Hasty to arrive at the top, Skippii leapt up the stairs three at a time. But once he reached their zenith he stopped dead, amazed at what he saw. A flat, black stone courtyard stretched before him, buttressed on all sides by a smooth rock wall. Three old, spindly trees rose from the courtyard in twists and curls, hanging broad over the stone, bearing small fruits even so early in spring. Beyond them, a wide platform formed steps up to eight stone pillars which held aloft a wide stone roof. The firelight of his fists cast shadows across the eroded engravings carved above them into the roof. The courtyard was serene, as though he had stepped into a dream. The sky in the east shone pale blue above the Sleeping Mountain's crowned top, as morning sluggishly approached.

Skippii ventured forward, tingling with anticipation. The black stone bore no life; no creep of moss or crack of vines, save for those three spindly trees. The bases of each had been swept clean of leaves and dirt. He had only ever seen one other temple in his time, but he remembered little of it. It was years ago, when he and his mother had traded in the city of Aretynos a few days after its liberation by Legion III. Back then, the city had been abuzz–a bee's hive thrashed into frenzy. But he had not paid much attention to the shrines and statues as his mother dragged him around to pray. He had been far more fascinated in the plethora of human life, especially the legionnaires, who were tasked with creating order in a city raw from centuries of occupation. They had hunted down the Ürkün from their hiding in cellars and ditches, and bound them in shackles. In each of young Skippii's prayers had been a desire to perform their duties alongside them.

Here, however, all was silent and dim. There were no congregations of priests, no pilgrims or practicing arcanus. This temple was not meant for a procession. It was meant for him.

The sound of his sandal-clad footsteps clapped off the black stone, exaggerating the silence. He got the impulse to remove his footwear, and doing so, pressed the soles into the smooth rock. Faintly, there was a heartbeat to the ground, like the presence of a companion asleep beside him.

He walked towards the temple's pillars, peering into the shadows beyond them, scanning the black-marble walls for an entrance. With the firelight of his hands, he found an archway in its centre. Symbols were etched into the stone frame, most of which he did not recognise–all except one. Etched into the archway's crest was a ring of criss-crossing lines, semi-discordant, whose repeating pattern was difficult to detect. It perfectly matched the symbol on his arm–his companeight's tattoo, which Arius had inked onto him.

"It is one of the ancient runes," he had said. "Earth enraged."

Skippii scowled, thumb tracing his forearm. Had Arius known more about his power than he had let on, or had it just been a good guess? His heart fluttered nervously as he passed beneath the arch and into the hall beyond. His bare feet stepped upon the smooth stones of a floor-mosaic, the colours of rock and gemstone. Shapes emerged and combined in peculiar, asymmetric ways to form a larger whole. The mosaic seemed to ebb and flow as he walked across it.

Though it was silent, the temple's tall arched roof and deep flanks reverberated softly, coaxed by the lightest of touches. A breeze murmured outside and echoed through the hall; he felt the temple murmur a response, caressing his inner-ear, swelling with his heart, enticing levity from his spine. He stood up straight, feeling acutely awake and refreshed, and utterly at peace.

Spreading out his arms, he spun around slowly, marvelling at the temple walls. Polished and glimmering in his faint firelight, veins of white and orange scattered the black marble like shattered ice. So many murals of geometric shapes swirled in his vision, glimmering in his faint firelight, before surrendering once more to the shadows of early morning. Skippii grinned, and standing in the centre of the hall, raised his arms, drawing his fire forth. His hands lit up like beacons, washing the temple with light, casting dancing shadows beyond many columns. Through his feet, his magia flowed effortlessly, and quickly, it felt as though the separation between him and the ground had melted away, and he would sink, as with a quagmire, into bliss.

But he was not alone. There was one other who shared these halls. He could feel their presence faintly through the stones, like a branch sticking out of the surface of a lake, displacing the water's current. He sought a small doorway at the temple's edge and approached it. It opened with a creak on a square room lit by the faintest dying fire. Animal pelts adorned the stone walls, against which were stacked woven baskets and primitive tools. A straw bed was beside the fireplace, and a small bundle of rags lay in its centre.

He entered, searching for the presence of life which he had detected amongst the clutter. A rickety table was cemented in melted wax, stacked with scrolls and tomes. A feather stemmed out of a pot of ink. Beside the table, a tall bookcase stretched to the roof, accompanied by a ladder, which climbed towards a wooden ledge and loft above. For a domicile so otherwise meagre, the sheer wealth of parchment outmatched any he had seen amongst legion scribes; even when he had been summoned to the Imperator's tent, there had been less to say of parchment and ink–permanent records–than the erasable wax tablets which the legion employed.

As he strayed towards the table, a noise roused him from thought–a shifting and soft murmur, emitted by the bundle beside the fireplace.

"Hello?" Skippii said, wary of what may be sleeping beneath the blankets. A dog, perhaps, or some other strange beast and guardian of this temple?

When no response came, he strode over and, with the tip of his spear, drew back the cloak. Gasping, he admonished his crudeness. Beneath him was no threat, but an ancient woman. Her mouth was agape, breathing soft as a mouse. Setting aside his spear, he knelt and pressed his hand to her forehead. She was stone-cold, thin wrinkled skin showing the blue of her veins. Skippii's fingers gently drifted over the artery on her neck and felt there the faintest of pulses.

"Hello? Are you okay?" He said. "What is this place?"

Suddenly, he felt stupid and small. He had entered this woman's home and intruded on a moment so intimate–her passing into the afterlife.

"Can I help?" he whispered.

Slowly, the woman stirred. Her eyes remained shut, but her lips moved in speech, though she hadn't the strength to form words. A thin hand rose from the blankets' confines and touched his arm. She breathed deeper, though still shallow, and pressed firmer, holding his hand against her forehead. There, he felt her flesh begin to warm, as a candle held to ice. Brow furrowed, his eyes darted over her expression, discerning what it was she was trying to say.

Delicately, he drew energy through the stone floor and held it within his chest, seeping a little down his arm and into his palm. There, it trickled into the old woman's flesh. Her eyes flickered open. For a time, she gazed glassily at the embers of the dying fire, then she turned and beheld him. Skippii kept his hand pressed against her forehead, energy flowing, and the elder's eyes glimmered with renewed life.

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"It is you," she croaked, then coughed weakly. "You've come for me, heres. Finally." A faint smile crossed her lips. She closed her eyes and grasped his forearm, cuddling up to the warmth as a baby does its mother. "And you're handsome… more handsome and strong than I was foretold."

***

As the sun rose outside, and pale light sifted through the hall and into the chambers, the old lady awoke. Pulling her knees under her, she rested with her back to the wall, breathing raggedly, staring at Skippii. He averted his gaze, but she kept hold of his hand, drawing warmth through him. The questions built inside him until it was almost unbearable to contain. Who was she? To which God was this temple devoted, or what strange force? How did she know him? What had her apparent visions shown? Crouching, he forced himself to be patient for her health to return.

She shivered and rocked, humming discordantly.

"Are you in pain?" Skippii asked.

Wincing, her throat creaked like an old tree bent by the winter winds. Grasping both her hands, Skippii tried to sooth her ails with his warmth. His heart swelled as the magia seeped through him, careful to apply only the lightest touch. Slowly, her convulsing calmed, and she opened her eyes once more.

"Thank you, that's enough now. That's all you can do."

"What is your name?" Skippii asked, unable to keep mouth shut any longer.

Her eyes narrowed slightly, as though the question were out of the ordinary. "Eirene." She smiled, bemused. "That's my name. Do you remember it?"

Skippii scowled. "Me? Why would I… Have we met?"

"Oh, no. I was…" She shook her head. "Excuse me, I have been alone for a very long time. Longer, it seems, than all of your years combined, three fold. Tell me your name."

"Skippii Altay."

"Oh, Skippii," she said, tears glistening in her eyes, whose amber colour had returned. Cupping his cheeks in her hands, she stared deep into his mind. The intimacy was too much for him, and he looked away at her hands, then over her grey hair, which knotted like the spindly roots of an unearthed shrub.

"I hardly believe this is real," she said reverently. "But it must be you, or else I would be gone. I am awake, am I not? Or is this another insidious vision? One final taunting breath, to keep me clinging to life, your servant?"

Though she spoke perfect Auctorian, her accent was like none other he had heard before; it sounded rooted in Philoxenia, but there was a sharpness to it, as though each word she spoke was cut from the stone itself–symbols carved out of temple walls, without the warmth of speech meant for friendly ears.

"Feels real to me," he said, taking her hands and setting them gently in her lap. "Why don't we talk? Dispel the strangeness?"

Her eyes flickered over his face. "You have questions."

He nodded emphatically. "Oh… Quite a few."

"I will need water to speak."

He unfastened his waterskin and lifted it to her lips. She drank meekly, spilling much down her cheek.

"Where am I?" he asked.

"A temple of Cor. The Primordial earth. The favoured body of Sol, the father star."

Like a wave, Skippii received her words, stunned and awash with contemplation.

"One of the Gods?" he asked.

"No," she said sharply. "Not the Gods. Once their adversaries. More ancient than any being or spirit who claims rulership over this world."

"The War of Heavens," Skippii said. "Is that what you speak of?"

Eirene nodded slowly. "Though not the rumours you may have been privy to. Many years ago, when I was still a young woman, it was my task to learn of the Pantheon's genesis, and undoing of Primordial bonds." Her eyes drifted over the old bookcase set beside the table. "I remember, discovering within those tomes and grimoire, secrets which I thought to take back to my people in Nerithon. What wealth, more everlasting than gold, is the illumination of history. I would have been a fine woman. A noble woman."

"You've been here a long time? Is there no one to tend to you?"

"Many lifetimes it feels. As for company, I have had none as you know it. Only stories, tomes, visions. Some are richer than company… I would guess. My mind drifts in history, and in the inscriptions of my progenitors."

Eirene sighed deeply, laden with woe. "Let me explain, do me this grace. I have never told my story to another soul. I have kept it inside me all these years, and thought to die with it. But, please listen. I need… This may sound irrational, but I need you to verify that I am indeed alive. That I have lived. Uncertainty has infected me in recent winters, and now I forget. What is vision, what is a dream, what was my life? What have I done? Who have I been all these years?"

"I'm listening," he said earnestly, taking her hand and sitting beside her.

Drinking from the waterskin, she wet her lips and spoke, though her voice trembled with emotion. "Until the age of sixteen, I lived a normal life. I was a girl, with a father and sisters… and fancies. A man." She smiled. "A boy, but with the heart of a man. Poltemue. That was his name. We were to be wed. I can almost see his face." She raised a hand, staring into the cold walls. Her crooked fingers moved as though to part a veil, but what she envisioned did not satisfy her. Grief spread across her face, and she bowed her head.

"One night, I received a vision with a clarity so demanding–more pristine than a day in spring–telling me to walk north. I packed a bag and departed, as simply as that. I strode from the city, beyond its walls and into the mountains. I remember wondering: where was the vision taking me, and whence should I return? Just as you have come upon this temple tonight, so did I, perhaps seventy years ago. Here, I found an old hermit, frail and dying, just as you must see me now. She passed that night into the afterlife, and left me alone, as I remained… for such long years.

"I did not try to leave at first, amazed at what I'd found. I explored the temple, finding provisions, tools, and a trove of parchment. One such tome was laid out on the table. Its pages were half full with the accounts of attendants. I poured over them, though many were written in languages too old or foreign to understand. I ignored food; my appetite was for lore alone. Once I would finish one tome, another would appear in my hands, its weight like a promise of embrace. Each was older than the last, their accounts dating as old as the years are numbered, to a time when each decade had a name, not a number, and the centuries flowed quickly and unremarkably.

"Once I had finished, it became apparent to me that I had neglected to read the most recent passage in full. I had saved it for last, not of my own will. Of someone else's."

A tired smile crossed her lips, but it was pinned by a deeply-pitted frown. "It read: 'My time is at an end. Another mosaic stone. I pray my next should be more virulent. A bird on the breeze.' And there, beneath it, was written my name, and the date on which I arrived, now three months past."

Skippii scowled, trying to make sense of the hermit's story. What was truth, and what was clearly insanity? "Why haven't you left?"

"I could not leave, save for provisions. I was bound to this place, its caretaker."

"Bound by whom?"

"Oyaltun," Eirene said. "Her Sentiescece tends the temple. We, her willing slaves. Gifts, she offers, like foresight and intellect, expand our minds… and impose her purpose. I spent many years reading those texts, amongst which, are texts of translation. Those are like the stems of a tree, forming branches, then trunks, dating back to ancient times. I can speak with you in Auctorian, both current et antiquus, e'sae Philoxenian, uck nos Ürkün, truen-den Sielpet tian, and others. Gifts, which in another life would have served me supremely, but in this one, were carved for a single purpose: for study."

"But, you said this temple is not for the Gods."

"It isn't," she said. "I know what I said. Oyaltun tends the temple. She is not revered by it."

"Why would one of the Pantheon tend a temple of their enemy?You said the Primordials Titans, those who were at war with the Gods."

"Not Titans," Eirene corrected. "Not quite, those are two different things. And to your question, why does a free lady do anything true, but for love?"

Skippii puzzled over her words. "I've been receiving visions. In them, there's snow, and a white lady, thin and fae."

"That is she. But help me off the floor, and I shall explain."

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