What is felt cannot be explained in its entirety with just words. They aren't enough. Not in this moment. Not when face-to-face with guilt so deep it drowns one in despair.
There are no words to be found. There was no rain, yet guilt flooded him from within.
All these shoes. Small and large. Each pair was a life.
Kanrel could only stare, not approach, and barely imagine what a bundle of clothes and a pair of shoes might've looked on a man, or a woman, or a child, however old they might've been. His feet felt so cold. He had walked in a dead man's boots, without giving regard to the life they'd belonged to, without knowing who they had been, where they had gone, or what they had lost. He wanted to rip the shoes off his feet; he wanted to carefully place them where he had got them from; and for a moment, he wanted to be a priest, to bless this mass grave with whatever godly love he could find from within, for somewhere there must have been a deity who would accept these lost souls into their house, and give them not just salvation, but also peace.
A useless sentimentality to even imagine. The dead were above him; the dead were all around him; the dead had carved a place within him. They were stuck there, they were lost, and no one could save them. The Veil already had them.
He sat on his knees for a long while, embraced by the cold and the gentle red hue of the sun. Fragmented thoughts passed through him, as well as emotions he could not release, nor form into words or actions. They were a dark cloud within, a storm that raged and reigned. There came urges to cause destruction; to scream at the heavens, to burn signs of his former religion. But what good would that do? Such things would not redeem him or placate this storm. He could just weather it.
And so, time passed. Inevitably, despairing him only further, the clouds deepened as the storm passed. There was just static within for a long while, but then, he clenched his fists.
But what if... they weren't dead? Not everyone, just some... or most...
What about Vien? Or Dar and his family? What about Isbit? Had they...
... died?
Somewhere from behind, a bell rang. It did not call gently. It tolled once, then again, and then fell silent.
He swallowed tears. He had wept in silence. The tears had just fallen. They had flown out of him, yet he had not perceived them. His sight had drowned with them, but he had not questioned it. He had just held his sight pointed at the pairs of shoes and the clouds within.
With great effort, he got back to his feet; his legs had gone numb, enough to hurt as he struggled through the remnants of the market and the graveyard it had become. He kept the dead man's shoes on, he kept the coins he had stolen; the blanket he had taken for himself, and the pouch that was never his, and he made his way toward a tavern he knew to be not far from here.
The signs of death behind, even though they were there, even though they had surely been human as well, they remained abstract still. For what they were, they were unmarked graves. Sure, he could take each key and find all the correct doors, and with the help of the records in the temple, he could name each pair of shoes, but only up to a point.
Even if he did such a thing, these shoes, most if not all of them, were once worn by people he had never known; that he would never learn to know. They mattered insofar as they were human lives lost because of a thing he had released, practically caused.
What he needed were signs of Vien, of Roslyn and Dar, of Isbit and his family. He needed to know if they had gotten away or if they had succumbed to Kanrel's crimes as well. For one storm he could weather, but another would not allow his existence any further.
As he struggled forth, slowly regaining full sensation of his legs, shivers ran through him. He could still feel their eyes on him, be it the world or his own guilt.
He exited the market and soon gained sight of a familiar building. Ironically, it looked better than ever. The walls seemed as if painted not long ago, the windows were clear and clean, and there were no signs of customers who had caused unsightly things around the corner of the tavern through one end or another. Wealth had brought prosperity and cleanliness, at least on the outside.
He reached the door, grabbed its handle, but it was locked. Surely this meant that she had gotten away? For why else would a door that was seldom locked be sealed?
Knowing that he had to be sure, he took a step back, focused on the lock itself; a slight nudge of disgust forced itself through him as he released the code, which froze the handle further until the iron whitened over with frost.
It was a shame to do, he knew it. He prepared a few more codes. He kicked the door open; the handle and the lock shattered into pieces, bursting like a cloud, only to instantly melt into a rain of molten metal that solidified moments before they hit the ground. The door creaked open, and a view of the tavern's somewhat infamous first floor showed itself to him.
It was similar but not the same. Kanrel was sure that the furniture was different, as well as the carpets, and certainly the placement of the tables had been shuffled at least a little to make room for even more. He swallowed and stepped inside. The door was left open, allowing entrance to the silent wind.
The chair had been neatly placed on top of the tables, and so were the barstools by the long counter behind which bottles of different types of liquor were showcased, as well as barrels of what must have been wine or ale.
On the ground, there were no signs of broken glass, vomit, or much dust. The place was very clean, perhaps cleaner than it had ever been. On the counter lay a note that read: "Vien's Tavern, Bar and Inn is indefinitely closed down for the foreseeable future. If you're reading this, get the hell out as swift as you can, and may the Angels bless your way to safety. P.S. I have a detailed inventory of all the things that are within the establishment, and the day that I return, I will make count of missing things, and figure out who was the bastard who dared steal from me. I will hunt you down, and I will make you pay for what you have done. Forever yours, Vien Janderin."
Kanrel's hands trembled as he read through it. The woman had not changed at all. If he could earnestly smile, this would be the moment to do it, and if he could enjoy things like wine, liquor, and other types of alcohol, this was perhaps the prime moment to start drinking. Not only to celebrate, but to brag to Vien that it had been him who had defiled her stash of liquors.
He placed the note back onto the counter. He walked around, behind the counter, and made his way through the curtain-covered doorway behind which Vien's living quarters would be. He still had to make sure that she had truly gotten out, at least out of the tavern.
The following rooms were familiar. Some furniture was certainly newer, but still, Vien's living quarters were probably homely. He found himself standing by the door to Vien's bedroom. He had never been there; he never dared to. Back then, he had found the woman to be quite intimidating, and for a good reason. He had always wondered what might be through these doors.
Surely, bags of coins she would've used as her pillow. He almost smirked at the idea, but found no humor in his own thoughts. With a sigh, he opened the door... it was not locked, and on the other side was just a normal bedroom. And it seemed that it had been inhabited by only one person.
A bed that might've been warm once, a fireplace that would've been the thing to provide some of that warmth; a bookcase filled with books, all neatly set chronologically. He knew without even opening one that they'd all be filled with information regarding her profits and spending.
There were cabinets and wardrobes, and based on the number of them, Vien must've had way too many clothes to ever bring with her. In silence, Kanrel went through them, but was unable to figure out if she had taken any with her.
There were also multiple pairs of shoes, but they were neatly placed on a rack just by the door. On the floor, there were no random pieces of clothing or anything that would make him think that she had been taken by the Veil; nor were there pouches or bags of coin just lying around, or chests filled to the brim either.
It was certain that if she were to ever leave her tavern behind, then she would've prioritized her wealth rather than petty things she could always buy more of, like clothes or shoes.
Before leaving, he stopped by a fairly large mirror that stood upon a table. Near it were hairbrushes and strange containers filled with different colors. He had no idea what they were for, so he mostly ignored them. Besides, his focus was solely set on the reflection in the mirror.
An unkempt and somewhat dirty man stared back at him, with amber eyes that seemed almost dead; they were deep in their sockets, and the skin around was darkened with the signs of poor sleep, hygiene, lost weight, as well as despair.
He now had a dark beard that covered his chin and a moustache that even hid his mouth. His hair was dark and long and equally dirty as the rest of him. He sat down, found a pair of scissors, and slowly he began cutting away all of the excess hair.
And when he was done, he could at least recognize himself. His beard was now at least presentable, his moustache wouldn't get in the way of his next meal, and his hair wouldn't inconvenience him further. He almost looked like the man who had left the City of Last Light, though considerably dirtier.
He forced a smile to his face. It looked as unnatural as ever. It did not reach his eyes. He then tried a few more smiles that he had seen other people make, but none of them were convincing enough. He sighed, and with a quick code, he burned the cut hair away, filling the air with an unpleasant smell. He made sure not to cause a fire, and afterwards he opened the window and pushed the smell away with another code.
He wanted to leave Vien's room as pristine as it had been. His presence should not soil the sanctity of her home. Before he left the room, he shut the window and brushed away the dirt that he had brought with him. Then, he stepped out of her room and closed the door behind him.
He turned around and found himself face-to-face with the other end of the hallway: a door. He swallowed. It had once been his room, though those years were long behind him.
He hesitated for a while. He could just leave, now, and not look back on things that once were. It would hurt him only further to compare now and then. There would be just another thing to regret. But he decided that it was a thing he ought to regret.
He walked to the door and opened it... It was the same. The same bed, the same shelves and wardrobes; the same everything. Though it had not been cleaned so well as the rest of the establishment. His brows furrowed as he laid his gaze on a book that lay on the floor, open, its cover facing the ceiling.
Kanrel picked it up and laid his gaze on a familiar handwriting; a familiar text. It was his journal. And what the first pages he had laid his eyes on were a few lines of code, though it used his very first way of coding; they were detailed and recounted the day he had been forced to do a magic show. He had almost forgotten the whole ordeal. Back then, he had used multiple codes to make chairs move on their own across the bar. He had been showered with a barrage of almost endless coins, which Vien had accepted with a wide grin on her face. She had been so pleased that day.
He flicked through a couple more pages; the thing held so much in it. His arduous travels from the Academy all the way to Jersten until the day Kanrel had left the room Vien had provided and moved to the temple.
Had the woman read through his journal? And found out so many somewhat embarrassing things about him? He scoffed; he shouldn't have felt so bad about invading her room; she had clearly done it first.
Even then, he almost smiled at the thought and packed the journal into the pouch he had stolen. At least it now held within it something that he owned. He left the room and readied himself to leave the tavern. But instead of already leaving, he scoured through the storage room and found an old wooden chair as well as some nails. He carried them out of the tavern, broke the chair into pieces, and with his magic nailed the door shut with the scrap wood, hoping that Vien might see her tavern, her home, sooner rather than later, as she had left it.
Shivers ran through him, as though someone was standing behind him. Kanrel turned around, only to face nothing. No. Only to face the market. His gaze felt stuck for a while, but he ripped away, toward his next destination, and began his way out of the town, toward a hill that overlooked it.
He made his way past houses, old and new; he did not bother knocking on doors or peeking in through windows. There was no point. He would either see more signs of lives lost or uncertainty in the sense that he would not know whether the people who lived in a house or the next one had escaped or not, or if they were, in fact, among the many shoes at the market.
And as he walked, he became more certain of the town's size. Thousands must have once lived here. Now there was just him, and even he was making his way out of here, lest he, too, find himself another lost soul part of the Veil.
At times, he saw movement at the corner of his eye, and when he took a glance, a code already prepared, it was often just the wind, carrying a leaf or forcing a door to close on itself, then open again.
The town's edge was populated by fields, which had all been harvested long ago, and some barns, as well as granaries, could be seen in the distance. Along the way, he passed a discarded cart, filled with wet logs. It had been on its way toward Jersten, perhaps it had rolled downhill, which is why it was in a ditch. Had the horse run off, or perhaps the people been taken away by the Veil? He did not know and made no guess.
Slowly, he climbed the hill that overlooked the town. It was from where he had first come years and years ago. It was where he had last seen Roslyn in person. They had seen each other the last time, and she hadn't said much, just a goodbye. She didn't have any useless platitudes to give, nor gratitude to sate, nor even that many emotions to display. She had not looked back until the last moment before she fully disappeared behind the hill.
Kanrel had imagined tears flowing. And now he wondered if she had truly cried, or if he had just wished that she did. He wondered, again, whether she had found regret at the end of her decision to seek him in the temple, and beg him to take her as his apprentice.
He hoped, like back then, that she had lived her life without said regrets. But deep, he had known for a long time, even she would not be able to escape it. None of the priests did, and he doubted that even the most ordinary man would find only regrets at the end of his life, though at least such a man might have found love and joy along the despair and the many regrets he would've departed this life with.
Kanrel reached the top of the hill and looked down, not ahead, but behind. He observed Jersten in its entirety. How buildings sprawled ahead, making it so that this hill could no longer be enough to view and appreciate all of it.
But the things he saw were more than enough, for he saw the market and the temple. Two stains connected to one another. Far above it, the sun held on to its red hue as it had begun descending toward the horizon, somewhere past black clouds that were unable to cover it wholly.
He turned around, dared not look further. He ought only look ahead. This moment and those that would follow shouldn't be so darkly stained by what he had caused. He had plenty of time afterwards to face his shadow and let it suffocate him.
He stepped forth, leaving Jersten in his shadow.