An update! This is going to be my last update before I update one of my humour fanfictions. First, review responses.
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EchoKazul -- Hooray! It worked! Now I've got a higher review count! (I be greedy and without grammar!) Thanks for the compliments! Well, luckily, the kitchen is still standing . . . barely. . . .
MercuryAdept -- Of course you can call me Yoshimi! That's completely fine. I've had to put up with people calling me "Yosh'" all the time, anyway. . . . Thank you for the compliments! Mm . . . I think Alfred's been my best muse so far though, which is really quite sad, actually.
Vyctori -- No, I don't, which is surprising since I have incredible luck in everything else. Thank you as well for the compliments (I love all of the compliments I'm getting . . .)! Yes, Camellia can be quite contrary and temperamental when she feels like it. I feel very sorry for the scribe, but I felt it added something to the scene. Hey, what would be the point of writing a fanfiction about someone who's already unbeatable? That would be no fun . . . although the makers of Rurouni Kenshin do well at that! Here's your update soon!
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This chapter is most confusing. It doesn't follow the main characters here. Instead, it focuses on the past of a character that has already been introduced . . . I'll let you guess who.
Once again, any constructive criticism is most welcome. Also, if you can see anything that seems a lot like something you've read, then tell me.
I can't find any new inspirations this time other than what I've heard from "Gather To Me," as was mentioned in the last chapter.
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GlossaryAssassin: Member of a nomadic group. They live in small tribes around Weyard, perfecting a fighting style based around speed, dodging, and stealth.
Gabomba: Tribal spirit. Worship is based around the Kibombo Rock, situated in Gondowan.
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Alfred: As it is with any chapter, Yoshimi Takahashi does not own Golden Sun (Books I or II) or any of the inspirations for this story.
***
Chapter 2: The Book From The Edge Of ShadowDrums. They pounded through his world. Beating, beating . . .
For what? He looked around. His search had brought him here, a young apprentice to the temple of Fate, to Kibombo Rock. He felt his journey was nearly at an end.
There! There were the drummers, sitting in the cliff that surrounded the Kibombo Ahead, he saw a large group of warriors of the tribe gathered around, stamping their feet, planting their spears in the dust, chanting, calling upon Gabomba.
He wrinkled his nose. Fate's beard! When would these spirit-worshippers turn to the truth?
But there was no time for that now. He looked past that, at the vaguely face-shaped rock that a well-dressed (well, for these savages) woman stood, facing Kibombo Rock, holding in her hands . . . .
There it was! It was the Healing Orb, sacred to Fate, holding the instructions to create potions the likes of which had never been seen in Weyard before it had come, a scarce fifty years ago.
This was a heaven-send to him . . . when you thought about it, literally. One of the rare non-Adepts, he still held the passion shared by many Mercury Adepts: to heal.
To heal was to live! That is the way he thought of it, anyway. Because of the sacred Healing Orb, he was able to do the work usually done by Mercury Adepts. He had to get it back!
Stealing around the back, carefully keeping out of the firelight, he found himself at a small hole in the rock. He peered around the statue.
The eye-like hollows seemed to glow. He was unafraid. It must be a trick of this Psynergist, he decided. He saw the woman disappear in the mouth-like cavern in the front, walking up the grotesque arch descending from it.
In her hands was the orb.
Hesitating for a moment, he disappeared through the back.
***
Climbing through the caverns that crisscrossed Kibombo Rock, he found himself behind the woman, who was putting on her new cape and turban in front of a small statue. He ducked down a small passageway.
Footsteps. Curse the luck! She was coming down this way. He fled the hallway, ducking behind a large bush. The woman continued down the hallway, her Venus Psynergy lighting up the room as she went on her way.
He turned and found himself facing another, smaller cavern. Peering down it, he saw a soft glow emanating from . . .
Thank Fate! The orb! He rushed down, sprawling headlong once, getting back up immediately in his haste to retrieve the orb.
He picked it up, relief flowing through every inch of his body. Finally! He could leave this accursed place. He got up to leave when something caught his eye.
Sitting on a large stone, of all places, was a book. Despite the dripping water droplets, it seemed free of decay. He picked up the book with a gloved hand (it would have to be dirty, staying in this dismal cave for so long!), lifting his opposite hand to lift the glowing orb until it illuminated the book.
Written on the cover were some strange runes. The side had a repetition of these runes, as well as two skeletal hands that came from the back and front, almost like hinges. No, they had to be hinges. What other use could they be?
Strange. It was clearly old, and it had probably been here for a long time, but there was no sign of mold, nor was there the slightest dampness, even. Putting down the orb, he opened the book.
The runes were inside the book as well. He saw the runes on the cover at the beginning of a longer paragraph. The strange letters ended, almost tauntingly, near the bottom, promising more to come.
He hesitated. Something was telling him that there was something wrong about this book. He had no idea why he would be interested in an intelligible book from spirit worshippers, and he knew he had seen those interlocking hands before. But maybe later, pages onward, there would be normal words. Maybe an explanation for the skeletal hands, too . . .
He turned the page.
The runes travelled onward down the page in a nearly endless stream. He could almost hear them whisper secrets, begging to be uncovered by him. Knowledge he had never dreamed of, at his fingertips, if he would only listen more carefully. He poured over each and every unfamiliar rune, every rough scratching in the papyrus. He was getting close, he was sure . . .
He suddenly heard footsteps, coming closer. Cursing himself for having not paid enough attention, he lifted his light. The cave seemed darker, for some reason.
Unconsciously, he shoved the tome in his pocket. It almost seemed to hum in satisfaction.
He had no time to think about that now. The woman was standing in the entryway, staring at him in shock. It was time for action.
With a speed he didn't know he had, he grabbed a rock and heaved it at her. She ducked, but was unprepared for the second stone. She dropped to the cold floor.
He burst into sweat. He had never raised even a fist against another living being, before now.
Rushing over in the dying light from the orb, he checked the woman's pulse. It was still strong. He breathed a sigh of relief.
Why should she live?
The thought struck him suddenly. He didn't want her to live. He wanted to take up a sharp stone; no, the knife stuck in the woman's belt. He wanted to kill the . . .
He jerked away. Where had that thought come from? He stumbled outside, still bearing his light. It was slightly brighter now, but it had a purple undertone. No, the light was dimmer, but there was another, slightly weaker light. The sickly purple was coming from his pocket, where rested the . . .
A shout. The guards had found him. He raced along, all thoughts set aside as he scrambled to escape the approaching warriors. He had never been in very good shape. He wished he could ride on something.
An image popped into his mind. A whip, ordinary from the outside, but almost pulsating with inner strength, promising that power to the one who would just take it in his hand. Accompanying it was another image of him riding a beast, riding like the wind. The power of the beast was beneath him, in his power . . .
The guards were gaining. With a curse, he left his thoughts in his dust, not spending any time on them.
***
He fell flat on his face, sprawling into a bush. He panted heavily, making no move to get up. They would get him, no matter what he did, or where he ran or how fast.
The thought was strangely comforting.
There they came, rushing up the slope. He closed his eyes, ready to die.
Nothing came. He opened his eyes again. Strangely, they had gone past him without noticing. He got up cautiously. One wrong move could mean death in these hills. The guards were not the only or even biggest danger here.
No sign of movement. Breathing a prayer to Fate, he carefully made his way up the slope, away from the rock. The way was easier with the light of the orb and the faint glow from his pocket.
***
He made it to a small village of another tribe as the sun set, painting the hills a soft orange. It also helped hide him, as he also gained an orange tint. The priest found a small nook between two buildings and slept.
It was around midnight when he woke. The moon cast an eerie glow on the street, where a tribesman made his way down the street, his spear cast lazily over his shoulder. His companion was making a line in the sand with the point of his spear.
Suddenly, the first person gave a small gasp and toppled forward. There was a dart in his neck.
The other jumped and looked around. The priest, however, was able to spot the attacker first.
An Assassin discarded his blowpipe and moved in, knife flashing in the moonlight.
The priest drew himself back. Assassins were a group that lived in wildernesses nearly everywhere. They accepted odd jobs; if that job included a little murder or skulduggery, well, so much the better. They were masked at all times, so they were hard to trace.
The priest knew he had to do something . . . but what? By the laws of the temple, he was forbidden to kill or even hold a weapon, but this was an Assassin . . .
The warrior had noticed the Assassin and began to bring up his spear, but the Assassin, trained since birth for speed and accuracy, was too fast. The top of the man's spear tumbled to the ground, useless. The Assassin twirled his dagger, taunting the man he would kill.
The priest, hardly registering any thought, grabbed the spear from the fallen man and brought it up to bear. The Assassin's mask, glowing sinisterly in the purple glow that had appeared, turned towards him. He (she?) did not dare make a sound, or else wake the entire village. The shaded eyes behind the mask seemed to be speculative.
Without warning, the Assassin dove, dagger first. The priest jumped back and to the side in a move he was sure he couldn't have done that morning.
'It must have been something I ate,' he speculated as, without thinking, brought his spear to one side.
The movement deflected his opponent's second knife that had been moving, without his notice, to the opposite side. He brought the spear to strike at his foe, who prepared to block his swing. The spear changed direction in mid-thrust, bringing the butt of the spear to the Assassin's shoulder, causing him to drop a knife. He sent the spear in a predictable move, easily seen in the purple glow lighting the battle. The Assassin sliced the spear in two, hoping to gain the advantage. As his opponent was occupied with his spear, he kicked out, making the Assassin's knees collapse. The butt of the spear whirled as his opponent fell, knocking the Assassin out.
The priest grabbed the dropped knife. He had seen the Assassin, Fate knows already drenched in blood, kill a man in cold blood. Why shouldn't the Assassin get death? Someone should kill him. He looked around. The second warrior had fled. There was no one there. Except him.
Why shouldn't he kill the man? Or woman. It was impossible to tell. He certainly deserved it. Yes, just a quick blow and all the killing would be over. Maybe wake him up; let him know he was going to die, like his victims did . . . savour the moment . . . take the beating heart from the Assassin's chest and . . .
The knife jerked, causing him to slice his own left arm below the elbow. Thrusting the knife in his belt, he clutched it. What had come over him? He never had been that bloodthirsty. And he had battled . . . he could never have done that . . . and the purple glow. Where had that come from?
It had come from his pocket. It was gone now, but he still looked in his right pocket. There wasn't anything in there. Just a few knickknacks, a couple of herbs . . .
He felt a chill go up his spine. And then there was the book.
But that couldn't have happened. Never. Not in a million years. Not to him.
Could it?
He sat, pale and not stirring, waiting for something he couldn't identify.
As the dawn painted his pale cheeks pink once again, he arose, quite nearly forgetting the entire episode of last night. Then the body of the man next to him brought it all back forcefully.
He noticed that the Assassin had left, forgetting his blowpipe. He picked it up, examining it. There was one dart still loaded, but any other darts would have been taken by the Assassin. He pocketed it and walked, rather slowly, out of the village into the mountains.
He made his way along the sparsely forested Kibombo Mountains, his thoughts rather scattered. He picked up that there was a tree in front of him; a wild gorilla that needed to be avoided; a stream that he needed to ford. Other than that, he did not think.
At dusk, he made camp. Sitting by the warm fire, he began to contemplate the events of the day.
What had happened back there? He pondered this as he took out the tome with a gloved hand. It looked so . . . so ordinary. There was no purple glow anywhere. Only his fire, and the faint glow from the orb lit the desolate plain. He found his hand searching the cover, to open it, to read it . . .
Suddenly, he tossed the book into one of his packs. What was wrong with him? He couldn't keep his hands off that book. He'd better leave it alone.
His mind wandered. He noted that, as the twilight was gone, the orb seemed brighter than it had at first. He scratched an itch and threw another branch on the fire. His idyll was broken by a large, hairy foot stomping down in front of his fire.
'Wild Gorilla,' he thought, panicked. 'I'm not prepared to . . .'
As you may have guessed, the gorilla didn't seem to want to give him that time to think. With a roar, it scattered his fire using one of its calloused hands. It began to advance on him.
'If only I could use Psynergy,' the priest thought rapidly. 'Then this would be no problem . . .'
Another image flashed in his head. A small, glowing card that seemed to hide the essence of fire inside its papyrus. There he was, holding the flame, juggling it, smiting all who stood in his way. He ruled the power . . .
He grabbed a burning tinder and struck at the monster. It calmly swatted at him, snapping the stick. He backed up, wide-eyed and fearful. The monster punched with a giant fist, slamming the priest into a tree. He yelped, something sharp sticking into his side . . .
The Assassin's knife! He had it there. He drew the dagger, ignoring the cut it had made on his side and crouched, ready to fight.
Once again, the fight was bathed in purple light.
The monster advanced, a fist ready. He watched calmly as it did so. The monster reared back to give a deathblow.
That would be its last act. He leapt forward, dagger seeking the unprotected chest. The dagger hit flesh, ripping through. The gorilla roared once, still defiant, but it fell facedown onto the ground, dead.
He sank to the ground again. He was fighting an inner battle. The sound of knife hitting flesh rang through his mind, pleading to be made real again. Blood streamed around his vision, begging to be his, to be taken from its former owner . . .
He stood shakily, gathered his stuff, and strode off, not knowing where he was going. Or how the book had ended up in his pocket again . . . .
***
He made it back to the village again, guided by the fading light of the orb. Dawn was coming back, so he placed the orb in his left pocket and strode down the village streets.
There was no one around as he walked along. He wondered at this, but then he came to a place where warm light was still pouring from a window. He peered inside.
An elderly couple huddled near the fire with a large group of children. They seemed troubled and fearful.
"Hail, friends," he called through the window.
The old man looked up. "Hail, traveller," he said feebly, beckoning to the priest. "Come and share our fire. We have but meagre fare, but what we have is yours."
"Nay, friend," the priest responded. "I do not have time to stop and eat. Where might the rest of the village be?"
The man sighed. "They are out there, fighting. Our enemy have come upon us in the night, and our champion was murdered just one night past. We are a peaceful tribe, hating war, but we must defend ourselves."
"I will go and see this," the priest responded. "Even if I can do nothing, I cannot just stand by and watch your village be destroyed." He turned to leave.
"But what can . . . ?"
"Maybe nothing," the priest responded, adding under his breath, "But I must atone for my sins."
He made his way along, coming to the top of a hill at last. There, he looked down and saw a horrific sight. A battle raged below.
'Even if I can do nothing,' he thought. 'I will not stand by.'
He started down when a sudden idea gripped him.
Use the book.
But what good would that do?
Use the book.
But how?
Use the book.
His mind was spinning. He seemed to have no control over his own mind. He fell on his knees, clutching his head . . .
Suddenly, he could think clearly again. He looked back at the battle and gasped in horror.
The ground was shaking, pushed up in dozens of places as brown, sinewy humanoids rose up and began advancing on the battle . . . zombies! The warriors gasped at the sight.
One young one ran up and sliced off an arm from one. Someone else struck off the legs of one and the head of another. The warriors sighed in relief, but the sigh was cut short.
They advanced, not mattering that several parts of their bodies lay on the ground. The one without legs even pulled itself along by its arms. The headless one reached out, seeking the warrior who had relieved it of its head.
This was too much. The enemy tribe broke ranks and fled in terror. The other group shrank back, still ready to protect their beloved village. The zombies, however, took no notice, fading away like vapour in the morning sun.
After a long silence, a cheer went up among the tribe's warriors, but it was ragged and unenthusiastic. They were still overawed, and scared, by what they had witnessed.
The priest stared for a moment longer, than turned and left, clutching the book in his gloved hand. It still glowed a faint purple.
***
He survived another day of no conscious thought, wandering in the dark recesses of his mind.
At night, he made camp yet again. He finally was able to grasp his thoughts and wonder at the unassuming book still clutched in his hand.
What was with this book and with the events that had been occurring ever since he had grasped it, deep in Kibombo Rock? He set it down. All of these things had occurred only since he had come into his life.
He shook his head. It. It. He had just called the book a "he!"
He tossed the book to the side. It bounced twice, not opening a hair.
It would be best to ignore it. Once he had the willpower to not succumb to . . . whatever it was doing, he could examine it more closely.
He tried to let his mind wander, but it always circled back to the tome. It called him, whispering secrets, suggesting plans.
He desired healing. That, the whispers in his mind suggested, could be his. He could be one of those other healers, casting Ply, Cure, Aura, whatever he wished! Or all of them! He would heal their pain, heal their sorrows. People would gather to him, and he, greatest of healers, would heal them all. All this would be his, if only he took the book.
He hesitated. He had not yet proved that he could resist the temptation . . .
Or had he? Yes, he hadn't done so yet. He was strong enough. He needn't waste the time to grasp the power.
But, this power was not guaranteed.
Yet, what if it was true? He could take it and be sure. He began to reach, his hand gloveless.
Something protested inside him. He snatched his hand back, looking warily at the book in the dim, flickering light from the orb.
Someone could die while he waited. Someone languished, lost in a disease that he alone could cure, with the book's help.
What if he was wrong, and couldn't control what he unleashed?
Take the book.
No longer sure whether it was his voice or another's that was arguing in his mind, he reached out and grabbed the book.
Power! He had never imagined such power. It rushed through him like gleeful children playing. Pleasure spread with it, warmth and a tingling feeling as the power surged. It was in his control!
Opening straight to the second page, he looked over the runes. He still couldn't understand them, but that didn't matter. It was the elated feelings that swept through him.
He didn't even notice when the orb's light flared and died. Even if he had, he wouldn't have cared. All that mattered now was the book and the power it promised.
***
Many hours later, he set it down. The aftershock left him giddy, seeing small dots in his vision. The purple glow faded, leaving him in darkness . . .
Darkness! He groped, panicked, for the orb. How could he not have noticed that it had gone out! Ever since he had first seen it, it had shone brighter than any torch. Now, no light came from its surface. It had been fine a few days ago.
He laughed grimly. That felt a lifetime ago. That was when he first grasped . . .
He gasped suddenly. The book. How could he not have noticed the light dying while he had been travelling?
Something was very wrong with the book. He must have been blind not to see it this clearly before.
He would not do it again. He was able to resist it before. Until he had decided not to wait.
What a fool he had been! He had thought he was able to resist its powers, but he had succumbed to it without knowing.
His body ached, remembering the rush of power. He shook himself and went to sleep. He would just have to try harder. It would be simple now that he knew the true dangers.
As he closed his eyes, he saw the book glow mockingly in the edge of his vision.
***
He awoke the next morning, packed, and left. He didn't move the book from the ground where he had put it.
It didn't matter. Later that day, when he stopped to make camp, it was back in his pocket. He took it with a gloved hand and threw it as far away as he could. It glowed as it flew in an arc. It stopped halfway on its flight. A knife, thrown from the darkness, struck it down. The knife, which would have struck him down, also fell.
Looking up, he saw the Assassin he had defeated only nights before. The dark figure stared at him through the mask, eyes full of venom. He (or she) jumped down.
He never made it to the ground. A dart flew through the air and embedded itself in his throat, killing him instantly. The corpse dropped to the ground with a thud.
The priest placed a hand to his heart. He felt his hand clutching something. He looked, and saw with horror it was the blowpipe he had picked up from the assassin. The dart that had been inside it was missing. . . . He realized where it must be. In the neck of the dead man.
He had taken a life, which was forbidden to the priesthood by pain of death. His head swirled. His mind was in turmoil. He couldn't think of anything other than the dead man who lay nearby. The one he had killed. He didn't even notice when his hand grasped the book.
He didn't let go of the book again.
~~~
Yoshimi: And that's that! A rather confusing chapter, but the next one should be easier to understand. *sniffs* Wait . . . IS THAT SMOKE?! *runs outside with bucket of water* *throws bucket*
Alfred: *sopping wet and with the bucket on his head* ¬_¬ Good morning, Yoshimi.
Yoshimi: Huh? Where's the fire?
Alfred: *points at small, well-contained campfire* There. *dries self off with magic*
Yoshimi: Oh. *sniffs* What's that other smell? It smells like breakfast . . .
Alfred: *gestures at frying pan suspended over the fire* I felt sorry for having making such a mess of the kitchen the other day, I made some breakfast in the way I know how. It's almost done.
???: *runs up* Please! I need food! I'm starving!
Yoshimi + Alfred: {???)
???: Please! I'll owe you my life!
Alfred: *hands him plate of food*
???: *begins eating*
Yoshimi: . . . GUY?!
Alfred: Who?
Guy (from Fire Emblem): *looks up from food* Hmm? How did you know my name?
Yoshimi: {!) Wow! It's Guy!
Guy: Hey! How do you know me?
Alfred: Never mind. I thought you were hungry.
Guy: Oh! Right. *eats some more*
Alfred: About that favour. . . .
Guy: You saved my life! I'll do anything you ask!
Alfred: How about you become this author here's muse?
Guy: Consider it done! *pauses* What's a muse?
Alfred: *shakes head* You, my friend, have a lot to learn.
Yoshimi: *takes a plate of breakfast and begins eating* Mm! This is good! What is it?
Alfred: Spirit guide rations.
Yoshimi: What type?
Alfred: *scratches head* To be honest, I don't know.
Yoshimi: WHAAAAT?!
Alfred: ^^; But it tastes good, doesn't it?
Yoshimi: What is it?! Really, you MUST know!
Alfred: No idea.
Yoshimi: 0_0 AACK! I-I'VE BEEN POISONED!
Alfred: *taking plate* Don't worry. I've been eating it for years and it hasn't done anything to me. *takes large bite*
Yoshimi: *whimpers* I'm going to die!
Alfred: *swallows* It won't kill you. Unlike not reviewing. *looks mysterious*
Guy: *confused* How will not reviewing kill you?
Alfred: *normal expression* . . . Darn it. I was hoping no one would ask that.