I watched as Calia rushed up the crumbling stairs of the Vault, zweihänder bouncing against the back of her cuirass. The sound of her boots faded into the darkness.
She kept her head down, not looking back.
It was only then that I realized that I would never see her again.
... And I didn't even say goodbye.
0-0-0-0-0-0
By day I was the Prophet of the Cycle, the slayer of man and beast, illuminator of the forgotten past, liberator of the oppressed.
But by night... no, I was merely Kurz.
The world had its Cycle, and so I had mine. I would trundle up the main steps to the Sun Temple, and the gate guards would glance at me, then each other, then me again. With poorly hidden reluctance they would call for the gates to open.
So there came the sight: a horror of a man mummified in bandages, dented armor awash in drying blood—sometimes mine, sometimes a parting gift—and all eyes would turn upon me, from the novices to the arcanists to the Keepers. Some curious, some afraid, some incredulous... and some disappointed.
I would push open the doors to the Chronicum and limp up to the second floor, not meeting the gazes of the Nehrimese. They always advice or criticism to impart, but I brushed past them. Only Sha'Rim, watching from across the main chamber, would grant me peace. How I appreciated him for that little mercy.
And then there it was, my sanctuary—an unused study room converted into 'The Quarters of the Prophet.' It had a hearth and a window, at the very least. An improvement from sleeping in overgrown caves in the forest and awakening to wolves sniffing at my face.
Here—and only here—I would shed my plate, shed my aketon, shed my shield and my sword and quiver and pack and stand there naked, in my true skin, not the steel skin that so oft took its place.
And then I would lay down and pretend that nothing had happened that day and everything was normal.
To the High Ones, I suppose, everything was normal.
0-0-0-0-0-0
I forgot what it felt like to be born. But I'm sure it feels something like teleportation.
You look at the scroll—a newborn's first glimpse of daylight—and your eyes burn, you feel the runes of power getting sucked through your eyes and crawling into the wrinkles of your brain. And then you feel weightless, heavy, hot and cold and sick, and then there's only darkness and silence for what seems like eternity. And there's always the fear—what if you read the runes wrong? What if they were the wrong runes? What if part of you stays back and the rest of you plops down in the Sun Temple like entrails from a gutted deer? What if—
And then you fall flat on your face, gasping for air, hands clutching desperately at solid ground... At your destination.
I looked up.
0-0-0-0-0-0
I opened the door. Jespar was standing there, with a basket of wildflowers.
"Been taking those bard's songs a little too literally," I said dryly.
He grinned that misshapen grin of his. "What? You aren't seduced yet?"
"Not with dead plants." I sat down and stared out the window. How slowly the clouds moved.
"Well, the butcher isn't far from the flower stall, so I'll try dead animals next time." He easily shouldered past me, surveying my barren room with a frown. He gestured at the empty hearth. "I've seen cheerier mausoleums than this." He raised the basket. "Thought your prison cell needed a bit of color."
"I'll remember to invite Lost Ones for lodging them next time I see them."
Jespar said nothing, simply pulling out few pewter cups and arranging them on the lone table, sticking in the flowers as he saw fit.
"I killed a child," I uttered.
Jespar stopped, slowing turning his head to look at me.
"I didn't know until I began looting their corpses." I laced my fingers together, pulled my hands underneath my chin. "At a hundred paces, you know, sometimes it's hard to tell. And some grow fast. So damned fast. Beards and everything. You know, like there's that cobbler's son in the marketplace, right, he's only fifteen winters and nearly as tall as his father, and it was just like that, you know? Near midnight, moonless, with only a low fire's light, and he was crouched over, and—"
"Kurz." Jespar was there, hand firm on my shoulder. "They were bandits. They would've killed you. That's what they do."
"I know. I know that. And I hacked them down like wheat." I looked up at him. His face seemed far away. "And I didn't feel anything. Like it wasn't real. It felt like..." I gulped. My throat was dry. "Like... like I was just playing pretend. A pretend farmer with a pretend scythe, but the wheat screamed and begged as it fell at my feet." I laughed. A small, nervous laugh that rattled up out of my stomach.
He cocked his head to the side, eyes squinted. "When did you last sleep?"
"Two days ago."
Jespar sighed, leaning against the bedpost. "Well, my knowledge of the healing arts stops at liquor and peaceweed, but I'd say exhaustion explains it."
I looked back out the window. Same cloud. "Perhaps."
"Go to sleep, Kurz."
So I did.
0-0-0-0-0-0
Everyone was dead.
No, that was wrong. They weren't dead, they were... ascending.
Becoming something else.
