A game of hide-and-seek is as fun for any child as the rain decides to fall whence the clouds are fat and dark, and Roland was ne’er one to pass up a chance to play. Even in the mire of the crowd of human bodies; slow, bulbous persons with sharp melodies playing behind their eyes, or the tiny, vulnerable thing with a thought to become a warrior pass’d in the coming months a’fore thee.
Roland roams as he hath always done: bare-footed, his hair unbrushed, his clothing loose and resembling those of the appropriate poor as he Goes through the eons and the centuries unchanged if naught only from the fabrical fashion, and for the minds honed to explore these fashions. His is a grinning jester of a man, with pointed ears only seen by those who Know, and by no one else.
It’s not unknown to find those that walk on the same Road he does, truthfully. Roland tries to be agreeable with e’ery face that passes him, and deigns it fit to hump elbows with the only thought to be companionable in mind. He does this now, with a soft ‘pap’ at the point of the elbow, bumping clothing; and he grins in dimply. “Good morning.”
–Besides that, Roland is fey and bright and sweet to look upon, and a small but not insignificant part of Garth pines and wishes wistfully that he were a younger man, younger and more human.
News of Garth’s genius and magical prowess had reached Scythe long before the man’s ship ever arrived in the Northern Wastes. The former Archon was prepared. He had taken stock of every tome in his possession, had ensured the other would have adequate lodgings, and warned the Oracle of his arrival, though the stone proclaimed to already be aware of it. All there was left to do was wait.
Had he motions, he may have been eager to meet with a man who’s mind was of equal caliber to his own, might have felt happy to be relieved of some of the loneliness that would have weighed upon his shoulders. But as it was, he felt no more excitement than he might have for stubbing his toe.
Still, it was something new to look forward to, and he wondered as to who this Garth really was. He hoped he was agreeable in nature. It would make things difficult if they were to butt heads at every turn. But he supposed he would see soon enough, wouldn’t he? There was no use in speculation, though he found these thoughts and more whirling about his head more often than not.
It didn’t help that Rose was simply buzzing with excitement, either. It was like her doing that had planted these thoughts to grow like weeds. Though she was nearing one hundred years of age, she still possessed the youthful looks and vigor of a girl of twelve years, and would bounce about the fortress like the child she would forever be. So when she had heard of Garth’s fated visit, she was ecstatic; it had just been herself and Scythe for so long, after all, and to see a new and friendly face was like something out of a dream.
“Is Master Garth to arrive today?” she asked him, as she had asked yesterday and the day before that.
“Yes, today is the day, unless they have been delayed,” Scythe responded, not looking up from his book. “I do not know when.”
“Shouldn’t someone wait for him at the docks?”
“When he arrives, I shall know of it and I will go to him. There is no point in standing in the snow and freezing to death while waiting on him to appear.”
“But you wouldn’t freeze to death,” she argued.
“I was referring to you.”
She pursed her lips in a pouty frown. “I can wear a coat.”
“Rose, there is no reason to go now. Be patient. He will arrive soon enough.”
“Fine,” she huffed. “But don’t even think of leaving me behind when the time comes! I shall be very cross if you do.”
“Of course.”
She eyed him for a moment as if she did not believe him, then nodded and promptly saw herself out of the room. “I’m going to make us some tea.”
It was a few hours more before the time came, filled with quiet reading on Scythe’s part, and eager anticipation on that of Rose. She tried to pick up a book on several occasions, but her mind was positively buzzing and would not allow her to concentrate. Scythe did his best to ignore the constant toe-tapping and the antsy drumming of her fingers.
When he finally rose from his chair and donned his long, fur-trimmed cloak, she practically leapt to her feet to snatch up her own. Scythe could see the fire in her eyes, and he might have chuckled in amusement, had he been amused.
Lifting his hood over his head to hide the horror of his face, he took the girl’s hand, and in a swirl of color and a flash of light, they appeared upon the docks at the Wastes’ southern shore. On the horizon loomed a sizable brigantine, fast approaching. Rose bounced on her toes, her hand still in his gloved one, her breath coming in cold puffs of air as they watched in silence as the boat drifted towards them.
“Well,” Garth starts, fighting the urge to laugh. He could talk about this sort of thing for days, little did Will know.
“I’ve been world-jumping since I was a child, and every world I’ve visited has been real to me. I’ve spilled blood on soil in places that shouldn’t exist. I’ve pushed past boundaries I was taught hold the world together. So if you’re looking for reality, I think that wherever you are, wherever you feel your body around you and earth beneath your feet, you’ve found it.”
His expression softens, and he shrugs. “I think if this world is merely an illusion, there are much worse lands that a god could have created than good old Albion.”
Will looked around, staring up at the sky and then at the horizon. His experience with world-jumping was limited to the worlds like these, that lay beyond the demon doors scattered around Albion. And, he supposed, one might be able to consider the Sanctuary as a separate world, but anything he had experienced was wildly dwarfed by the experiences Garth held.
“That’s an interesting take on it,” he said, glancing over at the man. He wondered what other worlds were like----true other worlds. If they had wild people, or didn’t have people at all; if the sun burned cold and the moon hot; if perhaps they were wilder than anything he could ever imagine.
“Perhaps the God’s fear their creation of Albion,” he said, kneeling down to feel the grass with the tips of his fingers. “Maybe that is why they are so keen on destroying her. Fear their creation of people like us, of Heroes....”
It’s only when he hears the voice, floating to him from some great distance away, that he realises he’s been staring blearily at a tree for some time, swaying gently on his feet.
Sleep had abandoned him nearly a week ago, leaving feverish todash dreams in its stead that increased in intensity the more time passed. He is drawn and disheveled, his lines jittery like static electricity as they dance over his skin, and reality and the realms beyond are starting to blur in a way that was seriously uncomfortable.
“A logical assessment,” he murmurs to what he assumes is the mirage of Will.
Will frowned at the older man, his brow furrowing together with worry. What brings the most worry to him is the way that his markings show themselves along his skin, dancing and jumping like lives wires. He moves closer to him, slowly reaching out with gloves fingers to take his arm, the cool metal of his gauntlet pressing against him shortly after.
“----Let me take you back to the castle,” he said slowly, trying not to startle him----a sleep-deprived Garth that decided to turn against him was not a Garth he wished to deal with. “How long have you been awake?”
The landscape grows colder and colder, but the howling wind is nothing compared to the howling in Mordred’s body, the rage of having been pushed aside, the pain of knowing he is second in <can calah>’s thoughts.
-- He doesn’t know when he started calling the mage ‘can calah’. The name-phrase sits comfortably in his mind as if it had always been there, the only name the shaman man has or needs. The name <lady rose> calls him makes no sense to him; has no vibrance, no truth.
But <can calah> is absorbed, entire, by <lady rose>. There is no room between them for him. He stalks them to the crumbling village, snapping his teeth at the dim sound of stirring dragons in the distance, keening quietly and clawing at his throat when he feels the hum of the portal in the College, the portal that some dragon-blooded little saviour had brought there with no ken of its power. He stalks them to the crumbling village, where they pause and consider.
In-doors, Mordred understands, and his spirit quickens. Clarity bleeds in. Yes. In-doors. Take me, <can calah>. Leave me and I will... I...
<can calah> turns to look at him. It is like the tug of a leash. Mordred emerges from hiding, shivering violently with cold his body feels but his mind disregards, and creeps towards his guardian.
“I have RULES for you.” He says it with such arcane emphasis that there is no other way to interpret it. “You will follow them. If you do not, I will cast you from me. If you then persist, I will kill you.”
He doesn’t want to believe <can calah>. <can calah> doesn’t want to kill him. But he looks into <can calah>’s eyes, and recoils from the resolve he sees there.
<lady rose> is strength. Mordred knows that now.
“You will not touch Sparrow unless given leave.
You will not touch anything unless given leave.
You will remain within my sight and reach.”
Mordred moans, reaches out to beat at him with hands that can barely form fists in their nearly-frostbitten state. <can calah> grabs onto him, keeps him still, pegging him in place with a hard glare.
“Attend me, wretched child. I will give you food, I will give you shelter, and I... will do my best to give you the rest. As long as my RULES are followed. What say thee, son of Los?”
The tears of frustration and helpless fury freeze on his lashes. “Mordred hears you very well,” he rasps, even as he tries to wrench out of <can calah>’s grip.
“You are cold,” <can calah> says, and his voice is different now, and Mordred stops struggling. This voice does something different to him, quiets him, and he latches onto it and drinks deeply, swooning. “Come in out of the cold, son of Roland. I will give thee rest.”
People visited the Academy often since it had been re-opened to the public, but no visitor was quite like the one that waltzed through the doors one snowy afternoon. He was tall, his skin dark and contrasting with the bright swirls of blue that pulsed a dull light, and he carried an air of ancientness about him, an air of wisdom and knowledge.
Xiro noticed him instantly. After all, he was a little hard to miss. What would a Hero be doing here? He certainly looked out of place, even if he didn’t feel so, and the teacher had to wonder where this man had come from and what his purpose might have been. Luckily, the door of his office was situated in such a way that allowed him a good view of the goings on in the Academy, and so he could keep tabs on the other without actively following him about.
This man was powerful, though; that much was obvious. He could feel the will energy rolling off of him in waves, as vast and deep as an ocean. It was rare for a Hero so strong to exist, especially in these times when Heroes were so few. It struck him as entirely possible that this stranger could sense him and his power, too, and that was when he accidentally caught the Hero’s eye.
There was no doubt in his mind that the other knew very well that he had been watching him. Possibly the entire time.
Well, shit.
With little choice in the matter, he beckoned the other to come inside and have a seat. It was time he found out just who this man was, and what he was here for.
