Smoke Eyes

I let the Emperor die.

It hasn't been that long, but tales grow fast. Enough time has passed for it to become a legend, even in the short span of this lifetime of mine. I have been asked to repeat these words for all kinds of people – from children to brave warriors, from townsmen to bards, and even adventurers on their way home. What I told them I will tell you now, nor will it ever change.

Even so, no matter what I say, history will not remember Uriel's death like I do.

There is none of the failure in what history preserves. The centuries do nothing but add vane poetry, and graze away the truth. If I were to travel to other times, would anyone listen to what I have to say? I can only tell of how I couldn't move – of how his blood spilled to the ground, drawing patterns of fate, before I could even open my eyes. Would anyone believe me, in five-hundred years?

I am afraid not. But only I was there to see.

I would never have made a difference. I knew too little. There were divine forces too high to understand, twining in the space of one humid cell. The powers at work that day were no less than untouchable – if unable to read, I have seen his wound and his eyes. Each of their shadows was written in the Scrolls. I am the only one who is left to tell, to this day, how dark they were.

Still, I knew nothing yet. Epics will only preserve part of the truth – they will narrate a tragedy and its foreordained fate, with everything it lead to. They will speak of the Nine and their mysterious ways. Not a word, not a tear, will be spent on my fault, for what I felt never mattered.

I was destined to be useless.

When it happened to him, my sight was much clearer.

I am not sure of how my role changed me. But wars like ours are fought within the fabric of existence, crossing the barriers of many planes, and I believe the act of fighting counts for most of it. Cursed or blessed as I might be, I will never know – I only know I walked out of Mundus with my feet, with nothing more than my blade to defend me.

By the time we got to the Temple, my eyes on the world were crystalline, so far from a beginning still so close in terms of time. Not much of it had passed, oh, no. In me, however, there was an abyss. I knew right away, as soon as the fire was not reborn.

I understood what he had to say, at least. Every single word. I was condemned to listen through my new knowledge, with the same resolve as him, and with the whole of my consciousness to show me how powerless I was.

Once again, there was nothing I could do.

No, what clouded my eyes that day was no longer ignorance. The veil of my ill judgement had fallen way before the end. I had no doubts on what would happen – I was ready to lose him to his fate, so that everyone else could preserve their own. What I wished for would not make a difference; the chance to see his face, to hear his words, had to be sacrificed.

History does not remember, but I do. That is all I can tell, until my breath dies in winter and my frail shell is left empty. I am the one left to tell who Martin was, in the flesh, for the frozen tales of history will never be enough to keep him intact.

But it was his fate to go, or we wouldn't be here today. He left us this fireplace, and the time to tell. So I can confess, to other kind ears – he gave me the chance to atone for myself, for this pointless spring of guilt that never dries out.

What darkened my eyes, as he burned in brilliance, was the smoke of tears. My insight in his soul was not mistaken.

It truly was his fate to go.

So, once more, I let the Emperor die.

The incipit and the whole concept behind this story came from an early morning dream. I only had to write.