Collecting Legends
by Shadowy Star
Legend Two
The man once known as Gerald Tarrant sat at an elegant mahagova table in one of the oldest and thus very fashionable restaurants in Jaggonath.
Bright white sunrise behind large, elegantly curtained windows painted the occasional fluffy cloud silver, promising a beautiful day. Such a shame he'd spend it in the Church's archives, breathing dry, dusty air and turning dry, dusty pages. Vryce's fault, all of it, he thought wryly, and smiled inwardly at that. Speaking to Damien without thinking back then on the Black Ridge Pass, and claiming to be interested in legends, he'd later on decided it to be the absolutely perfect job for him. With money hidden long ago for cases like that and an identity without any ties to the Forest it had been simple to get a license as a loremaster. And during the last month he'd managed to get a surprising lot of jobs. After all, if anyone had stories to tell it was surely him. Again, Damien's fault. Without said stubborn priest he'd still be sitting in his fortress, terrorizing the neighborhood and researching the stars. But no, he just had to go and join that damn quest, and look where it had brought him. Still, he couldn't regret the decision nor the others that had followed, a chain reaction that in the end had given him a new body, a new life and a new purpose. That wasn't what hurt. What hurt was the gaping void in his life, an emptiness once filled with friendship, and hazel brown eyes full of warmth and mischief, and complete and utter acceptance in the now silent link. He allowed himself a quiet sigh, then firmly turned his thoughts away.
Already through the excellent breakfast the restaurant was famous for, he asked for more coffee and continued to sort today's work. He needed to find another reference, better two, for that paragraph he'd found on the first Iezus. What aspects did their space faring Mother use in her first attempts to communicate with humanity? Were said aspects chosen for a certain value or a set thereof or the product of mere coincidence, taken from whomever happened to stumble across her hiding place? Given the Mother's wish to return to the stars she'd probably seek qualities that would aid her in that regard the most and thus if said Iezus were still around... Damn Karril for his less than enthusiastic help. He just hoped the so called God of Pleasure would be somewhat more accommodating once the Iezu equivalent of honeymoon was over! Which hopefully didn't take another century.
Sufficiently annoyed and his thoughts adequately far away from beautiful hazel brown eyes, he paid the bill and reached absentmindedly for 'The Jaggonath Gazette' the restaurant offered to all his guests for free. After checking the stock market column first –his investments kept increasing in value, of course–, he turned the page and froze in shock.
His sight blurred as the world around him seemed rapidly to collapse to a singularity, his hands shaking violently, almost dropping the page. Despair, icy and oh so much more deadly than coldfire, sunk its razor sharp claws right into his heart.
It wasn't possible… it just wasn't...
Perhaps he'd read that wrong.
He forced his trembling hands into obedience and raised the page back to his face. With eyes widening in horror at each word, he made himself read that heading again.
'An ex-priest's suicide', the headline ran. Oh, God, please, he thought helplessly. Don't let it be him, please. 'Once again the now unWorkable fae caused a suicide. For all it seems Damien Kilcannon Vryce, an ex-priest of the Church of Unification couldn't cope with loss of his abilities as a sorcerer. Three days ago he committed suicide by his sword. A letter found in his room at an inn in Yamas tells of a crisis of faith and self-worth….' Lines swimming before his eyes, the man no longer called Gerald Tarrant didn't manage to finish the article. His hands still shaking, his fingers crumbled the newsletter as he rose and strode out of the restaurant, down the stairs and back to his house. It didn't take long, and he later couldn't recall any part of it. When the front door finally fell closed behind him, all strength seemed to leave his body as the bitter frost of guilt crept unstoppably into his soul. His legs gave in, the carpet covered floor moving rapidly closer. It was then that he lost what meager rest of his self-control had allowed him to return home in the first place. Pages creased beyond recognition slipped slowly from the weakening grip of his hand as intense emotions rapidly shattered the equally weakening grip of his usually iron will.
And sitting there, in a room as dark as his soul had suddenly become, now with its only light switched off forever, he silently wept.
TBC...