Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, fanfiction more specifically. In it are characters, events and settings not of my own design but created by Ms. Tamora Pierce. This story is for the private enjoyment of author and readers, no profit shall be made. All characters will be returned in good, working order. So with the exception of The Seer and the plot idea thing, I stole everything. Even this disclaimer has been stolen (from AmazonDreamer)
Solitary confinement was lonely. Chaos figured this out very quickly. Again. Instead of plotting from the start this time she decided to spend much of her sentence telling herself stories of her victories. Though there were many, she had finished them four times over already and had gone on to other, less victorious stories. As a Goddess she could access stories she had never witnessed, stories that came alive as she told them. To herself.
The Seer too, was in solitary confinement. No matter how intelligent a civilization is, when their end is predicted to be near they become stupid. They "shoot the messenger" or in this case, lock him in an old blacksmith's shop, magicked to keep noise from penetrating the walls, inside or out. They panic and deny it until it starts to happen and continue denying it until it is too late and then they panic even more. The worst thing about this civilization though, was their selfish fear of death and ageing, for they feared that more than anything else.
The Seer did not care though. He was always the "weird one," the one who did not belong. He was the one in a society of necrophobiacs who tried to commit suicide; he was the person in a civilization based upon strong magic who tried to do things in a more solid, scientific way. He had more talents than the others knew, though they knew he was the strongest seer. They resented him for it, and in the time of his greatest vision, they denied he was ever good at all. He did not care though, it did not matter to him that he would be alone when his race died completely, he would die either way, no matter what the others thought; they were not immortal.
Living as long as he did (for everyone lived a long life,) he had learned more old skills as everyone else became more reliant on magic. His most useful skill when locked up in a blacksmith shop was most probably locksmithing. He had made the key the first day he was in his prison with no one the wiser because of their foolish insistence on giving him a soundproof prison.
The key he made was to more than just the backdoor of they smithy; it was a key to the future as well for as soon as he had finished, he had another vision. This vision was far into the future that his people were not even memories anymore; they were almost child-tales that few believed, with nothing but a few ruins of old buildings left. He grinned as he imagined how his people would cringe at such a sight. The vision was of a woman, red haired with purple eyes, and a short, stocky body that moved with muscular, not feminine, grace. In his vision the woman held a sword, a sword that radiated The Seer's magic. The Seer was infatuated by her; she was so short compared to his people, so bold, so different, so proud and so strong, he could only think to compare her with a lioness. She was ready to fight--to prove herself and she had incredible talent with the sword. A sword the Seer had yet to make. He knew he would make it; for he was in love with her, this red haired woman, this Lioness.
As he set about making the sword he knew that more than just his magic was required, as he pounded the blade to a perfect precision he pounded into it his soul. His very being shaped the sword, to fit him, to fit the Lioness. The Seer thought of nothing but His Lioness, of her eyes. Her eyes were identical only to her brother's; the purple eyes of The Seers people. She was a descendant of his people. The Seer realized he was wrong; they would not die out all together. Maybe one of them would survive and be an ancestor this woman whom he loved.
On the third day of continuous smithing and magic the sword was complete. The sword was made for only the Lioness, physically as well as magically. He then picked up his key, and opened the door. Beyond the door was an armory he knew very well, for it was his own. In the corner there was a door to an underground vault where he had always kept his most prized possessions. The mechanics of the door and the magic that he had used to create it let in only him. He now used his very last bit of magic so the next time—the last time—it would be opened; it could be opened by somebody else. But not just anybody; the red haired woman, the Lioness. The stone closed behind him, the lid on his tomb, as he walked down the stairway into darkness. The morbid thought that he was being buried alive did enter his mind, but he continued for his love of the woman who had yet to be born. He placed the sword in the place of his old one, using all his strength to lift it. And died; the first, and last, of his people to willingly journey to the Black God's realm.
Chaos thought about the story for a second, the Old Ones were a victory for her, she knew the victory forward and backward, but that Seer had made the victory incomplete. She sneered out loud at the thought. She then smiled to herself, knowing that she will never underestimate the "weird one" again. Those who label them that always underestimate their greatness and when they try to rid themselves of that person, they never do as well as they need. She also learned a bit of blind love and how it drove people. She despised stories with morals but Chaos knew this would help her when she runs out of stories and starts to plot again, wiser and angrier than before.