HE WAS SPACED out the entire time.
It began the moment supper arrived.
"Maze, how is your cogitation progressing?"
The question came from one of his peers, yet he proceeded to chew his food regardless. He could not determine what he was eating, nor what the food tasted like, for his sense of taste had become a bland void; meanwhile, several eyes observed him with confusion. The figures beside him, the very presence of those at the table, seemed to be faint, flickering shadows, and even their voices were lulled and drowned by the rush of his own thoughts.
"Are you well, Maze?"
"Earth to Maze!"
"Maze, do you not care for the food I cook?"
What remained clear was that his awareness of his surroundings had vanished. He was a subject of his own inquiry, relentlessly seeking the answer that eluded him. The world where he sat was a constant blur, and what truly mattered was the quiet formation of his own little world.
"Perhaps," someone whispered, "Maze is still lost in cogitation?"
But that was a mistaken assumption. He was simply drowning in his own thoughts!
When he finally rose to depart, the others silently observed him. Maze did not hasten; he simply drifted away, leaving the figures at the table behind. With the murmurs fading, the ignorant man proceeded to his bedchamber. The moment he finished cleaning himself, he leapt upon his bed and closed his eyes.
Sleep eventually visited him. For about an hour. No — maybe, about three hours. Then his eyes swiftly opened, as he sat at the foot of his bed. Rubbing his temples, Maze released an exhausted sigh.
To think that I have been unaware of my surroundings at supper . . . It was something that was never meant to offend, but a necessity at that moment. This inward scheming, of how I should confront it, I plan to do it tonight.
As a matter of fact, there was not a single rule spoken that could prohibit him from cogitating at the Chamber of Sanctum at night. If he wanted to progress quickly, and learn some more knowledge, he would have to deal with it. Inside his very Vision.
The good reason he left his room and descended the spiraling stairs was that his feet creaked upon the ground. All the candlelights had already extinguished in the candelabras, and the ground floor was similarly dark. But he never stopped walking.
Until—
Shriek! As the double-doors of the Tower opened, several footsteps resonated within the entire hall, and the somehow guilty Maze could only hide behind a pillar. The steps were becoming nearer and nearer, and some inaudible whispers collaborated with the noise; however, it did not take long for the footsteps to halt.
But a few more footsteps followed and got closer before the doors finally closed.
"Do you think he will be prepared before the Camp, Sir Azaniel?" It was the feminine voice of Miss Olivia, something demure and soothing. "To be honest, when I was studying him practice his cogitation, even the three symbols symbolizing his three-fold foundation were fluctuating, and the tree determining his path was faint."
Miss Olivia? Maze's heart almost leapt. Is she talking about me?
"It is his second day only." Another voice spoke, and this time, it was cold and monotonous. "Give him some time and it will be easier for him to control his Soul Tree and see his foundation clearly."
The other one is Sir Azaniel. So, both of them were not present at supper? He was closer to snapping out that he forgot how spaced out he was during that time. Right, I cannot even know who among my peers was present at the tables.
But what was clearer was that Maze found himself to be the subject of their topic.
"We could only give him hints, Miss Olivia."
"Look at you calling me a missus, old man."
"We are at the Tower . . ." A pause. "But, clearly, that man is something else."
A something else kind of disappointment, Sir Azaniel, Maze objected. For him, there was no way such as himself was that interesting.
The steps continued, and as Maze observed, two silhouettes were walking toward the dining hall, with the candelabras still lit.
"The more hints we give him, the more knowledge and ideas he could digest."
"All the help he can merely receive, which of course is enough."
Sir Azaniel opened the door.
"I must request Mistletoe to heal your wounds, dear Sir. What food do you want?" Miss Olivia glanced behind, and Maze tried to hide himself more in the darkness. "Do you think that former shepherd will know for sure about his mark?"
"Pretty sure he already did, as he is observant and not ignorant."
Miss Olivia clung her arm to Sir Azaniel.
The latter's last words echoed before the doors closed.
"But the question is, would he be willing to know the reason why he had the gift for himself?"
Then the entire floor went dark.
⠀
WHEN MAZE entered the Chamber of Sanctum, his first act was to traverse the threshold of his conscious dream. Without the necessity of slumber, the landscape unfolded before him: a nocturnal sky streaked with raining meteors above black waters that hemmed in the solitary landmass. Knee-high grass brushed against his skin as the frigid wind stirred his hair. There stood the tree of dice-fruit, its branches barren of leaves and its bark as dark as Maze's own void eyes.
It appeared, without lie, that he was alone.
But he was not.
Certainly not.
"How much longer will you remain hidden from me?"
At first, there was no response. Yet, after a few moments, a rustle resonated from behind the trunk. From that shadow, a figure dressed in a tunic and draped cloak revealed itself. Its entire frame was forged of darkness, yet it bore the unmistakable shape of a faceless and inhuman Maze. There was a shift between the two of them this time. For Maze, his garments were no longer those of the shepherd.
"I was under the impression you had no desire to behold me," the mimic remarked, its voice a gentle and low tone, like his own.
"It is different now that I must confront you."
The mimic chuckled. "So direct, are you not?" It crossed its arms. "In what manner do you intend to face me, then?"
Maze paced forward, lost in a mellow trance. "You are a part of me."
The figure went statued.
"It took me some time to realize that truth myself," Maze continued, his head slightly tilted as he observed the shadow. "How do I confront that which is an extension of my own being?"
Then, as he stood inches from the silhouette, the wind erupted with rage.
It was only natural that the gale intensified whenever they spoke.
"How should I confront a shadow?" He spread his arms wide. "There is only one way."
He embraced the figure, which went mum.
"I must accept you."
The ground buckled with a violent tremor as the figure emitted a faint glow into every corner of the small land, reaching the depths of the black waters and blanketing the heavens. Maze felt his frame shudder as a portion of the shadow began to penetrate his body, as if melted wax, disfigured and hot, were being grafted to his skin. Though he gripped the form amidst the sufferance he endured, he did not falter.
He caught its final whisper. "You fool," it began to fade, "what took you so long?"
When the Vision dissolved into total obscurity, Maze feared he had been blinded. But as he looked upward, the moon remained a witness to who had devoured what. He could perceive the audible rustle of the grass and the breeze around him, yet it was as if the darkness now enamoured what remained of his sight. He stood without tremor, a little lost, yet entirely awake.
Then, a glistening golden circle materialized before his eyes, followed by an inverted triangle. At each point, smaller circles appeared, revealing symbols: a clenched fist to the left, a concentrated droplet to the right, and at the final point, a wide hollow expanse. It was the same structure as what the platform in the Chamber of Sanctum possessed. The clenched fist was perhaps the power, the droplet his essence, and the dark expanse his core.
This . . .
Maze's eyes widened as the glow intensified. The grass within the dark revealed itself strand by strand, until the soil and the black waters were exposed. The tree followed, its roots slithering upward to forge a trunk, with smaller offshoots shaping the branches until the dice-fruit hung from the wood.
Suddenly, Maze felt his physical body — even his sweat, the isolation of the chamber, and his own raspy breaths. He was being pulled toward wakefulness, yet without panic, he steadied his cogitation. He focused on his Vision, despite the Soul Tree not being present.
He felt his feet shrink into the ground as if a part of him were being dragged into the depths. With a gasp to brace against the abrupt shock, a fragment of his being stood before the tree with its hundred pale green leaves, beneath the sun and its six stars. Is this even possible?
It seemed his spirit now resided within the Soul Tree, while his soul remained in the Vision, all while his body stood awake where his other existences wandered without being lost.
However . . . why was the trial so effortless? Was it because his shadow had been willing? Was it the clarity of enlightenment? Or was it because the union was supposed to be this way all along?
The confrontation seemed . . . too indifferent.
If there were one matter that he had achieved, it was to receive further knowledge.