Author's note: Chapter 3 has been... a very long time in coming. For that I apologize - writing is one of those things that I have to both be in the mood for, and inspired to do. Still, I hope you enjoy!
From The Song of the Watcher, date unknown:
Upon the shore he cried for joy, safe at last from Umberlee's Fury
With psalms of praise for the Everwatching Eye
That dispelled the judgement of the Bitch Queen's jury
A fisherman saw him and asked why he wept
The Watcher shook his head and crept
Across the shore to the feet of the fishmonger
Where he said these words:
"Fine it is, but I have no home, no mission, and no place on these shores.
Were there signs in the sand to tell me my fate
I would rend the earth to ease this weight."
As Anomen quickly found out, Maztica- in addition to the loveliness of its foliage and the beauty of its seas- was also home to a host of quaint and rather frustrating traditions that were readily apparent to the Helmite shortly after he left the ship. For one, the beaches were nearly utterly deserted in broad daylight. Recalling his native Amn, Anomen remembered the hustle of the docks both day and night throughout the entire tenday. The silence unnerved him, and made him miss the bustle of Athkatla.
For two, when what natives he could find were questioned about this, they didn't to take it well.
"A what?" Anomen asked in disbelief. The fisherman held up his hands to form a symbol, one which Anomen was obviously supposed to understand yet didn't. He bit his lip to keep from saying anything inappropriate and waited alongside the man while he bent back down and dug some clams out from the disturbed sand. "I'm sorry, I don't think I understood. Today is a what?" he asked again in more civilized tones.
"A… Nemontini day," the fisherman answered once more in highly accented Chondathon, casting his black eyes to the sand. "It is a day of most bad luck, Amnian. You'll find nothing about here tonight."
"Then why are you out fishing?" Anomen pressed, watching him wipe his sandy hands on a pair of ragged trousers.
The fisherman shot a glare at him. "Nemontini or no, I must still feed my family," he retorted, before glancing down at the priests' sigil. The fisherman's dark eyes met his own, and he added, "I do not wish to rely so much on your kind as others of my kin, Helmite."
The venom with which he spoke of Helm was obvious but before Anomen could protest, the man turned and began to hustle off, his bucket of clams and other sea life in tow. Anomen could tell he was going to have a very, very bad day before it had even really started. First the storm, and now?
Nemontini. Of all the days the ship could have arrived, it was on a Nemontini day. Whatever that meant.
"Wonderful, and where am I to stay?" Anomen called after the retreating figure, abandoning all decorum and taking a look at the deserted beach road running past him. "Should I climb the palms? Perhaps I should hunker in the sand!"
He opened his mouth to say more, but guilt overcame him, freezing the irritated words in his throat. Far off in the distance, the stern of Gilded Summer was cresting a wave, and it was at that exact moment that Anomen Delryn realized that he was irrevocably, truly stuck.
He decided that he'd better make the best of it. There was driftwood on the beach enough for a fire, and he had plenty of dry food in his possession – he could at least make it for the night. The fisherman's anger towards Helm irked him, though, as he busied himself by making a fire. He replayed the scene over in his head, the undertones in the man's voice magnifying each time.
Helmite. HELMITE. The way he'd said it had made it sound like a curse.
Stranger in a strange land, Delryn. Maztica never heard of Helm before this, said a voice in his head that sounded suspiciously like Brindhal's.
But it's our job to teach them. We're helping them, and they're resentful of it.
If you were in their place and missionaries of Qotal started running your life, wouldn't you be resentful too? Brindhal asked, playing the Devil's Advocate.
They're natives. They can't be expected to know any better.
There was an awkward pause in his thoughts. You should try to be more understanding, Anomen.
Suddenly, the Helmite threw his head back and began to laugh mirthlessly at the entire situation. He laughed so hard that he toppled over the sack of his possessions and fell into the wet sand, which made him laugh all the harder. He was suddenly thrilled – in a rather manic sort of fashion – that he was the only one around. If Anomen was going to lose his own sanity, he reasoned, it was probably best no one else be there to see it.
"Oh, my lady," he addressed the swirling sky above him between guffaws, "My lady, you have finally made a lunatic of me after all." He lay until the peals of laughter subsided and he found himself once more wondering what to do next. Above him the clouds thundered faintly as the storm moved inland, but there was no sign of the sun – the skies were shades of obstinate, steel grey.
Anomen spread his arms out into the sand and contemplated the sky and the sea, the mists around him and the turbulence of the great, blue abyss. He fantasized briefly about the tide carrying him off into its depths, which was rather a morbid train of thought that he soon left behind. Suicide was distasteful not to mention an utmost sin… and besides, if he had truly wanted to, he could have easily have designed a similar (though less sanitary) watery demise in Athkatla. Anomen, however, was a Helmite, and a realistic one at that; whether it was to his liking or not, he was better off picking himself up, dusting the sand off, and making his way down to Helmshold to meet his destiny.
Once the storm passed, anyway. And once he'd settled his inner monologue.
"Helm… is here to civilize the wild barrens and bring His order to the New World," Anomen said to no one in particular, repeating the Golden Legion's mantra and taking a deep breath to center himself. He glared up at the clouds, which were busily dumping rain a few miles ahead, and took out his flint and tinder, to start a fire. "Understand, even if you do not accept," he continued, emphasizing the last word, "The traditions of others, for they are our brothers in spirit if not in flesh."
There, he thought triumphantly, as his lips mechanically continued the Legion's Creed. I said it. Now if only I actually believed it.
"The Musings and Madness of Saint Dervinis?" Imoen asked, gingerly picking up the book by the tips of her fingers and craning her head to examine the cover. "Sheesh. You lot sure have some boring literature at your disposal."
Imoen aspired to become an atheist, and none of the priesthood in their group could much blame her; keeping the faith – any faith – was hard for even Brindhal, who had both Helm AND Bhaal whispering in her ears. Aerie, Anomen, and Brindhal exchanged sidelong glances with one another, then began to chuckle. Imoen cracked a wan smile, but kept it at that.
"It's not boring, it's history," the paladin retorted to her sister, who quirked an auburn eyebrow. "You like history, Im."
"I like history when it isn't told from the point of view of crazy people," the redhead said, idly opening the book halfway and scanning its contents. She made a face.
"I thought you liked those more," Brindhal rejoined as Anomen supplied, "St. Dervinis was not crazy! He just had… visions."
"I have visions too, but most people would call me crazy and leave off on writing my thoughts." The mage turned to Anomen for a reply, but everyone was surprised when Aerie, who had remained quiet up until then, plucked the book from Imoen's hands and, closing it, rested it upon her lap where Imoen could no longer get at it. It was, after all, Aerie's book in the first place.
"We don't think you're crazy. None of us think it. I mean, I'm sure all of us in this room have had 'visions' of one sort or another," Aerie added softly. "I've had them before, you know… even people not affiliated with any sort of clergy –"
"My visions tell me to rend innocent people from limb-to-limb and bathe in their blood. What do yours say?" There was a harsh note in the mage's voice, which they all picked up on. Imoen had most definitely not been the same since her return from Irenicus, and the calmness with which her words were said sent chills down Anomen's spine.
"It's…I… it's not my place to say." The avariel looked horrified, but Brindhal shrugged off her sister's hostility and put a hand on her shoulder.
"I've had those too, Im," she said soothingly. "But I've also been blessed to have Helm calming me down and guiding my way since we were in Candlekeep. My visions aren't as… complex as St. Dervinis', mind, but if having Helm show me the way around Bhaal's idiocy is crazy, then I'm nuttier than St. Dervinis will ever be." She shot a expectant glance at Anomen, expecting backup on her point.
Imoen snickered at the paladin's self-abashment, even while the others still balked somewhat at the mention of Bhaal's name. No one had quite gotten used to hearing it uttered so frankly, or so casually by the Bhaalspawn among them.
The Watcher cleared his throat. "I haven't yet been blessed to receive Helm's Word, Brindhal," he replied quietly, looking down at his hands.
Brindhal looked away, disappointed but trying not to show it, and Aerie looked uncomfortable; Imoen just cackled as she stalked off.
"Who's there?" he asked quickly, sitting up and snapping to attention. Though no one else had come onto the beach proper, there was a shuffling noise from several yards away, the sounds of twigs snapping and leaves being brushed aside. The Watcher tensed out of instinct, bracing himself to stand and, if necessary, fight.
The shuffling noises continued, getting closer and closer until, from a thicket of sea grapes and yellow-green grass, there emerged a figure: a bird, brightly plumed, with the strangest feathers Anomen had ever seen. It squawked, took a couple of fumbling steps, alighted into the air a few inches, then landed in a heap just a few feet of the confused-looking foreigner.
Anomen Delryn had never seen a couatl before, and even though he'd heard stories a'plenty about Maztica's strange, mythical animals, the mess of feathers in front of him wasn't recognizeable as anything especially epic. To him, it looked like an overcolorful peacock. It was, however, the largest and most plumed bird Anomen had ever seen, and despite its ruffled look and the dim light of the stormy day, its feathers practically glowed against the gray sky.
Whatever bird it was, it regarded Anomen with a regal look, and inclined its plumed head at him. In response, the Helmite stood up – although he wasn't sure whether it was out of politeness, or expectation, or even at the sheer surprise at having been acknowledged by a bird. The cautionary tales about the Wild Land of Maztica he'd heard from the captain and crew on the ship were still fresh in his mind: stories of animals that talked to people and Gods that ate hearts. It was irrational, but to Anomen the bird was eyeing him a little too keenly. He reached for his holy symbol without thinking, when something else made itself loudly apparent: he and the bird were not alone.
Except that… when he turned around, there was no one else there which was, if anything, stranger than a self-aware bird.
Good afternoon, Watcher Anomen, a familiar voice greeted in his head, interrupting his thoughts. It was the voice of a woman, dark-skinned with shorn hair and mournful black eyes that he once knew very, very well. Anomen decided to ignore this voice and shot a glance at the bird, who ruffled its feathers at him.
WATCHER KNIGHT ANOMEN, another voice chimed in gruffly. The second one he did not recognize, but it resonated within him in a way that Brindhal's voice hadn't, reaching deep within his mind and heart. Anomen was sure, at that moment, that he had indeed gone mad. The stern, male voice inside his head chuckled, in as much of a fashion as an incorporeal voice booming through one's skull was capable of doing so.
The bird, for its part, was still staring at the bewildered Watcher expectantly. He turned once more to face it, and sighed.
"Tell me that it wasn't you who was speaking."
The bird blinked at him, and both voices chuckled softly.
HAVE YE NEVER HEARD OF DIVINE INTERCEDENCE BEFORE, WATCHER DELRYN?
"Who - what is going on?" Anomen said, growing agitated at the voices in his mind. "If this is the cosmos' idea of a joke, it is not funny."
Suddenly, the bird in front of him dissolved to reveal a shining pillar of light as bright as the midday sun. Immediately, his hands flew up to shield his eyes, and though what he saw was hazy and green-tinged, there was a man buried somewhere within the brightness, a man with an indistinct yet unmistakably anthropomorphic form.
The figure held up an arm, upon which shone a blazingly white eye outlined in blue flames.
DO YE UNDERSTAND NOW? Helm asked.
Anomen did indeed. "Helm save me," the Watcher breathed, losing his feet and stumbling backwards into the sand once more. The God's voice filled the space around him, speaking in numerous tongues and tones, none of which he could fully understand – and as the Helmite's world began to close in, he keenly remembered Imoen's words: I have visions too, but most folk would just call me crazy.
He would have liked to think he was crazy at that moment. Instead, he felt his palms burning where he had grasped his holy symbol before. Helm spoke,
I AM THE WATCHER OF MAN, ANOMEN.
I AM THE ALL-SEEING EYE THAT LIGHTS THE PATH OF THE RIGHTEOUS -
DO YOU WISH TO SEE THE TRUTH AS WELL, OR BLIND THYSELF TO THE WORLD?
"Seven mounting layers of Celestia…" Anomen exclaimed in disbelief as he backed away further through damp earth, his eyes never leaving radiant figure in front of him. Next to Helm he could just barely make out another vaguely humanoid figure, less bright than its counterpart but luminous and obviously female. Despite being eclipsed by Helm's brilliance, she was too bright to look at without shielding his eyes.
Anomen - she began hesitantly, without the fanfare that Helm had opened with.
Anomen. She had called him by his given name.
It was her, he realized. After so long, Brindhal had come back to him like he knew she would, and Anomen stopped fighting his way through the sand to escape. Her brightness subsided and she took a more corporeal form, silhouetted by Helm's brilliance but revealing more of the goddess' earthly features – her broad face, full lips, and wide dark eyes. His heart swelled for a moment with joy, nearly bursting before the two years of loneliness and anger Anomen had endured overtook him. Quickly, mercilessly, he pushed his happiness aside.
"You. You—" Anomen began, squinting against the brightness to more clearly make her out. For all he wanted to say, the Watcher was at a loss for words. "Why are you here, Brindhal?"
I'm sorry, the goddess simply answered, looking both regal and apologetic at the same time. I'm sorry, Anomen, that I couldn't have come to you sooner, but—
His next words managed to take him by surprise. "It is not that you couldn't. You wouldn't." Anomen corrected her, his face flushing angrily. The goddess flickered. "All those times I prayed for you, I begged you – yes, I begged you, Brindhal, to answer my prayers, or to send me some word—"
I'm sorry, Brindhal repeated, her tone firm but her voice quieter. There are things afoot the likes of which you can't even imagine. Please, listen, for there isn't much time.
Anomen's cheeks burned with anger. "You can't just… just reappear after two years and expect me to follow at your beck and call, Brindhal Bin'Khalise!" The knight braced himself to stand once more, but found his energy lacking – he remained on the sand and glared daggers at the ethereal woman.
DELRYN, Helm interjected, raising his hand to quiet the angry Watcher.
Helm had spoken, and as his priest, Anomen was bid to do as he was told. "What do you want, then?" The knight asked wearily, turning his attention once more to the woman in front of him.
I need you, Anomen, Brindhal responded after a very long pause. I have contacted others, but I need you to act in my stead and carry out an act of faith.
"My faith in you is dead," Anomen said bluntly, crossing his arms. "I refuse."
THY FAITH IS STRONGER THAN YE THINK, Helm interjected calmly just as Brindhal interrupted, Do you need proof?
"Proof? You want to give me proof?" Anomen glared at the goddess angrily. "Then show me your face."
There was a moment of profound silence on the beach, where Anomen stared down Brindhal, and Helm presided silently. My… face, the goddess repeated slowly, processing the request.
"Aye," Anomen affirmed quietly. "Show me your face."
Deep inside, he was aware that he was making demands of a deity. At that moment, however, he didn't care, even if Helm himself was watching. The silhouette of Brindhal looked at the shining form of her sponsor, as if asking for permission; Helm gave his assent with a single, silent nod of his head, and Anomen's world was engulfed in brightness once again in the span of nearly as many minutes. He was no longer on wet sand under pale grey skies – he was sprawled on cold, white marble under an unforgiving cerulean sky, bright as noon but with no sun to light it. Brindhal herself sat on a throne of white marble, looking as Anomen had never seen her in life: she was dressed in blue and gold, and had long black plaits hanging down her shoulders. Her earthly beauty, present in her chocolate-colored skin and black eyes, had been replaced with something far more lovely, yet utterly terrifying – her dark skin had been replaced with matte black, absorbing the light all around, and her eyes shone like stars.
Anomen shrunk back instinctively, suddenly keenly aware of his own shortcomings.
My face, the goddess repeated, the traces of a smile tugging at her lips even though her voice was serious.
"… aye." Slowly, carefully, the Watcher pulled himself up from the cold ground and got to his feet, approaching the throne with reticence. He wasn't sure what to say, or what to ask; the Goddess continued to gaze unblinkingly at him with her luminescent eyes. After several long moments of silence, she held out a hand to him.
Anomen, I am not here to judge you. He had reached the base of her throne, and looked up at her with a mix of defiance and reverence on his face. But I sense… you are quite angry with me, aren't you?
"Yes," the knight replied quickly, followed by, "Or… no. I am hurt by you. Was."
I only did what was required of me. You know the code of knighthood - tell me you wouldn't have done the same.
"I wouldn't have." He wasn't sure whether he was telling the truth or not, but Brindhal continued to gaze at him searchingly from her throne.
After a pause, she shook her head – her plaits swayed a little with the movement. No. No, I don't think so. But that is a question about a matter that is now irrelevant." Then, suddenly, Tell me, Anomen… why have you come to Maztica? What is here that you cannot find on Faerun?
"I cannot find the words to describe it." Anomen looked down at his reflection in the white marble below, and missed the expression that passed over the goddess' face.
Try. Her tone was gentle.
The Watcher put his mind to work, thinking of the words he needed to describe just why he was on such a faraway beach, miserable and slightly mad. "When… you… ascended," he began, "Everything was such a… blur. You were there one moment, flesh and blood, and the next you had vanished, had… had taken your place among the Gods. You were no longer alive, Brindhal. I loved… someone who was not alive, nor ever would be again.
"I lost the will to go on. Imoen and Aerie and Minsc… they tried to help, but they eventually moved forward… hells, everyone in the world has moved forward without you, but you were my guide, my polestar." He licked his lips, then looked up into the face of the Goddess. "Going to Maztica offered a new start, something untouched by the memories of my time with you. I wouldn't be the Delryn boy with the drunkard father and murdered sister, or that pathetic fool who'd loved and lost the Bhaalspawn."
Brindhal considered his words – she leaned forward and steepled her fingers. By coming here, do you think that you'll accomplish what you've come to seek?
Anomen's calm broke, and his voice cracked as he said – almost shouted, "I will ALWAYS love you, Brindhal, always, no matter where I am. I can't escape you – even now. The only difference is that no one in Maztica knows yet."
The silence between them stretched out for what seemed like an eternity, and when the goddess spoke again, it was in a softer, more contemplative voice.
… Anomen, if I offered to leave, and take away your memories of me – good and bad – in exchange for something, would you take that offer?
It took Anomen a long time, but finally, he said, "It depends on the favor."
Do you trust me?
His pride wanted him to say no, wanted him to spit on the flawless white marble and renounce every claim to him that Brindhal had ever possessed. She was the Goddess of Mercy, though… and outside of the one time she had ever broken a promise to him – a promise that benefited the entirety of Faerun, INCLUDING Anomen – Brin Dhal bin Khalise's word was her bond. Of course he trusted her.
Her ebony hand reached out to him, fingers lightly brushing against his forehead in a gentle caress. A soft light suffused him – instantly, some of the heaviness in his heart lifted, but it was quickly replaced by something less tangible.
There was a strange, large, doe eyed-woman with ebony skin staring at him. There was a new strength about him, too, and an inner peace that he was unaccustomed to feeling. He felt deeply connected to the woman in front of him, but he'd never seen her before in his life. Still… there was something oddly familiar in her sad gaze, and she gifted him with a mournful smile.
Be at peace, Anomen Delryn, she said, before his world spun around and went black.
"Easy now, take it easy - you mustn't thrash around so."
"Uuuuhn," Anomen groaned, as the fuzziness in his head subsided and he regained consciousness. He rolled over, following the voice, and found himself lying on rough sheets with bits of straw poking out here and there, including through the fabric of his tunic. There was light behind his closed eyes, and the Watcher tested the illumination by opening them a sliver – although there were definitely stars behind them, it was too bright yet to be nighttime.
"Watcher?" the voice asked again.
"Are you a spirit, a vision, or a bird?" Anomen groaned, blinking a few times before finally fully opening his eyes.
He was in a hut, with mud walls and a thatched roof. The furniture was rough, and this domicile was definitely not built for more than one. There was also a window through which the mists of the stormy day were drifting, a small but serviceable corner which apparently served as a kitchen of sorts, and a rather large assortment of vials and decanters. The structure gave Anomen the distinct overall impression of "damp". In fact "dank" would have been the better word, though the Watcher was too polite to insult his host.
"You'll find neither of the first two here, brother," the voice said soothingly, though now, Anomen noticed that the speaker – like his house – also sounded rough around the edges. "Although," he added thoughtfully, "There are chickens in the back, but I doubt that's what you're asking after. How do you feel?"
Next to him, in a chair made of rough-hewn pale wood, sat his keeper. The man leaned heavily against the back of the chair. Were he to stand, Anomen guessed, they'd be roughly the same height, though he was not nearly so broad as the Helmite, and his features were rough and irregular. Upon closer inspection, however, the traces of more unusual ancestry were evident – one with sallowed skin, a snubbed nose and a prominent jaw which jutted out from behind neatly combed black hair.
Orcish. Anomen raised his eyebrows.
The most outstanding feature of the orcish man, though, was the blindfold on his face. Anomen was sure that underneath lay recessed, beady eyes, but knew better than to anger a man with orc blood – even a blind one. His host stared past the Watcher, as if peering at something on the wall. Anomen followed his gaze and saw nothing.
"I'm… I feel… fine," he responded, rubbing his eyes, though neither the green nor the stars had fully left. He blinked a few times and, assured that all was well, looked out the window.
Outside, a woman stood a short distance away with her back turned to the both of them. She was petite and milk white compared to the workers and laborers busily engaged around her, and had bound ash-brown hair. She was also busily engaged in pumping water from a well, and stopped for a moment to wipe her brow. His companion stared straight ahead.
"What day is it?" Anomen asked his host.
"I do not know," the orc replied.
"Oh."
"What are you watching?" asked the man, turning to face the watcher.
"Nothing," Anomen lied, without taking his eyes off of the woman. She was wearing tightly-bound crimson arm ribbons, the ends of which were currently dangling partway down the well—one of them, however, remained dry and had caught the wind and rose above her like a scarlet pennant.