(THOB) Chapter 110: Too Old (Patreon)

Ezril had been wracking his mind in search of what to expect of his observer. Now, he relaxed in recognition of the voice of an old friend.

By the life of him he would never have thought anyone would find him in a place whose location he didn’t even know. Still, his level of surprise wasn’t much, considering the situation. After all, he had always thought him a weird old man. The ends of his lips curved into a smile. Is there anywhere you cannot enter, Cyrinth?

“It seems you can see better in the dark now.” Cyrinth said from the rocking chair. No longer rocking.

It would seem so, Ezril noted. But rather than speak he gave a mild nod.

The old man nodded back. “If you can move,” he told him, then his gaze narrowed, “which I know you can, take a walk with me. The night is black, and I find it quite beautiful.”

Ezril rose gently, making sure not to wake Lenaria. Finding bundled clothes at one end of the room he took it and shrugged it on, finding all his actions absent of pain. The coat was easy on his skin and made of fur, and only when he had wrapped it tightly around himself did he realize that he had just stood stark naked in front of Cyrinth. The darkness served no false sense of security at being hidden because he had just found out mere moments ago, that like himself. the old man was more than capable of seeing in the dark. Ignoring the thought, he spared the coat a glance and his brows creased in contemplation.

“The night is not so cold,” Cyrinth assured him. Adding when Ezril paused to look at Lenaria. “Leave your priestess behind. I’m not here to share your presence with her.” He looked at Lenaria then returned his gaze to him. “I will return you to her, eventually. Should she worry.” That said, he turned to leave. “Shall we.”

Ezril shook his head gently. “I’ve already made her worry too much.”

Now Cyrinth sighed in resignation. “We will be long,” he told him, “but not far. Should she worry, she would have only but to leave this tent to find you.”

“Not far.”

Cyrinth nodded. “Long, but not far.”

Ezril wrapped the coat tighter around himself. And certain it was secure, he followed Cyrinth out of the tent.

Cyrinth seemed to grow slower each time they met. Older. Tonight he didn’t seem like an aging man. He seemed like a dying man.

Cyrinth had been correct. There was no chill to the night’s wind, no cold Ezril would have had to pretend did not assuage him, as he had long since grown accustomed to. Walking behind the man who led him, hunched in his leadership, Ezril wondered where Cyrinth had been all this time. What exactly the aging wanderer had been doing.

Cyrinth rounded on him suddenly. Gripping his face in both hands, he transfixed him in a gaze, “Ran, Shav, Grivit, Nariva…” he counted off as one would writings on the wall, all the while Ezril stood, entranced by the black eyes that seemed to paralyze him. An absolute power behind them. “… Sith, Oris, Din, Orgo, Berlak, Tarr, Thrak’in, Dabavi… Rin.”

Cyrinth’s end was abrupt.

He cocked his head to the side, studying Ezril’s countenance. Satisfied with what he saw he unhanded him.

“These are names you will come to hear over the years,” he continued. “And you may come to find yourself face to face with them. Do not be mistaken. They are neither your friends nor your allies.”

Ezril shook the residue of whatever had held him. He remembered the names as vividly as though he had written them upon the wall from which Cyrinth read them. Which was impossible.

A touch? He considered, eyeing the old man. An old man who had just moments ago stood as tall as him and transfixed him with eyes as black and endless as the sky above them. An old man who in this moment stood hunched, making him a head shorter. With blue eyes. Ezril shook his head again. He knew some of those names. And the few he knew were enough. Cyrinth didn’t have to tell him they were his enemies.

“Where have you been?” he blurted out.

Cyrinth laughed heartily, almost doubling over. He moved a finger pointing between them, “I do this,” he said, “and that is all you have to say?”

“There are other things I can say, but this seemed the most important.”

“To whom?”

“To me.”

Cyrinth scrunched up his nose, prim as a vexed nobleman. “Everywhere and nowhere,” he answered. “Vayla is quite vast.”

“And how are you here?”

“I’m a wanderer, child. It’s my obligation to be wherever I want to be. It’s easier than you’d think. I’m sure in time you’ll come to understand that.”

“How are you here, Cyrinth?” Ezril insisted. “How are you here, now? Of all the times to be here, how are you here now?”

Cyrinth smiled fondly. “I remember telling you there was no need for names between us.”

“And yet, here I am, using yours,” Ezril objected, a sorrow in his voice. Cyrinth sounded too old. His words came out too sluggishly, almost strained. And his voice sounded like a wheezing from his lungs. He’s still dying, Ezril realized. And I can’t save him.

“You do know you’re supposed to be dead,” Cyrinth told him. “No man loses that much blood and lives.”

Ezril nodded. “And here I am.”

“And here you are,” Cyrinth echoed. “An unHallowed…”

Ezril’s eyes grew wide with shock.

“…And yet… a Hallowed,” Cyrinth finished, and Ezril frowned.

“What do you mean, old man?”

Cyrinth laughed again. “Old man?” he echoed, laughing even louder, his hand held against his side. “Yes, yes,” he wiped the tears that grabbed at his eyes, his laughter sliding to an end. “Yes, I cannot fault you that. But I don’t think you understand just how old. If I’m being honest, I don’t think the word fits anymore.”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, this body is old. Perhaps into its eightieth year, somewhat. Most don’t live to this age these days, do they?” Cyrinth mused. “Not like they ever have.”

“By Truth, what are you talking about?” Ezril started, but Cyrinth cut him off with a dismissive hand.

“The names I have given you are that of gods… well, not in the truest sense, but close enough,” he said, changing the topic. “And yes, contrary to what your church and family tell you, they do exist.” He paused to study Ezril and his lips split in a knowing grin. “But you already suspected that. Not too close minded by your Credo, I see. Now, do not misunderstand, there are more gods than the names I have mentioned. More gods than there are tribes scattered across the face of Vayla, and each one is more powerful than man. And more superior. But contrary to what your Credo teaches you, and what the tribes you will come to meet believe, they are not all powerful.” He fell silent here, letting the last sentence hang between them.

Certain Ezril was listening, he continued. “They also did not create man. We created them.”

Now Ezril’s interest was truly piqued. “We did?” he asked, unable to hide his surprise.

“Yes,” Cyrinth answered, his tone a matter of fact. “The gods are simply created constructs of a collective. Personifications of the abstracts. A result of humans growing so enamored by things and events that they sought to personify them. War, love, hate, the sun, the moon, dreams, age, death, birth, even the clouds in the sky…”

“…Chance?” Ezril added.

The old man frowned. It was so brief Ezril was surprised he had seen it. “Even Chance,” he agreed. The solemnity in his voice was not lost to Ezril. “But Chance is a deity that will cause you no trouble.”

Ezril had not missed it. He had called them gods, but Chance he had called deity.

“The Hallowed are a result of Vayla and mankind,” Cyrinth continued, somehow broaching another subject. “The Tainted are a result of something else. The Broken, something worse.” He paused again, then asked: “I’m rambling, aren’t I?”

Ezril nodded.

“My apologies, dear child. I am short on time tonight. And I am already doing more than I should to keep this body moving, and ???? will not be happy with me when I return. But ???? will understand it’s necessity… I hope.”

Ezril frowned. “Who?”

“????” Cyrinth repeated, his expression coy.

Ezril’s frown deepened. “Do not toy with me, Cyrinth. Who?”

Cyrinth laughed. Again, he spoke, his mouth moved but no sound came from it. He was seeming to enjoy himself. “I’m so sorry for that,” he apologized. “I knew you wouldn’t hear it but I so really wanted to try it out.”

“Try what out?” Ezril questioned, annoyed. “Hear what?”

“????’s name,” Cyrinth answered. “I know him as ????, but you know him by another. That, I have no idea of.” Then he stepped back, observant. His gaze austere. It was the first Ezril had ever seen it. He frowned “You seem stronger now…”

“I feel stronger,” Ezril agreed. “Whatever they put in that putrid thing is quite effective.” He rotated his right arm. Too effective, he realized in the absence of pain. How long was I out?

“Yes…” Cyrinth replied, then shook his head. “No. Not that. I mean something else.” His head tilted to the side in contemplation. “You’ve lost some of it,” he finally said.

“Some of what?”

Cyrinth tilted his head the other way. “No. More like you’ve accepted some of it.”

“Some of what?” Ezril demanded.

“Fear.”

“Fear?”

“Yes, fear.” Cyrinth looked away in worry. He turned around, hands dragging through his thinned hair in worry. When his gaze returned there was a curiosity in it. “How can you grow so fast?” he asked. “What did you see out there in the forest, child?”

Ezril’s mind threatened to buckle under itself. Memories flashed. Blood dripped like syrup. Decay filled his nostrils. And death filled his mind… aegis… immortal… “… Something that should not exist,” he answered, his voice trembled.

Cyrinth nodded in understanding.

Ezril paused, a memory of the last time they had met surfacing. “Where is your stick?”

“I have no use for it any longer.” Cyrinth shrugged.

“The last time we saw you were dying. And you still are.”

“So?”

“So how do you have no need for your stick?”

Cyrinth shrugged again. “I grew tired of it. It made me feel old.”

Ezril rubbed a hand across his face in frustration. “You are old, Cyrinth…” … maybe too old.

Cyrinth stepped back and Ezril assumed in the sight of a normal person the old man would have seemed to sink deeper into the darkness of the night. He took a step towards him and stopped. Cyrinth seemed to be looking elsewhere, above his shoulder.

“I’ll be here tomorrow night,” Cyrinth said, taking another step further away. “There are things you must learn. Things I must teach you.” His eyes never moved from what he focused on. “For now, your priestess comes.”