Her fingers were five now, returned. Argon would be furious. She knew to feel fear, but the other intrusion, the calming, it resisted. And partly, she was thankful for it. Now was not for fear. Now was for retribution.
And so, her hands reared, dragging the chalk against the face of the world. It drew, painting white lines across the paths she trailed. She did something, knew it, unknew it, pressed on. It moved her, told of a need to continue, to draw into the world. To shape her dreams into reality.
And so she drew a man, spiked by swords, metals, lances. Worms slithering from giant pores in his body. He was in agony, screaming, his eyes nothing but dark, empty holes—pain upon pain. Manifest upon manifest. She stopped, tapped the white-drawn image, and it repelled, flashing with a sudden white.
Then, there was the man, the Fermen. Kneeled, spiked by metals, swords, and lances. Bleeding from wide orifices, worms wriggling out as though he were home to them. He didn't speak, only choked with worms, some crawling out as he coughed. Surely there was pain. Good. He died…And it felt… amazing. The power. To paint the mind into reality.
She looked down at her fingers; the strange, pinkie-sized chalk. It was simple. To draw the world as one wished. What was it? What logic, nature did the symbol represent?
She peered in, and a flash of red struck into her awareness. Shapes, letters, numbers, blinking countless, overlayered upon themselves. Numerous. Words. Memories. Madness. She fell to her knees, clutching her head, screaming. It was too much…. indescribable. Like infinity forced into a moment.
She fell against the earth, and a hand grabbed her shoulders. Strong, yet calm. It came with a voice, "Get the other corpses back to be checked."
Ivory knew that voice: It was Nail of Valor…. Ah, now Argon will be livid…. She wondered to laugh at the colossal mistake she had made… Three attacks, in three days. Two, if the strange caster was unconsidered an attack. Again, not that it mattered. For a moment, she caught a glimpse of Kabel, raised by an Excubitor.
Please be Gentle. She thought… Please be gentle with him.
Despite the common darkCrown belief that Excubitors are universally "strong" men, most are not. In fact, some are women. And their strength can be as mysterious as the so-called casters. Though the latter has taken to calling this phenomenon, the Infused—Author unknown.
Merrin felt a boulder against him, smashing. What was that? He knew that voice, but mentation came to a halt.
I have to move—the witnesses looked now at me. What would they think? Mist it!
"You should be wary of the words you say in the cognitive scape!" The child-like voice muttered. Then there was another. A distant drumming of steps, loud, booming.
Fear gripped Merrin. "Mo-"
Something smashed through the walls. Wind surged, stone scattered in bursts, with screams descending into the chamber… again.
Merrin was battered by a stray stone, darkness swallowing reality for a moment. He recovered soon, finding himself sprawled on the earth, dust tiding through the vast chamber. Wails too. Heart-tightening shrieks. He tried to move; nothing except the head did. Mist it!
Shadows blended in the brown-red fumes, kindlings blinking through the soot fields. He saw nothing, noted the self-pain, but was blinded to his people. A shadow flashed through the smut, towering. He perceived the nihility, yet knew the presence of something.
Merrin tried to scream; pathetic rasps sounded out.
Men muttered confusion within the cloud of coppery taint, like children calling out. His fingers trembled, eyes seized with horror at the unseen thing. The awareness was there—he knew what happened. Cold raided him, his mind imposing a false reality into this one. Bodies scattered, mangled by whatever the undermines had chosen to offer them. Always, always, it gave trepidation, not equanimity. Madness. All of it. Almighty forsaken.
He was chained, forced to watch the carnage that unfolded ahead. Weak, as usual, to their protection. Just once, he cried within; just once, I would want to save them without cost…. Continuously, I claim more deaths… Not once has it happened. I must be the curse.
A hand touched his—a woman, pale, pained, teeth clenched in apparent agony. She was blood-marred across the face and clothes, crawling. Recognition flashed in memory. The one who had given herself to be eaten! She mouthed something. A whisper at first, then she neared, her belly sliding across the searing earth. "Sun—sun…" A gasp escaped. "SunBring." Her head fell into his palm, tired. "SunBring," she repeated, coughing blood that splattered across his. "Wake u…p."
Merrin scanned her; clothes seared off…. But, down… below the chest. His eyes widened. No! There was nothing. Beneath the pale skin, blood spilled, tendrils dangling. She should not live, not with this pain.
MIST me!
His fingers cupped her cheeks, stroking the pale, taut flesh. "Sleep now," he said, but there was resistance in her eyes. Wide, tear-filled, but defiant. "God accepts you now." The words were wrenched out.
And she accepted, smiled, her lips folding in, then opening. "Wake for them," she said with burning strength. "Stand for them. Sun… sunBringer! They wait for god." Then her head slapped into his palm, dead, eyes open.
She died painfully. She died horribly. Yet another soul was lost before freedom. He screamed beast-like. Damn me! Mist me! Let me die, godmistit!
The words no longer frightened him. What was death? Let it come. Let it take the pain away. Solace, yes… Why? His fist clenched. Why did I survive the heaven's judgment? Why do I always live? Merrin bit into his tongue, the stinging pain present. Why do I always have to survive?
Small feet stepped before him, pallid-skinned. A child figure crouched, arms crossed around the patella. Red hair dripping around the head. Eyes crystal in that odd nerve-soothing way. Familiar… the Bird, as it once claimed.
"You?" Merrin wheezed, stunned.
There was silence, the world estranged from his awareness. "I think the El'shadie lives too long," it said. "I think the world does not allow for the existence of something so powerful, hence it balances out its life with the dead. The old emotion: Failure."
Merrin deflected his gaze, seeking the pain, not the eye-caused serenity. "I should die then."
"Maybe…" it said. "Maybe the next one will do better. Waton did it. You could, right?"
"Yes." Merrin sealed his eyes. "Let the next El'shadie take over."
I think its better.
A chuckle sounded. He opened his eyes; the boy was laughing, tears streaming down. "What an IDIOT!" he shouted. "Let the El'shadie take over? I've never seen one so stupid. Even Oravien wasn't such. Let the El'shadie take over? Failure, and this is what you do? What nonsense! You neglect the world above for this, and you allow them to die? Your soul should be placed in a hearth for that."
Merrin scowled… this thing mocked him again. Even now, it did the same. "Shut up!"
"Make me," it said. "Interestingly, no El'shadie has tolerated being this weak; you, on the other hand, accept it like it's a mantle." It scoffed. "How long will you wear the lie so expertly?"
"I said shut up!"
"The—caster—are—the—power—of—the—almighty." It smiled. "There is no Almighty. Maybe once. But not now. There is only the symbol. What you fear is being called God. But you are. Someday at least, if you don't die." It stood. "The measure of godhood for humans is the measure of belief and pattern to it. They see it. You bear the pattern. They create it from your power, and they announce you as god, because you can be. What difference is it in playing the early role?"
Their eyes met, crystal to his black. "You say I should become a god?"
It smirked. "Look at how well you want it?" it said, arms folding back. "What use is there in being illusioned?" There was a sudden pause. "Ah, he comes."
Sweat trickled down Merrin's face. "Who is coming?"
And the boy was gone—erased in moments.
"Who is coming?" Merrin asked the wind, the screams, and the dust.
Sudor laced across his face, his clothes drenched, his throat warmed. Strange, given the froststone. Who was coming? He asked again, and the pebbles before him skipped. Bouncing over the ground, stones quaked. Something came, he knew. There was hesitation, fear, then the screeching struck into his awareness. His people, dying.
I am a God!
He repeated inwards, hands clenching, nerves burning. I am God! He rose, panting, air thinning in fast instants. Fire into nostrils, the wind burned. Who is coming? A distracting thought, buried in the deepest awareness. Now, he stood, pained, shoulders trembling. "I am God!" He took a step, bone screaming the halting desire. "I am God!" He breathed hard, his mouth dry of moisture.
"I am God." He ran, a stagger first, then a fast burst. Into the fume of red, he jumped, tumbled past a shadow, kneeled, reared both arms, and called to the wind.
It declared its presence with a massive vortex, spinning the dust into nothing but clear air. They stood around him, his people, some splattered as corpses of crunched meat. Fear-ridden. Frozen. He alone was their protector. And this he did with clarity, pained, but aware.