"What meddling is this?" The heavens rumbled with Kylin's ire. "To what blight have you dared expose my vassal's mind?"

"To no blight, Stormstress," Oyaltun pleaded. "He is an innocent soul. I only wished for your vassal to see the truth."

"He is no thrall of ours. He bears no fealty to the pantheon. Whatever perversion you have concocted, I wish for no part in it."

"But we must all play our parts soon."

Grey stormclouds gathered to a point upon Kylin's brow. "What conspiracy is this?"

Oyaltun's voice wilted, afraid. "Stay your storm for a moment, and I shall tell all."

Kylin's domain rumbled on, but no thunder yet struck. "Begin."

***

Alone, Skippii passed into the void. As with a fading dream, the sounds of the camp disappeared, and all that remained were his footsteps. Its smells–that of woodsmoke, cured hide and animal pens–were washed away, scrubbed from the air until only their lingering memory perfumed his tunic. The glow of campfires vanished one by one. Above, the stars grew overcast by clouds. In the dark of the forest, he held a light in his fist to guide the way. Each step was submission to his misery, but he bore it.

Climbing steadily through the undergrowth, he leant heavily on his spear, following a thin game trail as it snaked and disappeared from the world. He recoiled with each branch's creeping touch. His wounds wept anew, thin streaks of red, swelling and burning. The energy of the earth trickled beneath his feet–a callous friend–whom he drank bitterly. The magia empowered his beaten and broken body, just enough to take the next spiteful step.

Hours passed, but the darkness remained. He had long since lost his bearings, and took whichever route appeared to him, be it a path, or gully, or climb. Upon reaching a stream, he dipped his feet and washed his face and arms. A sheen of sweat coated his skin, the salt stinging his wounds. His heart beat quickly, bulging his veins. It had been long since he rested well, and so much hardship weighed on his bones, but he had to press on. He had to leave his world behind, or else he may be tempted to return in the morning light. Sorrow uncurled inside his heart, but he squeezed it shut. There would be time for grief; now was the time for action.

Rising, he took the route up-stream and fled into the night, shedding his skin with each step, denying his sense of person, stripping his feelings away, burning himself anew. All he'd ever wanted was gone. And what remained? One step, then another; a thousand more behind him and a thousand more to come, and not one of them bore any meaning.

***

The sun rose on him in a daze. He walked aimlessly, guided by a distant instinct. His mind lingered with the night, unable to wake, clouded and dull. If not for his bodily pains, he would have collapsed, but each step brought with it fresh recoil. His head sagged, weighed down by his helmet. The strap of his shield dug into his chest above the wound which Aetheria had given him. Blood painted his tunic red, crusting the linen to his flesh. Heat pulsated through him, fed steadily by his connection with the earth.

After a time, with his eyes glazed and half-shut, his senses became dulled until, even in the light of day, the world around him faded away and he was conscious of only two things. Firstly, the pains of his physical form, like the desecrations of a statue, sacrilegious and sickening. But what remained unmarred was his core.

The light shone unburnished–three distinct layers, fed by his magia. As his consciousness wavered upon blood loss and exhaustion, that light shone brighter. It spread to encompass his limbs in a thin glow. A radiant flame which hummed like a struck gong, the vibrations swirling like a whirlpool's current, enkindling his limbs with life energy. The more he faded, the more his heat-body reigned, until he was a mere force drifting on the wind. An ember, seeking… seeking… swaying towards the source.

***

First came the scratching, like ants in his throat. Next, a vice around his temples. His spine was disfigured, bludgeoned by Summitor's rocks. His limbs torn by Furmentar's beasts, his flesh frayed by Kylin's winds, his vigor sunk in Maricorus' oceans. All the Gods hated him, and meant to kill him.

But then came a gift: A kiss from Oyaltun, and like tinder catching a spark, his mind came to life.

This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon.

He was lying on his back, the rim of his shield pressed against his neck and tailbone. His spear, too, had fallen beside him, and his helmet was affixed lopsided to his head. Removing it, he sat upright, wincing as fresh pain showered his body. Untying a waterskin at his waist, he drank from it thirstily, letting the last mouthful soak in his throat. His shoulders slumped. The earth called for the return of his embrace. His final resting place.

Denying it, he dragged himself up against a tree and glanced around. A lush forest canopy sheltered him from the thin rain. Raising his neck, he held his mouth open, but too few droplets found his tongue. The forest floor was blanketed in large sailing leaves. Titanic trees rose from the undergrowth, wound with spindly vines and their rich green leaves. Small flowers grew in clumps, springing out from carpets of moss. The ground was littered with mud and sticks, and the fresh shoots of spring.

Skippii sank back against the tree, stilling his breath to a whisper, matching the forest's quiet. A bird sung in the distance, melodious for the rains, which brought out the insects. A fly buzzed past his ear and landed on his cheek, until he gently brushed it away.

Something rustled in the undergrowth nearby. An image flashed in Skippii's mind of a legionnaire approaching, but none was there. He blinked, staring into the forest, hoping, stupidly, to catch the sight of a red cloak. He pictured Tenoris' face, then Cliae's. Might they have followed him in an attempt to persuade him back to the camp? What would he say?

In the silence, his imagination stilled like the ripples of a pool, until the reflections vanished. Nobody came, and so they shouldn't. His decision to desert the legion was resolute.

He shuddered, then dragged his feet beneath him and began to roam. There were no landmarks nearby, and he had little vision of the sky; he had no way of knowing in which direction he had travelled, nor how far he had come. He could recall very little of his journey here, except an impression remained. He had been an ember drifting towards a flame–a shipwreck destined for shore.

Shutting his eyes, he focussed on the core of his magia and willed it to reveal the way. At first, there was nothing. The heat burned evenly throughout his chest, empowered by his breath, seeping into his limbs. However, wasn't there something else there? A thin tug–a trail of smoke seeping from behind him? Skippii turned, and the sensation rotated with him until it branched from his chest, pointing the way. Opening his eyes, he found himself peering uphill through the canopy. Adorned in lush forest, only the peak of the mountain bore any rock: a dark grey crown like the walls of a skyward city. The Sleeping Mountain.

Skippii heard a breeze ruffle through the trees, displacing the water-laden leaves before it swooped upon him. And was there a word in the wind? A sound unlike that which the wind could speak alone?

Heres.

He was no longer a legionnaire, no longer adhered to the strict regimen of military life. What better way to go than follow his instincts, now that he had no purpose to pursue? Carrying his shield over his shoulder, spear in hand, Skippii staggered uphill, drawn towards the mountain.

His bones creaked as he pulled them alongside his will. But fatigue had set in. Even the energy which he siphoned from the earth did little to quench his thirst or fill his stomach, or repair his many wounds and aching joints. There was no replacement for nutrition and rest.

Collapsing by a streambed, he refilled his waterskin and gazed at the sky. Back sore, he laid down to rest for a moment, shifting under his cloak until his face was graced by a ray of sunlight. Before he knew it, he awoke some hours later in a shadow. The morning had passed without his witness.

"Come on." Gritting his teeth, he rose to his feet. But the weakness in his body startled him and he collapsed to the ground. It was foolish to carry on, but he almost did not care. All but for his debt to Tonnage VI, and the sacrifice which they had made for him to live. Sighing, he crawled towards a shallow hovel dug into the cliffside beside a small trickling foss. Outside, Skippii emptied his travelpack and inspected the meagre possessions he brought: An ear of bread, cloth scraps for bandages, a sewing pouch with needle and thread, a spool of string and a fine weatherstone, and what was left of his mother's herbs.

At the bottom of his sack was a small pouch of tinder and flint. A smile crept across his lips as he held the firelighter, and sighed peacefully. He felt an odd fondness for the boy who had packed this bag before he departed for legionnaire training. It was a marvel to think that young man was himself. So much had changed.

Setting his possessions at the entrance, Skippii ate what scraps of food he had brought and crawled inside. His tired fingers fiddled with the straps of his thorax armour, but gave up. Laying back, he kicked off his sandals and dragged them up to his head, stacking them as a pillow. Roots dangled down like strings from the hovel's roof–the sort his mother used to tie with herbs for drying. Cobwebs decorated a coarse rock which jutted out of the dark mud. All was quiet and muffled, and all smells had been smothered by dank.

In his solitude, Skippii closed his eyes and listened to his breath. It came thinly, like a dim candle licking the length of his spine. But as he maintained the effort, the candle grew. Drawing upon it became a subconscious effort of his mind, in the company of his beating heart and repeating breath. Slowly, the earth beneath him grew warm and welcoming, and sleep was pulled over him like a soft blanket.

***

She came and went as she pleased, silent and perceptive as a snowy owl. Her silver hair glowed softly in the dark of his cave, falling before her face, hiding her features but for her piercing sapphire eyes. Those gems sank into his mind, watchful of his thoughts. Skippii pretended not to notice her–to be fast asleep–but she saw through the ruse.

"Shhh," she whispered. Her breath was cool against his cheek. "Sleep, heres."

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.