is this pile of smoldering embers truely what remains of my great soul?
He got up and grasped the coiled swords handle. The flame surrounding it danced upwards and engulfed it as the ash scattered, and with it came an answer to the old mans questions.
No.