by halinca
Deoch 35, Spring
A fly dizzies itself over to the shady side of a musty tree, still soaked from the previous night’s rain. Yet the summer sun cut through it all, beating the living moisture out of everything with the nerve to stand up to it.
Cillian steadied his eyes on the entrance to Mileth Tavern as he approached. The sun cooked his back while he heel-toed over with his brother in tow. Aidan followed while dragging the tip of his Loures Saber through the wet dirt, drawing a fat line.
Just before the young monk and the young warrior crossed through and into the tavern they hesitated: despite the sweet relief they got from the summer sun, Cillian felt his stomach start to lighten and rise up into his throat. He worked his fingertips into the palm of his respective hand, knowingly. This degenerate haunt ran on a spectrum: solemn loserdom to festive self-pity, depending, of course, on its current inhabitants.
“And then that’s it. It’s all over,” Theradus says while waving his bottle of Rum as it splashes on his audience. A mainstay, and while patrons came and patrons went, Theradus stayed, mainly. He was draped in evergreen robes frayed not just at its ends but throughout. The course material makeup disintegrated and started losing its integrity: both of him and his robes. They were dying and no one could put their finger on the start or an estimation on the end, but it was undeniable. Soon, both he and his robes would release.
You might let yourself down gently onto a fixture of pity, propping yourself up to look down and say that such a weathered man probably accomplished something at some point. You might say, after all, he’s so old and bitter, complex emotions must abound. But you’d be wrong. This is what he’s been doing and it hasn’t yielded quite much.
In one fell swoop, Theradus clocked the table next to him. An empty beer glass resting thereon starts to dance on its edge. But just as the glass is about to tip, Cillian swoops in and grabs the glass. He holds the glass dumbly at his belt buckle. With his eyes dancing all over the room, he manages to speak up.
“What do you mean it’s all over?” Cillian asks. He doesn’t know what to do with the glass.
Theraudus creeks around to face the kid monk, “TEMUAIR! Will be NO MORE!”
“Like, all of it?” Aidan interjects timidly with a step forward.
“YUP, ALL OF IT I TELL YA!” Theradus bites back, now addressing the whole tavern.
“Well, what about Astrid?” Aidan asks dumbly.
“Gone!”
“. . . Suomi?”
“Ohhh yeah…. Suomi too!” Theradus sputters. He’s no longer confident that his upstart sparring partner’s interest in the conversation is earnest. His quiver is supposed to be filled with bulldang neatly and precisely attuned for any potential spat.
“Wha- what about Oren? W-ill oren be gone t-too?” Aidan sniffled.
Theradus stepped closer to look down on Aidan and wiped his chin with his sleeve, “Look! Kid! It’ll all be gone. When they break the seal every little thing you’ve ever known will be gone. Every rotten little memory you’ve ever had from this dirt forsaken by Grinneal will be wiped clean.”
Aidan’s eyes water as he looks down.
“And remember, kid, Aisling spark has no value anyway. So who cares?” says Theradus.
“Oh sweet Faerie mother! Are you projecting again old man!? ‘We’re all doomed this! We’re all doomed that! Danaan help us all! Blah blah blah!’” Duana twirled about.
“Leave the kid alone. You’re the only one with rotten memories around here anyway,” she laughed.
Cillian studied the woman in red. Dancing with no music and speaking with no real audience. She was kind, a real nice person one might say. He bit off more than he could chew stepping into this hole. He had no idea where on that spectrum this place landed, but he was sure it was somewhere.
Cillian finally jumped back in with an arm around Aidan, “And why are you so relaxed about all this, huh?”
Duana, still twirling about and laughing proudly, “Because none of this matters of course!”
“Sss-so lady, w-we’re go-oo-o-oing to be o-ok?” Aidan rubbed his eyes turning up at her.
Duana waved her hair around her shoulders and looked at him. “Oh, heavens no! We’re doomed. But why have such bad vibes about it ya know?” Duana laughed.
“I told ya! See I told ya! Even the wench knows it,” Theradus chimed in.
Duana, still dancing, “Shut up! Why don’t you try enjoying yourself once in a while?”
Cillian could feel the back of his brother’s neck getting hot. He knew this was a lot for him. Cillian started to remember how little of Temuair Aidan had actually seen. Struggling to place Aidan inside the Mileth Crypt even once, he measured the room with a couple of glances and looked down at him and whispered fearfully in his ear: “Look, buddy, I’m sure we’ll be ok. You’re worried over nothing alright?”
Aidan jumped up and spun toward Theradus, “Oh yeah! Well, I heard that when the seal is broken, aislings everywhere will be free to explore! Explore new worlds and go on new quests and get new armor and stuff!”
“Yeah! We’ll survive the seal being broken just like you could survive a trip to the bottom of Mileth Crypt!” Theradus spit back to everyone’s amusement.
“I heard that there’s a place beyond! A place beyond Temuair! A place where Aislings can go beyond their Temuairian powers and there are treasures and things we could only dream of.” Aidan gathered himself.
Theradus squints, “Things? Like what?”
Aidan searched the ceiling above him, “Ummmm, like new boots.”
“Boots?” Theradus grumbled.
“Yeah! Boots. Made of silk.”
There was a pause.
“Boots. Made of silk?”
“Yeah!”
Theradus knelt down to put a hand on Aidan’s shoulder, “Kid that doesn’t even make sense. How could boots be made of silk? They wouldn’t have any arch support let alone structural integrity,” he laughed.
“I don’t know.”
“And that’s without even addressing the breathability factor. I mean . . . how can feet breathe through silk? Doesn’t make sense, kid. Told ya,” Theradus continued.
Duana chimed in after no one asked, “Well I, for one, cannot wait to pick up my new pair of boots made of silk!”
Cillian interjected while shifting his eyes across the characters, “I think they’re just called Silk Boots, not Boots-Made-of-Silk.” He started to wonder where exactly on the Mileth Tavern degeneracy spectrum this particular group landed. All things considered, this trip could have been a lot worse: no one’s even offered them the old hemloch-and-wine. At least not yet, anyway.
“Well, whatever they’re called I want them,” Duana dropped.
“Y’know what kid? Maybe we oughta getchya drunk. Yer a little too uhhh what do I want to say?” Theradus offered.
Duana, once again with no one asking, “Inside his own head?”
“Yup! That’s it! I think some rum will fix that right up!” Theradus laughed.
Duana shuffled over to the bar. “Barkeep lady! Hey barkeep lady! Buy this kid a rum! On me!”
Aingeal, the barkeep, turned slowly around. “Ok, you spend way too much time in the bar to not know what my name is. You know what it is,” she answered back.
“Haha, ok well just make it happen sweetie!” Duana spat back, soaked in insincerity.
“If Chadul had an ounce of compassion he’d immolate this darning place.” Aingeal muttered to herself.
Duana: “What?”
Aingeal: “What?”
There was a pause.
Aingeal droppped a bottle of rum on the bar.
“You should smile more!” Duana said sincerely, unfortunately.
“And you should pay me 100 gold!” Aingeal spat back.
Duana dropped about 300 gold pieces onto the bar. “This should cover it. I think. Maybe. I don’t know.”
“Wow, oldest profession in Temuair pays pretty well huh?” said Aingeal, to herself.
Duana: “What?”
Aingeal: “What?”
There was a pause.
Aidan reached for the rum saddled above him but Cillian grabbed him by the forearm. Cillian noticed the pendulum started to swing in the wrong direction along the degeneracy spectrum and decided it was best to leave. Aingeal grabbed the lonely rum before Duana could and takes a sip that she enjoyed entirely too much. Cillian escorted Aidan out of the tavern with his arm wrapped around Aidan’s shoulders as they leave.
“See ya ‘round! I think! Maybe! I don’t know!” Duana offered with a grin.
***
Cillian and Aidan shuffled off out of the tavern. Even without a drop of alcohol, the sun’s sting was sobering. Clear-eyed, Cillian and Aidan saw the outside world for what it was, washed by the sunlight. Trying to imagine the painful transition for the tavern’s inhabitants, they couldn’t. The tavern offers a tint, they bet. A gloomy tint for everything.
“Did you believe them?” asked Cillian.
“Believe what?” asked Aidan, dumbly.
“Y’know, the stuff about how there’s no way around it. We’re all toast when the seal gets broken,” Cillian scoffed.
“I don’t know! I don’t know anything! All I know is that I don’t know anything ok!” shouted Aidan.
“Alright, alright, alright jeez Aidan I’m sorry. But maybe there’s a way around it y’know? A place we can hide or something—for when this all happens,” said Cillian.
Cillian remembered Sapphire Stream. A garden, a place; it’s plants and flora offering protection. But be it existing within Temuair, was that the answer? It couldn’t be could it? He remembered learning the Blue Dugon. “Your body lies on an unlit pyre”—an awful prompt. Arms outstretched, lying in prostration above an unlit pyre, so gruesome and terror-inducing. Sweating, he thought of it now. Yet, then, he responded with patient waiting. His calmness with the prompt gave him such understanding.
And now? He and his brother physically in Temuair, ready and waiting. Ready for the ground underneath them to become alight. Cillian sat in his thought about Sapphire Stream patiently. Rooting around in his meditations for answers. What if it wasn’t a place, but a state of existence that could protect him? A spell?
Piet Village, later that day
The morning dew is gross. Trudging through the earth’s sweat in the early morning hours, Cillian and Aidan venture to Piet. Their bared feet slickly glide through the wet grass, kicking up droplets in a measured tempo as they exact a stupid yet determined gaze on the Piet Priestess’ house.
“One dion please!” announces Cillian, as he walks in the door.
Narve jolts ahead and awake. Blindingly awake. Disoriented, her eyes dart across the room. She sets her eyes dead on the ground under her feet. Was she asleep? Awake now, she had to be asleep prior, right? But for how long? As her eyes search the room she thinks back to her previous state. She can’t place how or where or why she was. An eternal blackness preceded. A burning terror starts to emerge in her chest.
She asks herself if she just dipped her toes into death. Was that what it will be like? After? Whatever this is, this consciousness, her episodic life. Is it bookended by eternal darkness? A darkness so deep and omnipresent that she forgets her own consciousness. A mind-melting nothingness that wipes her slate clean? She’s alive now, sure, but what about the future? Would death erase her memory? An eternal infinite nothingness out in front of her prefaced by a trite blink of sentience? Hyperventilating, the fixtures around the room start to make more sense. She feels miniscule in relation to the universe and it terrified her for just a moment.
Narve remembers the prompt and looks Cillian up and down. She looks into him in a way no one else could. The intimate details reflecting his constant struggle for self-improve screamed out to her. What was a two-dimensional rendering of a poor young monk to most was, in fact, depth to her. A book she could flip through at her leisure. Upon sizing him up she responds:
“Yeah, sorry your Mist has to be sixty”
Cillian takes a beat.
“What do you mean?” he responds. A frog starts to lodge its way into the bottom of his throat. His eyes felt naked and teary. He thought this would be easy.
“Look, I don’t know. It’s just gotta be sixty, okay,” said Narve.
“Like, I need sixty Mists,” he quivered.
“No, how could you even have sixty Mists? That doesn’t even make any sense—you can’t even know that many spells. Your mist just has to be sixty, okay?” said the priestess.
“Ok, well then what number is my Mi—?” asked Cillian.
“It’s not sixty,” spit back Narve.
“Could you be more specifi—”
“No.”
There was a pause.
“Ok look, you have to improve your Mist. I figured that goes without saying, but I can sense your intelligence from here and it isn’t very high. So, I guess I’m gonna have to spell this out for you,” Narve exasperated.
“And how do I do that?” Cillian asked.
“Well, you do it a lot,” she said.
“Do what a lot?”
“Cast Mist.”
“Like, over and over again?” he questioned.
“Yeah,” Narve blankly.
“Like, in a row?” the young monk asked.
“I mean, preferably, yes,” she answered.
“But what’s the point of that?” asked Cillian.
Narve rolled her eyes around the room. She’s been given almost unbound power. Deciding who gets to cast what spell and when, along with the ability to take it away. All of this seemed as intoxicating a job as any. But the deoches wore on and she wore out. And yet, here she was. Narve had met a million and one aislings and a million and one entitled brats demanding powers in one breath while leaving at the end of the next.
“So it can be sixty…” she uttered.
Cillian took a beat, “Doesn’t that sound a bit arbitrary?” He leaned in. “Can’t we just pretend I did all of that?”
“‘Fraid not,” answered Narve. She folded her arms and started to tap her index finger repeatedly.
“Well why is that?” asked Cillian.
Narve threw her hands in the air, “I don’t know. I don’t make the rules. All I know is I can’t give you dion unless your mist is sixty, ok?”
“Ok but sixty what though?” he asked dumbly, almost as a whisper.
“I’m not explaining this again,” she said.
“Again?! I don’t think you’ve explained it in the first place. You want me to stand around casting mist like a mindless knave!?” Cillian shouted out.
“I mean I don’t want that. I personally don’t care. I’m just trying to help,” Narve responded.
“If this is helping I’d love to see what not helping looks like,” spit Cillian, sarcastically.
Cillian grabs Aidan by the arm and storms out.
***
Cillian and Aidan burst into Narve’s den in a whirlwind. Head down, chest out, Cillian made a straight line towards Narve. “Ok so I was casting mist like an absolute lunatic in Wastelands and—you’ll never believe this—I felt it improve!” said Cillian.
Narve slammed the table in a pretend excitement and pointed both hands towards the heavens. “Great! One dion coming right up,” she said.
There was a pause.
Narve shook her head and looked down. This was a part of her job she had started to enjoy. Whenever some weary, yet entitled, young aisling came in demanding new power she’d break off a little diatribe if she found they weren’t ready. She took delight in their shortcomings and misery, but it would always beget more entitlement. After all, she towered over every aisling that came into her study; they were all the same height for some reason. And when an aisling didn’t quite measure up—she let them know. Was it a little power trip? Sure, but no one cares what Narve has to say. Not when some insight fourteen priest wants to learn beag slan. Whatever the hell that is.
“Sorry,” she said.
“Sorry about what?” responded Cillian.
“Your Mist still isn’t sixty.”
“But how?! I felt it improve!” Cillian shot out.
“And how many times did you get this feeling?” questioned Narve.
“Uhhhh once I guess.”
“Ok so your mist is one!” she said proudly.
“My Mist is one?!” Cillian exclaimed.
“Well yeah. It improved once so it’s one. Duh.”
“So, I have to do that sixty times?” Cillian asked.
“Well technically you gotta do it only fifty-nine more times now,” said Narve, tilting her head.
“Well, that’s just great. This is gonna take forever!” Cillian shouted while slapping his sides. Cillian locked his right arm over and under Aidan’s shoulder and dragged him out of Narve’s den, backwards. Letting it happen, Aidan drooled in dumbfounded awe of the infinite bubblegum bubble protruding from Narve’s mouth.
***
With Aidan in tow, Cillian ambles up to Narve’s desk while rifling through his bag. Shuffling paraphernalia around the inside of the bag while inspecting the outside of it. He doesn’t acknowledge Narve. He is absorbed into the bag with both its contents and potential lack thereof. He finally gathers the Uncut Beryl et al., cradling it, and drops it all over Narve’s desk. Half chaotically and half aiming, kind of. The junk crashes and rolls about haphazardly all over the desk.
Narve picks up each one of the pieces of trash deliberately. She attends to each one, logging it accordingly. Cillian, meanwhile, is shaking with anticipation.
Narve finally obliges in teaching Cillian dion and reminds him of the customary “use it for light, yadda yadda yadda.”
Upon learning the spell, Aidan turns to his brother and pokes him a couple of times. Cillian looks at him cross but doesn’t engage. The sharp end of Aidan’s Loures Saber then plunged right into the fatty section right above Cillian’s armpit.
“What the darn, Aidan!? That hurt!” he yelled out.
“I’m soooooorry. I thought you were invincible. What the hell? Why did that work?” Aidan asked.
“He has to cast the spell, genius,” piped up Narve. After they leave she pulls a waste bin up to her desk and ushers it all right into the bin with her hand. She does not know why she does this.
***
“Something went wrong,” said Cillian.
Narve shrugs, “Things go wrong.”
“Do things ever go right?” asks Cillian. Narve doesn’t respond; she just keeps blowing bubbles; perfect every time. It’s as if she’s been practicing for deoches.
Cillian begged, “Look lady, first off: know that I gave you eight Uncut Beryl; know that I gave you four Uncut Ruby; know that I gave you two Coral Earrings; know that I gave you fifty thou—”
Narve, shooting back: “Ok please stop talking like that. I gave you invincibility. Now if you can’t rub all those pious brain cells together that are floating around in that tiny monk brain of yours to figure out a way to use invincibility correctly, then maybe you’re beyond help. Maybe you should go somewhere else and bother some other priestess.” She followed the outburst with a huff and an arm-crossing that would put a frog in anyone’s throat.
***
“Yeah, it’s called Kelberoth Strike,” said Narve.
“Ok… why didn’t you tell me about this Kelberoth Strike? I thought I was invincible!” shouted Cillian.
“I mean, for the most part, you are yeah,” she said.
“Well, you forgot to mention that I could still die. All you said was ‘use it for light.’ What does that even mean?” asked Cillian.
“I don’t know, it’s just what they make me say ok? Jeez,” spit back Narve.
“Who is they?” Cillian, incredulously.
Narve waved her hands hand generally, “ya know, they, them. Ya know.”
“Ok but what about when you said that stuff about sucking the spell out of my brain if I use it for dark? Do they make you say that too?” wondered Cillian.
“Heh. Nah that’s all me. I gotta take credit for that one,” said Narve proudly.
“Yeah, I died too,” Aidan spit out.
“Oh hello? Uh… oh well I’m sorry to hear that,” said Narve.
“Yup, same guy,” Aidan said with wide eyes.
Narve failed to read the room and then asked the most pressing question on her mind: “So did you catch this guy’s name?”
“NO! We didn’t get his name!” shouted Cillian. “And you know maybe you should be more concerned with your stupid spell not working and less with arena mongoloids,” Cillian continued.
“Mongo-what?” asked Narve.
“His name was Sarleth, there was an announcement,” piped up Cillian.
“An announcement?” asked Narve.
“Yeah, when we died there was an announcement. It was like ‘Cillian has fallen in battle to Sarleth,’” Aidan laughed.
“Oh, my that’s embarrassing. . . Was it loud?” asked Narve
“The Kelberoth strike? Yeah, it was very loud. It was like ‘AAarrRRGGGUUUuAHH!’” Aidan explained.
“No, I mean the announcement,” Narve said, rolling her eyes.
“Oh yeah. I mean—you couldn’t not hear it. Pretty sure everyone there heard it,” Aidan answered.
There was a pause.
“So what do you want dion for anyway?” Narve wondered.
“For the Seal! We want to survive the seal being broken!” Cillian jumped in.
“Uhhh yeah so dion won’t save you sweetheart,” Narve answered back.
Cillian: “What?”
“Dion won’t save you. Listen, when the seal is broken, if we’re gonna die, we’re gonna die,” shrugged Narve.
“Are you sure?” Cillian asked.
Narve: “Sure as shagreen.”
Narve lowers her gaze at Aidan, “So what about you? What are you gonna do when the seal is broken—I mean if you don’t have dion? Are you just gonna die?” she asked.
“Oh yeah he’s just gonna die,” said Cillian.
“Yeah, I’m gonna die,” said Aidan.
There was a pause.
Narve, avoiding eye contact, “Ok well that sounds nice.”
Aidan piped up: “what about you lady?”
“I don’t know. I think I’ll be fine. I’ve always been here, and I think I will always be here. Ya know?” pondered Narve.
“Is it because you’re unchaste?” Aidan asked dumbly.
“The darn!? Because I’m un-WHAT?!” Narve spat out.
“You’re unchaste? I don’t know, it’s what the lady said.” Aidan answered back.
“What lady?” asked Narve.
“You know, the beggar lady. She’s in pravat cave,” put Aidan.
“There’s a beggar lady in pravat cave that says I’m unchaste?” inquired Narve.
“Yeah, we were dying so much in the arena—you know Cillian and I—and walking through pravat cave so much that the lady in the back said ‘You oughta learn how to dion from that unchaste priestess in piet.’ So now we’re here!” explained Aidan. Narve grabbed a quill.
“Okay now what is this lady’s name you say?” began Narve.
“Beggar.”
“No, I meant what is her name? Not her occupation,” asked Narve.
“Yeah, no, her name is ‘Beggar’.”
There was a pause.
“Okay so let me get this straight: There’s a beggar in pravat ca—,” went Narve.
“Yeah.” Aidan answered dutifully.
“Named Begg—”
“Yeah.”
“Who says I’m uncha—”
“Yeah.”
Cillian, interjecting: “Okay, okay, okay, I think we’re getting off track here. Is there like some sort of manual or something you could give me to help me use this spell?”
Narve, while rolling her eyes and continuing to write in her notebook: “Oh yeah of course there is. Let me get you one.”
“Oh! Great! Yeah, I’ll take one,” exclaimed Cillian, without a clue.
***
Deoch 36, Summer
The sun comes up and the sun goes down. Moons pass; double moons pass.
Loures Harbor was abound with frivolity. Aislings laughed and cheered; a sea of heads bobbed up and down. The sharp colors of those close mixed into the faded hues reserved for those afar: a living, breathing watercolor. The harbor had never seen such energy.
Just as Law had been banished to Medenia, Aislings banished his occupation in their minds to a far away place. For now, there was light.
Cillian, grabbing Aidan by the shoulder: “Why do you keep getting lost? There’s too many people to just stop walking! Keep up!”
“I don’t know; I’m scared. I heard there’s a monster on the boat,” Aidan answered.
“C’mon don’t be scared. Don’t you wanna see about your boots made of silk?” asked Cillian.
Aidan lit up a little. He took a quick thoughtless leap out of the crowd toward the docked boats and caught himself. “Nah. I’d probably just die anyway,” he said.
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