The Traveler’s Heart
Crimson rain fell from the sky, filling the town with the soft rhythmic beating of its droplets. Inside, the blacksmith stood behind his extinguished forge. A mane of white-gold hair, almost glowing in the low light, flew freely at the whims of the wind. Skin of polished bronze glistened with the sweat of a long day’s work. Clutched in his hands, a wax-sealed envelope bearing a silver caduceus. Despite his solitude, the man stood with a steel-solid posture. Practiced impassivity hung on his face like a porcelain mask. Beneath this, however, the man’s eyes quivered. They were a pair of abyssal-blue oceans held in buckets. As though the slightest nudge at the right spot would send a cascade down his face. With a deep breath, he peeled back the wax, careful to keep both the letter and seal intact. At the sound of boots outside his door, he stowed the letter in the nearest drawer and adorned a friendly smile.
“Welcome to the Traveler’s Heart! Shop’s all shut down for the night, but I’m always willing to take a job!” He announced to the hooded man standing in the open doorway.
The visitor moved briskly, shaded eyes fixed forward. Placing down a flat leather case and dropping his hood to reveal a shaved head, adorned with an intricate sanguine tattoo on his forehead. Dozens of overlapping circles formed a pair of parting clouds, between them two straight lines represented a beam of light. He was an Archivist, travelling the world collecting knowledge. But, the sigil signified something far greater. He was a Holy Archivist, specifically tasked to sniff out any morsel about God. He couldn’t have come to a better place.
“Ah! A member of the church, I hadn’t realized. What brings you out to our little corner of the world? I can only assume the rumor of the Thompson’s boy breaking his leg has pulled so strongly on the king’s heartstrings that he sent you personally?” The blacksmith said with mock sincerity. “I’m afraid I’ve grown terribly out of touch with proper customs. Am I to bow? Kneel? Or simply bask in your radiance?”
The Archivist offers a small smile and shakes his head. “I’m afraid that’s not quite the rumor I’ve been sent to investigate. Though, if my rumor holds an ounce of truth, perhaps I should be the one bowing, kneeling and basking.”
The blacksmith managed a gentle smile. “Ah. It was only a matter of time before word reached your order. Very well. If you had come even an hour earlier, I would have been Frederick Strom, simple blacksmith and former member of the king’s guard. I would have been flattered to be compared to such a legend. So, flattered in fact, I’d treat you to a meal and a cup of tea so delicious you would leave here having forgotten the last week of your life!”
As he spoke, the blacksmith moved about the shop, stowing and locking away the remainder of his tools. “But, my time in this one-whore town has just about run out. So yes, I am Fen Song. I am the Hero of the Parting Storm. I killed God and took his throne as my own. I reshaped the world and put an end to the Age of Eternal Rain. But the titles and flowery language tell less than half the truth. If it is my story you seek, then you will have it in its every dirty detail. Though I’m afraid you’ll need to write on the road.”
In the earliest hours of the following morning, far before the sun’s rays would rouse the larks and quiet the crickets, the pair set out. They took the northern path towards the University, the capital and the fate lying in wait.
■ ■ ■
If you’re going to lock away my life’s story, I suppose we’ll to start in the heart of it. To a time when all I had to my name was a cold steel blade and a blistering anger at the world. This was back during the Age of Eternal Rain, and the rule of the Crimson King. My position in the rebellion fit me well. I had food, a place to sleep and most importantly, something to swing my sword at.
Contrary to widespread belief, the rebels didn’t live a life of being chased from gutter to gutter by the royal guard. We weren’t just some rag-tag group of vagrants and thieves, though we certainly had our share of both. The King wasn’t as all-seeing as he made himself out to be, and we were far more organized than even the most sympathetic historian would credit. In part, we owe that to the Sunken Sea. Deep underground, there was a series of caverns that seemed to span the globe. For one, it gave the answer to how it would rain ceaselessly without flooding the world. It also gave us both a base of operations and a way to travel the world unseen.
I was in the largest city in the Southern Isles, being led through the sewers by a tiny wisp of a man whose only introduction was a grunt in my direction. While we walked I found myself mystified by the sheer size of the sewer system. Not only was it massive, but beautifully built. Flowing patterns were carved into the bricks along the waterways and fine arches separated different sections. Though, it wasn’t until much later that I had time to appreciate it all. At the time, my mind was appropriately occupied with staying out of the streams of sewage and pools of stagnant water.
“So, you’re the latest and greatest the city has to offer?” The small red-haired man muttered insincerely. As we continued forever downward, the walls shifted from intricate masonry to convenient use of the natural ruts and slopes in the earth. It was some time before I noticed my guide had turned off his lantern. Instead, our way was lit by large clusters of luminescent mushrooms and insects. The former bathed the passage in dim, but steady orange light. The later skittered about, lighting small regions in a bright violet hue.
I decided to simply take the comment as a compliment, and soldier on. An eternity later, narrow passages opened into a gargantuan cavern. The only indication of a ceiling was an overhead smattering of fungal clusters like stars in the sky. Across the surface of this sea torrents of water fell, presumably, from the oceans above. By the time I had finished gawking, Atwell had disappeared back up the way we came.
“’Ey boy! Get over here so I don’t hafta be shouting like a lunatic!” The booming voice drew my attention to a small dock. A dock set into the rocky shore of the underground ocean. At the end of it, a massive bear-like man stood waving both arms in the air.
“The name’s Captain Calder. How about you, boy? The ones up top don’t give me the names.”
“Fen Song! I look forward to working with you, Calder!” I shouted, doing my best subordinate impression. But, before I could take another breath, Calder reached out a big meaty hand and cuffed my ear, sending me reeling to the side.
“I said my name was Captain Calder. Boys who can’t listen don’t last long down here.” He paused briefly to allow me to compose myself once more. “On top of that, ‘Fen’, I don’t give a fiddler’s fuck what your name is!”
My temper flared, “But you asked my name!” I spat at him before thinking. In response, he simply stared at me silently. His brown eyes narrowing dangerously, like a predator waiting to snap at its prey. He slowly raised an arm and swung forward, roughly patting me on the back. Raucous laughter echoed off the walls of the cavern. A cascade of violet scattered across the cave, as nearby insects scattered.
“I’m just pulling your chain, boy! It’s a fine name! Come on, let’s get you started on the training dummies.” He let out a long breath, and led me deeper into the cavern.
■ ■ ■
Fen raised a hand, indicating for the Archivist to still his pen. “Forgive me, but I must be cautious in telling this part. I won’t have it set in ink unless the words can do her a true justice. I feel that I must stress the difficulty of this task. I could tell you of her spilled-ink hair. I could tell you that her eyes were pale desert oases, set in dark-olive skin. Perhaps I would speak of her hands, strong and calloused yet possessing the dexterity of a master lutist. But, that wouldn’t be giving the full picture. Like a portrait made up of individual dots of paint, she would need to be viewed in her entirety appreciated. Anything you could write would be a betrayal of her image, so we should keep the betrayal simple. Black hair, blue eyes and olive skin. Beautiful beyond compare.”
■ ■ ■
Soon, I was busy hacking away at a bundle of burlap and driftwood shaped into the
“Sounds like you got through the captain’s little test. Not many call him out on it, you know.” A voice called out from behind me. “Though, I am curious whether it was bravery or stupidity that inspired you to talk back.”
I finished my set of lunges, thrusts, and parries. I was careful to add just enough extra flourish to each movement, and sheathed the blade as fluidly as I could manage. I turned and closed the distance between us. “Truthfully, I’d say it was a little of both. A dangerous combination, those two.” I looked up to meet her pale blue eyes, and offered my hand. “I’m Fen. I was sent down here to swing my stick at anyone who tries to swing their sticks at the people who make our swinging-sticks. And yourself?”
She continued staring at me, making no effort to reach out to shake my hand. “You can call me Morrisa. I’m one of the smiths you’ve sworn so bravely to defend.” A dangerous smile spread across her face as the words left her mouth. “Let me see your blade.”
When she took my blade in her hand, she gently ran her finger down the flat of the blade, over the cross guard and down the hilt. She nodded and gave a faint hum of approval as she traced the edge I had sharpened earlier that day. Her hand worked back and forth, taking in a new part of the weapon with every pass.
■ ■ ■
“To be clear, we’re steal speaking about a sword, aren’t we?” A wry smile spreading across his red and sweaty face. “There’s no need for innuendo, I’m a member of the church. Not a child.”
Fen stopped dead in his tracks, a stunned expression slowly shifting into a wide grin. “No, no. It was a sword. If I could move that quickly with women, I fear I would have pursued very different goals in life. Though, I must say. I’ve yet to hear of an archivist cracking a joke.”
The Archivist shrugged “I’ve always found that some jokes and friendly conversations get me closer to the truth of things than my title alone. Sure, the sigil brings respect and gives me answers to my questions. But, those answers are much like those given to a constable. I only get the bare bones of the truth. Sure, they’ll tell me of rumors they’ve heard, but, they’ll be careful to clean up their story. It’s omitted that they first heard it at their favorite brothel, or from the tavern their wife doesn’t allow them to visit. Instead, I get sent to the market or some equally innocuous part of town where the rumor has yet to reach.”
“Fair enough.” Fen said. “Now, where was I?”
■ ■ ■
As she examined my blade, her eyes remained fixed in one spot. They did not follow her hands’ motions. It was at this point that I realized she wasn’t looking at the blade at all. She was blind.
In the infinite wisdom of my youth, I stared at her and said, “You’re blind!”
“What? You’re telling me I was supposed to have five senses?” An amused smile betrayed her mock-astonishment.
■ ■ ■
Fen and the Archivist made their way down the road, walking briskly. Soon, they came across a small caravan headed towards the University. After some haggling, and a subtle flashing of a certain sigil, the two travelers secured a ride north at a very reasonable price.
Able to focus fully on his tale, Fen went on to tell the Archivist of the various battles between the rebels and the royal army. With a heavy heart he spoke of the failed attempt to take the Crimson King’s life, and the realization of his immortality. Finally, he spoke of the legend of a glorious shining metal that if crafted into a blade, would be able to kill any living thing. He told of the journey to find it, of the sacrifices made along the way. He spoke of taking it to the greatest smith in the world.
■ ■ ■
By now, I had finally earned the right and knowledge enough to make the descent myself. As I navigated the route I had committed to memory, I realized exactly why the deepest reaches had remained undiscovered. Along my path alone were hundreds of passages twisting off in every direction. Without a guide it would take a tremendous amount of luck to reach the bottom. Then my thoughts, inevitably, wandered back to Morrisa.
How would she have felt making her way down narrow slippery Navigation was difficult enough as is. Without sight, it would have been impossible. Feeling along the stone walls would be of little help, as there was nothing to distinguish one section from any other. Further, there were dozens of crags that were easy enough to jump, but deadly if stumbled into.
By the time I reached the sea, I had built up the courage to hand her the lump of rust-orange metal. She ran her fingers across the surface of the raw ore. I held my breath, fearful that she would give me the same look of utter disappointment as everyone who had seen it. Hundreds of lives given chasing what could have passed for a particularly colorful piece of pig iron. However, no such look came. Instead, pure joy tugged at her face.
■ ■ ■
Even at the time, I was painfully aware what the completion of the sword meant. Whether it be in failure or victory, there was only one place for me to go. Morrisa had finished the bulk of the work. I was there as she forged it into the rough version of the shape it would eventually take, then as she grinded the blade into a fine edge. I watched as she painstakingly hardened and tempered the weapon, as to strengthen the blade for the battle to come. And then, her part in her final project was done. All that was left was to attach the hilt, pommel and guard. All of which could be handled by her assistants. She had fulfilled grand role in the rebellion. And though that meant the burden of ending the ware landed squarely on my soldier, I couldn’t be more relieved. Even if I were to fail, the war would end with me and she would be free to live whatever life she could.
“When is the last time you’ve been to the surface?” I asked her. To that, I was met with a deafening silence. Before she could give an answer, I took her hand and led her toward the ascending path. Our progress was slow, but steady. By the time we made our way out of the caverns, through the sewers and onto the street the moon hung high in the sky. It’s light struggled to pierce the heavy clouds.
“I suppose it’s a tad too late to ask, but where are we going?” Morrisa whispered in my direction, taking a deep breath of the fresh cool air.
“For a walk.” I said simply, the bulk of my attention fixed on avoiding the orbs of lantern-light patrolling the streets. After cutting through dozens of alleys and having nearly as many close calls, we reached our destination.
The coast stretched out before us. In the distance, patrol boats snaked back and forth between large wooden watchtowers. “I’m sorry I’ve just taken you from one sea to another. If we had the time I would take you to all the splendor hidden in the corners of this world.” It was in the ensuing silence that I realized I still held her hand in mine. But for a long wonderful moment neither of us moved.
“You know, in all this time I’ve never seen your face. Would you mind?” As she spoke she reached her hands up towards me. Before I could give it any real thought, I took her wrists and guided her hands to rest gently across my face. Her fingers gently traced every intricacy of my face as if it were one of her finished projects. A characteristic hum of approval escaped her lips as she made her second pass. Soon, her hands continued downward still, moving along my shoulders then inward to my chest. Finally, she stopped dead on my rapid beating heart.
“You’ve got a traveler’s heart the same as mine. When all this is over, I’ll take you up on your promise to show me the beauty you know.”
■ ■ ■
“I do apologize for the interruption, but this isn’t quite the story I had in mind. I’m happy to hear it, but I’m worried that we may reach the end of the road before the end of your story.” The archivist interjected gently. Out the front of the wagon, the marble spires of the central capital peeked over the horizon.
“Well, I would like to point out that I did say you would be getting my take in every detail. But, I suppose I can’t blame you. If you were to listen to every fool’s story of love and loss then you’d run the world dry of it’s ink before the year’s end. But, before I give you what you ask for I would like to remind you that this journey would have had to have been by ship had a certain blade not been forged.”
“I’m aware. But, if I returned to my order without delving even slightly into the fate of the Crimson King or your ascension I might be the cause of a few non-violence vows. Not all my brothers share my sentiment that every story bears hearing. I’ve said more than enough. So, please continue.”
■ ■ ■
Becoming a God was not at all what I expected. The only way I can begin to describe the feeling would be to say I was a cloud, wrapping around the world. I wasn’t at any one place. I was everywhere all at once. I could observe a seemingly infinite number of things all at once. I could feel an inherent knowledge of my powers growing within me as time passed. So, I blew away the storms. I raised new continents and filled them with new flora and fauna. In short, I changed the world to look as it now does.
That isn’t to say it was as easy as wanting a change. When I first began to blow the storms away, I kicked up terrible winds and destroyed entire towns. When I first raised the continents, great earthquakes shook the landscape and killed hundreds. In time, I learned a gentler touch and was able to change without destroying. But, even after mastering my ability I was still ultimately powerless.
Years passed in the time it took me to reshape the land. Morrisa wasn’t one to sit idly by and wait years for a man to return. Now that she was able to truly see the world and leave her forge behind, she had set off to make up for lost time. By the time I was able to look down upon her, she had already met somebody. He was a true gentleman with a traveler’s heart to match hers. There was nothing I could do. I don’t doubt I could have used my powers to kill him, and then return to her. But, no true love could come from such a deed. I could have created another woman, identical to her in every way. But that would not be Morrisa. Not truly. Finally, I could have taken mortal form and come to her personally. But I could never burden her with a choice between two loves. That would have been the cruelest of the three. So, I simply watched and protected her through her travels.
But, all journeys must come to an end for better or for worse. Hers ended with a wedding the birth of a beautiful baby girl. Seeing her so happy with another made me weep. And when I did, the same crimson rains as before the reshaping fell from the sky. I was filled again with dark thoughts about her new husband. Though I resisted temptation, such thoughts coupled with my powers were too volatile to allow. So, I let go of my power, fully expecting to vanish forever. But I didn’t. I was returned to my body. It was as it was sitting and loyally waiting for decades, knowing I would one day return to it.
Returning to mortal flesh felt much stranger than my ascension. I didn’t feel like I lost any part of myself. I simply felt compact. But, as I’m sure you can gather from the fact that I planned on walking the whole way north, my power was left behind. In their place, I regained the beautiful intensity of my senses. I could truly hold a hammer. I could feel the cool hard surface of an anvil. I could feel the heat of the forge and smell its smoke. I knew there was only one thing I could do with my newfound normality.
■ ■ ■
Fen raised a hand as they passed through the university gates, indicating the end of his story. “I’m afraid this is where we must split ways. I’ve got something to attend to. I’d tell you to get a drink and wait on me, jokes that start with ‘a priest walked into a bar’ generally don’t end well.” With that, the pair exchanged a polite farewell complete with the promises of future reunions and firm handshakes all around. The Archivist took the western road, heading for the holy city of Skara to share his newfound knowledge. Fen continued into the campus, stopping before a massive stone building. Set into its large wooden double doors, a silver caduceus and the words ‘Medika’ glistened in the light of the setting sun.
After exchanging a few words with the exhausted looking woman at the front desk, Fen snaked his way through a maze of hallways and staircases. Finally, he stopped at a door identical to the dozen others lining the same hallway save for the number and name plate. As he gently opens the door, the sight within forced every bit of air from the man’s lungs.
A half century of tears poured from the man, as he looked upon the wrinkled and withered form lying quietly in her cot. Daring not waste a moment, he rushed forward and took her hand in both of his. Her hand was soft and smooth, only the His mad grin doing little to stop his deep, choking sobs.
Morrisa slowly blinked awake, and after a moment of confusion, wrapped her own hands gently around his. “Oh, Fen…” her labored breathing choking her words before they could leave her throat. The blacksmith leaned forward and gently kissed the woman’s forehead. As his lips brushed against her skin, the light slowly faded from her pale blue eyes. As she let out her final breath, Fen bowed his head and began to weep. Outside, crimson rain fell from the sky