| Acharya watched grimly as his two best, his two favourite weapons became a gemstone statue. It was true that he did not need the Magi, or the Trackers to be alive, but Dharin and his Seer had been an incredible team, and so easy to use. They had kept the rest of the Cleansers in line, and without them Felanya might not have gotten out of the Lariian Fields without any scars. Yet, his cause could survive their loss and the statue they left behind – embracing each other, it was touching, really – radiated enough power to take at least a decade off of the countdown until the Awakening. With Dharin and his woman alive, but no longer in the Cleansers, they might have eventually joined the Taer’shal, if they could find them. While most people in this world misunderstood nearly every important matter beneath the dying sun, the Taer’shal had been right about one thing: Acharya had never wanted to save this world. “Great Teacher,” he had been named and that he was – here to teach this world how to suffer and die. It would be only a matter of time, Acharya smiled inwardly, before the Magi closest to him – Lyahr, Corridan, Felanya and Dalnek – Awoke and began to remember what they were. They had all stood before the Rift over a millennium ago, and so they would again. Varesh had been there as well, but he was inconsequential. He had been an idiot then and he remained as such now, the only difference being that now he was a dead idiot. In any event, the other four would begin to remember how Torankhayel, the ultimate dark, had invaded their bodies. They would remember that even their pure, hopeful hearts had fallen to the dark; not even the desires for revenge or the simple, base instinct to survive had outlasted the things waiting on the other side of the Rift. There were other Rifts too – passageways into the dark worlds where the deep shadows waited, restless and bloodthirsty, where hope was a legend about a myth about a silly human notion… hope, how childish. And those fatuous humans had always called the flickering, dying, inconstant stars a symbol for that hope. Well, he mused in his mind as the last bits of skin on the Seer turned opal, ignoring the enraged howling of the owner of this body, he would have to kill those stars and show this world its true destiny: agony. Once his Magi were Awakened – plus or minus Dalnek, the boy was getting careless especially with letting the Sun-Chylde run – it was only a matter of time until the fragile doorways to all the dark worlds were shattered, and Torankhayel would no longer need this shell with the rasping, bellowing voice always in the back of his mind, claiming that it would fight. “Good,” he told Sylvae as his lips twisted in disgust at the ecstatic mask the Mage wore. “Leave them here, and get some sleep. I will need you again soon,” he grinned. It was only a matter of time… Jenya lay where he had fallen hours upon hours ago. He was sprawled on his back, staring through the leaves of the trees above him. He knew, without a doubt that his best friend and the woman his friend had absolutely adored were both dead. While Jenya would never have admitted it to her, he and the Seer had shared some of the same visions. It wasn’t until he had seen the air shimmer black around Sylvae that he understood the nature of the flames in his dreams, and why they were always black. Jenya wheezed, still slightly breathless from running and singing, and a great sorrow fell over him. He hadn’t said goodbye. When he began to run, before he sang he had meant to shout a goodbye and an apology to Dharin but there had been no time. Jenya had known before he twisted Varesh’s greasy neck around that Dharin would not follow. He could not have sang the words of Ahless Maurae, even if he had known them, because he was nearly tone deaf. It was a wonder that the Then’kael managed the most basic Rites, Jenya began to laugh but his eyes tried to fill with tears. Even if Dharin had possessed Kelnai's abilities with Magi Song - when she raised her voice, the heavens paused - the Tracker still would not have run. The Moon-Chylde had been too loyal, and too in love to let the Seer die alone. He wiped the tears away with grubby hands – he was not going to sully their memories by weeping. He stood, ignoring the radiating pain in a leg that was probably broken, and headed towards the lights of a camp in the distance. He could not discern at this distance whether the lights were natural fires, or the light orbs used by all Cleansers. Maybe they were Taer’shal, in which case he could simply tell the truth and hope they bought it. Or maybe they were Cleansers, and he could lie through his teeth and pretend that all was well until he was bandaged and fed. If they were something else, something dark and terrible then he would simply kill them all; with his bare hands if necessary, with a weapon if he found one. He had to move slowly, as his right leg was indeed broken. A spiral fracture on the upper fibula would try to keep him away from war and death for months. Death… every time the word passed through his mind, something tickled his memory. Dead or not, a soft voice made of echoes and honey whispered that he would see his friend and the Seer again, even moran’a’nai. After the death… Jenya had always thought it a curious phrase for naming an era, even after some Magi had explained to him that it had been shortened from “Moran’a’nai ra Dayollah Akar,” After the Death of the Old World. It was supposed to mean the deaths of the evils from the Rift as well, but Magi were fools. “We had all been fools,” Jenya grimaced as he stumbled. The voice of light and echoes was rasping what the true meaning had been. “Moran’a’nai ra Tahdisha…” After the death of Hope, it whispered gently and Jenya wondered if he was going mad. If so, at least he might have an excuse when he tore Acharya limb from sneering, plotting limb and resurrected hope and the light that seemed to have died in everyone. |
| the end (for real this time) |