Her fingers are five now, returned. Argon would be furious. She knows to feel fear, but the other intrusion, the calming, it resists. And partly, she is thankful for it. Now was not for fear. Now was for retribution.
And so, her hands reared, dragging the chalk against the face of the world. It draws, painting white lines across the paths she trails. She does something, knows it, unknows it, presses on. It moves her, tells of a need to continue, to draw into the world. To shape her dreams into reality.
And so she draws a man, spiked by swords, metals, lances. Worms slithering from giant pores in his body. He is in agony, screams, eyes nothing but dark, empty holes—pain upon pain. Manifest upon manifest. She stops, taps the white-drawn image, and it repels, flashing with a sudden white.
Then, there is a man, the fermen. He kneels, spiked by metals, swords, and lances. He bleeds from wide orifices, worms wriggling out as though he were home to them. He doesn't speak, only chokes with worms, some crawling out as he coughs.
He dies in pain…Good.
It felt…amazing. The power. To paint the mind into reality. She looks down at her fingers; the strange, pinkie-sized chalk. It is simple. To draw the world as one wishes. What was it? What symbol was it?
She peered in—a flash of red struck into her awareness. It is shapes, letters, numbers, blinking countless, overlayered upon themselves. Numerous. Words. Memories. Madness. She falls to her knees, clutching her head, screaming.
It is too much….Indescribable. Like infinity forced into a moment. She falls against the earth, and a hand grabs her shoulders. It is strong, yet calm. It comes with a voice, "Get the other corpses back to be checked."
Ivory knows that voice: It is Nail of Valor….Ah, now Argon will be livid….She wonders to laugh at the colossal mistake she had made…Three attacks, in three days. Two, if the strange caster was unconsidered an attack.
Again, not that it mattered. For a moment, she catches a glimpse of Kabel, raised by an Excubitor. Gentle. She thinks…Please be gentle with him.
Despite the common darkCrown belief that excubitors are universally "Strong" men, most are not. In fact, some are women. And their strength can be as mysterious as the so-called casters. Though the latter has taken to calling this phenomenon, the infused—Author unknown.
Merrin feels a boulder against him, smashing. What was that? He knows that voice, but mentation comes to a halt. I have to move—the witnesses looked now at him. What would they think? Move mist it!
"You should be wary of the words you say in the cognitive scape!" The child-like voice said, Then there is another. A distant drumming of steps, loud, booming.
Fear grips Merrin. "Mo-"
Something smashes through the walls, wind surges, stone is scattered in bursts, and screams fill the chamber…Again. Merrin is battered by a stray stone, darkness swallowing reality for a moment. He recovers soon, finds himself sprawled on the earth, dust tiding through the vast chamber. Wails too. Heart-tightening shrieks. He is to move; nothing except the head does. Mist it!
Shadows blend in the brown-red fumes, kindlings blinking through the soot fields. He sees nothing, notes the self-pain, but is blinded to his people. A shadow flashes through the smut, towering. He perceives the nihility, yet knows the presence of something. Merrin tries to scream; pathetic rasps sound out.
Men mutter confusion within the cloud of coppery taint, like children calling out. His finger tremble, eyes seized with horror at the unseen thing. The awareness is there—he knows what happens. Cold raids him, mind imposing a false reality into this one. Bodies scattered, mangled by whatever the undermines had chosen to offer them.
Always, always, it gave trepidation, not the equanimity. Madness. All of it. Almighty forsaken. He is chained, forced to watch the carnage that enfolds ahead. Weak, as usual, to their protection. Just once, he cried within; just once, I would want to save them without cost….Continuously, I claim more deaths…Not once has it happened. I must be the curse.
A hand torches his—a woman, pale, pained, teeth clenched in apparent agony. She is blood marred across the face, clothes, crawling. Recognition flashes in memory.
The one who had given herself to be eaten!
She mouths something. A whisper at first, then she nears, belly sliding across searing earth. "sun—sun…" A gasp escapes. "sunBring." Her head falls into his palm, tired, "sunBring." She repeats, coughing blood, splattering across his. "Wake u…p"
Merrin scans her; clothes, seared off….But, down…below the chest. His eyes widen. No! There is nothing. Beneath, the pale, un-night form skin, blood spills, tendrils dangling. She should not live, not with this—pain.
Blast me!
His fingers cup her cheeks, stroking the pale, taut flesh. "Sleep now." He says, but there is resistance in her eyes. Wide, tear-filled, but defiant. "God accepts you now." The words are wrenched out.
And she accepts, smiles, lips folding in, then it opens. "Wake for them." She says with burning strength. "Stand for them. sun…sunBringer! They wait for god." Then her head slaps into his palm, dead, eyes open.
She died painfully. She died horribly. Yet another soul was lost before freedom. He screams beast-like. Damn me! Mist me! Let me die, godmistit! The words no longer frighten him. What is death? Let it come. Let it take the pain away. Solace, yes…Why? Fist clenches. Why did I survive the heaven's judgment?
Why do I always live? Merrin bites into his tongue, the stinging pain present. Why do I always have to survive?
Small feet steps before him, pallid-skinned. It bends forward, a child figure crouching, arms crossed around the patella. Red hair dripping around the head. Eyes crystal in that odd nerve-soothing way. Familiar…The bird, as it once claimed.
"You?" Merrin wheezed, stunned.
There is silence, the world estranged from his awareness. "I think the El'shadie lives too long." It says, "I think the world does not allow for the existence of something so powerful, hence it balances out its life with the dead. The old emotion: Failure."
Merrin deflects his gaze, seeking the pain, not the eye-caused serenity. "I should die then."
"Maybe…" It says, "Maybe the next one will do better. Waton did it. You could, right?"
"Yes." Merrin seals his eyes. "Let the next El'shadie take over."
A chuckle, he opens his eyes; the boy is laughing, tears streaming down. "What an IDIOT!" He shouts. "Let the El'shaidie take over? I've never seen one so stupid. Even Oravien wasn't such. Let the el'shadie take over? Failure, and this is what you do? What nonsense! You neglect the world above for this, and you allow them to die? Your soul should be placed in a hearth for that."
Merrin scowls…This thing mocks him again. Even now, it does the same. "Shut up!"
"Make me." It says, "Interestingly, no El'shadie has tolerated being this weak; you, on the other hand, accepts it like it's a mantle." It scoffs. "How long will you wear the lie so expertly?"
"I said shut up!"
"The—caster—are—the—power—of—the—almighty." It smiles. "There is no Almighty. Maybe once. But not now. There is only the symbol. What you fear is being called God. But you are. Someday at least, if you don't die." It stands. "The measure of godhood for humans is the measure of belief and pattern to it. They see it. You bear the pattern. They create it from your power, and they announce you as god, because you can be. What difference is it, in playing the early role?"
Their eyes meet, crystal to his black. "You say I should become a god?"
It smirks. "Look at how well you want it?" It says, arms folding back. "What use is there in being illusioned?" There is a sudden pause. "Ah, he comes."
Sweat trickles down Merrin's face. "Who is coming?"
And the boy is gone—erased in moments…
"Who is coming?" Merrin asks the wind, the screams, and the dust. Instead.
Sudor laces across his face, clothes drenched, throat warmed. Strange, given the froststone. Who is coming? He asks again, and the pebbles before him skip. Bouncing over the ground, stones quaking. Something comes, he knows. There is hesitation, fear, then the screeching strikes into his awareness. His people, dying.
I am a God!
He repeats inwards, hands clenching, nerves burning. I am God! He rises, panting, air thinning in fast instants. Fire into nostrils, the wind burns. Who is coming? A distracting thought, buried in the deepest awareness. Now, he stands, pained, shoulders trembling. "I am God!" He takes a step, bone screaming the halting desire. "I am God!" He breathes hard, mouth dry of moisture.
"I am God." He runs, a stagger first, then a fast burst. Into the fume of red, he jumps, tumbles past a shadow, kneels, rears both arms and calls to the wind.
It declares its presence with a massive vortex, spinning the dust into nothing but clear air. They stand around him, his people, some splattered as corpses of crunched meat. Fear-ridden. Frozen. He alone is their protector. And this he does with clarity, pained, but aware.