The crowd parted around the death mage in much the same way that a school of fish parts around a shark, or some other loathsome predator. It was fluid, an unconscious movement driven by the same primal urge as breathing. No one needed to be told, there was simply no doubt humanly possible. One single touch would be the end.
His stride was purposeful, nearly mechanical, radiating a cold impartiality, a lack of humanity, a hole where a person ought to be. He came to a stop in the center of the opening, in the shadow of the inn, patiently. A single leather glove, the left glove, dropped to the dusty ground. An unnatural quiet spread through the crowd.
His opponent stepped down from the inn, wrapped from the soles of his feet to the crown of his head with sheets of dense fabric, a common, practical defense against a death mage. He faced the mage, slowly walking forward, until their faces were close enough to make out the wind-scorched dappling on the mage’s face.
For a moment, silence reigned.
Then, while staring down the death mage from within the darkness of the fabric, he tugged a fold, and the thick, heavy material began to fall, revealing a lanky build and long legs. The morning sun glinted off dark hair and well tanned form. The most interesting detail, for the growing crowd, at any rate, were his dichromatic eyes. One was vivid emerald green, the other a deep black, the ripples in the iris invisible to all but the closest inspections. Only Ivathirri had such eyes.
The swathes of fabric hit the ground, leaving the vast majority of his skin exposed to the mage’s lethal touch. The silence was broken by a sharp inhalation of shock from the surrounding crowd, shock, and deeply intensifying interest in the Ivathirri.
The two individuals stood for a moment, staring into each other’s eyes, before the mage lunged at the Ivathirri, a jagged knife aimed upwards to the gap between his opponent’s third and fourth rib. The Ivathirri swayed slightly, and the knife met only empty air. Using the brief gap left by the imbalance, he stooped casually down, retrieved the mage’s leather glove, slipped it onto his own left hand, and without looking smoothly caught his opponent’s left index finger before it touched his back.
He gave a sharp tug, over and around and the finger popped out of it’s place, eliciting the first sound the death mage made, a grunt of intense pain. Taking advantage of the moment of pain, and the imbalance from the lunge, the Ivathirri spun around, and grabbed his opponent’s head with his gloved left hand, before slamming his exposed right knee into the mage’s groin.
Javaiaqlar watched the mage crumple to the ground with a distinct lack of primal joy generally found in one who had successfully defeated a death mage, and survived to tell the tale. He executed the one last event in this future, a sharp kick to the mage's head, inflicting minor head trauma, enough to force unconsciousness, not enough to kill. Killing complicates the futures. It was dull, the simple execution of events forced by qlairavarri. The disappointingly tiny adrenaline shot from the exposure to the death mage had already subsided.
He gingerly reached into the mage’s cloak, and retrieved a tiny roll of parchment. Technically, this was the point of the battle, custody of this one tiny item.
He picked up the mound of fabric, and draped it over his shoulders, not bothering to wrap himself with any degree of care. His previous wrapping had merely been a ploy, meant to put the mage out of his mind with rage over the impudence.
As he left the crowd, he caught sight of a priest of Meridionai, an old man, a head shorter than himself. The priest had sharp eyes, bushy eyebrows, and a wiry beard. The wrinkles on his face gave a hint of kindness to a face that would otherwise be intimidatingly intense. He felt a moment of deja-vu. He had seen this priest before, on his way in, silently watching his approach to the village center. But that wasn’t the first time, he realized. The priest had been at the robbery of the archives, watching from a safe distance, and shortly after that, when he fought the mercenary band, watching from the shadows. His step missed a beat. He had a stalker. Now this, this was interesting.
He looked into the future, and saw that in five minutes his current route would have him collide with this priest and nearly trip. He checked a nearby branch, one in which he took a left, and exited by the stream on the edge of the village. In this one seven minutes from now the priest was sitting at the edge of the stream, greeting him. The branch next to it, in which he allowed himself to first be accosted for the scroll two minutes after the left turn, the priest would be sitting on a stool outside the inn, patiently waiting for him to extricate himself. He tried a more distant branch, one in which he scaled the terraced cliff on the north side of the village. In this one it was ten minutes until the priest met him, nearly out of breath from the steep climb.
He found, to his surprise and intense curiosity, that every future had a meeting with this priest, within the next half hour. Even more interesting, was that in no future did the priest speak to him, or communicate to him in any way. Why did the priest never speak?
He felt a tap at his shoulder. This was the future in which he waited and inspected the timelines to make a decision. The priest spoke.
“You are bored, my son.”
Javaiaqlar felt his mouth open, then close again. How?
The priest was watching him.
“It’s in your eyes.”
Javaiaqlar raised one irritated eyebrow.
“My eyes tell you that I am bored? Perhaps your eyes are not what they used to be, father.”
The priest chuckled.
“Bored, yes, but they tell me a good deal more then that.”
Javaiaqlar felt his other eyebrow start to rise, incredulously.
“What else do they tell you, father?”
“They tell me, my son, that this conversation is actually happening.”
There was a moment of shocked silence.
“I am sorry, my father, but I have important things to attend to, perhaps you shall catch me, some other time.”
He turned to disappear into the crowd, but the priest caught him by the arm. His grip was unusually strong and wiry for a man of his age. He leaned in, and whispered into Javaiaqlar’s ear.
“You leave, my son, and you shall remain as you are now. You are bored, existentially so, and most certainly are not happy. You are purposeless. Come with me, blindly, trustingly, and I will show you something you do not know. You need not be listless anymore.”
The priest slipped away into the crowd, leaving Javaiaqlar frozen in place. He stood there, in conflicted silence as the crowd thronged around him. Slowly, he turned in the direction the priest had left, and looked into the future. There the priest was, sitting on the edge of the stream on the east side of the village.
Seven minutes later Javaiaqlar emerged from the village, and sat beside the priest on the bank of the stream.
“Show me.”
The priest reached into his robe, and retrieved a black rectangle of fabric.
“Cover your eyes.”
Javaiaqlar held the blindfold, willing the growing frustration to die down.
“Why must I cover my eyes?”
“I will not show you if you do not cover your eyes.”
He wordlessly wrapped the cloth around his head, completely blotting out his vision. He did not need his eyes in the present. He watched the future in which he removed the blindfold, and borrowed sight from his future self.
He felt the priest’s gaze on him.
“Your eyes are not completely covered my son. You can still see.”
Javaiaclar caught the suggestion. Somehow, the old priest knew things that no other living mortal knew. Wordlessly, he withdrew from the future into the present. Blackness filled his world.
“How did you know?”
The old priest chuckled.
“It was an easy guess. Another man would have been far more reluctant to cover his outward eyes. Now walk.”
“Where are you taking me?” Javaiaqlar asked.
“You will know when we arrive.” The priest said.
“I could just walk away.” Javaiaqlar said.
“You won’t.” The priest answered.
They walked. At some point they fell into conversation, about the death of Vathaialar.
The painful, slow etching away of the empire’s strength.
The suffering wrought upon the priest’s flock.
Javaiaqlar talked carefully, evading the details of the causal role he had played in such events.
Occasionally Javaiaqlar would peer into the future, but in every timeline the priest would eventually lead him back to the village, remove the blindfold, and walk away wordlessly. It was pointless. Either way, he could feel the priest’s glance, and knew his cheating was known.
Slowly the heat of the sun succumbed to the evening mist, and he could feel the shadows of twilight fall on his skin, even if his eyes could not. His curiosity had been growing all the while, into a delicious desire, strong enough to begin to penetrate his boredom. The feeling of not knowing, of uncertainty, was like an old friend he had not met in many years. Still the priest talked on, outlining the struggles brought on by empire wide economic collapse, heartbroken for the suffering of those under his care. Javaiaqlar felt glad for the priest’s ignorance.
Little does he know, he thought.
Some time later, long enough that Javaiaqlar felt sure the priest could not possibly see more then he could, the priest’s footsteps ahead changed, first from grass to dirt, then from dirt to wood, ascending in front of him and Javaiaqlar felt himself climbing a short flight of stairs.
A pair of hands reached for the cloth wrapped around his head, and it fell away, although at first, he could hardly tell the difference. Then a lamp was lit, and the humble interior of a small cabin came into view, with the priest just sitting down on a small chair, lamp set on an ancient table. The cabin was just large enough to narrowly avoid claustrophobia, but easily small enough to be cozy, clearly the dwelling of one individual.
In one corner sat a bed roll, just out of the ember radius of a small stone stove. In the adjacent corner a large bench sat out from the wall, with several small carved figures, a selection of carving knifes, and various dried foodstuffs.
The priest gestured to a chair, and wordlessly got up. He pulled some food from the shelves, shelves that were rather empty before the pillaging, and after looked positively sad. He set the plate down before Javaiaqlar, along with a clay mug and sat across from him, nibbling hungrily on a chunk of bread. Javaiaqlar wordlessly set into his food, consisting of a well cured sausage, an onion, some cheese, and a biscuit, wordlessly marveling at the priest’s generosity. They had walked for well over half a day, and the priest was already finishing his meal, a single piece of bread.
He eventually finished, satiated, and looked at the priest, momentarily distracted with the lamp. The priest’s eyes shone with the intensity of an active mind. They flicked to Javaiaqlar, and he involuntarily dropped his own.
“How many people have seen you, my son?”
The question hung in the air.
“Thousands, Father. That was a large crowd.”
Javaiaqlar felt the priest’s eyes on his own, and felt that perhaps he had been less then honest, and curiously, a taste of guilt, as if he owed this man his honesty.
The priest watched him for a moment, before deciding on grace, and elaborating.
“My son, they saw your face. In your long life, how many saw you?”, As he said the last word, a small, sad smile pulled at the corners of his eyes. “How many people have seen you?”
Once again, there was a poignant moment of silence.
Very few Father.”
The priest sighed.
“You wonder how I am able to match you, when I am a mundane mortal. It’s simple really. I see you. Your eyes. Your risks. Your exploits. Like a constellation, or the points of a crystal. I can see the cracks, and seams, where you’ve broken, and re-healed, where parts of you have slipped over each other, or been lost entirely. So few take the time to understand the people they touch.”
“You say you see me, Father. What am I searching for?”
“You are looking for knowledge. You hunt for the joy and exhilaration of seeing what you did not see, my son, but that is not what you are searching for.”
“I think it is Father. What else could it be?”
“Let’s say, that at some time, you have found every piece of information you now seek. You have obtained power unheard of. What then?”
Jvaiaqlar did not respond. He did not want to respond. The same sad smile pulled at the priest’s eyes, softening his intensity.
“Let me tell you a story.”
Javaiaqlar glanced at the priest’s face, and was surprised to see compassion mingling with the focus in his eyes.
“Once, my son, nearly forty years ago, when I was a much younger man than I am now, a great tragedy struck my people, as it did all people in the empire.”
Javaiaqlar nodded. The Eve of Araverium. Few could forget it, much less him. He struggled to keep his expression neutral.
“The Occthirri, responsible so long for order, turned on the people in blind shaking rage, and slaughtered many. They wounded many more. I held dear friends as the light faded from their eyes, and felt the flame of anger spark at the devastation. In the days and years that followed, as we rebuilt our lives, that anger and resentment cooled into purpose.”
Javaiaqlar noticed that the priest had picked up the knife he had been using for sausage, and was now turning it over.
“I studied the Eve of Araverium, curious as to the cause, and in places I shouldn’t have been I heard rumors of a man, a culprit. I had someone to project my pain and anger on.”
The priest was standing now, and Javaiaqlar found he did not like the current arrangement. He looked into the future, and found that every future the priest immediately lunged with the knife, and was not able to be evaded. He felt real, cold, fear now, like a mortal enemy one had long forgotten.
The priest gave a sad chuckle, and sank back down into his chair. He slid the knife to Javaiaqlar.
“But as the years past, my son, I grew wiser. Justice is cold and exacting. But it is weak. And it is simple. I have found great forgiveness at the hands of those I have slighted, and mended relationships I thought to be irreparable. I have found that the greater reality of mercy to be far more beautiful and powerful.”
Here he met Javaiaqlar’s eyes.
“And the reality altering power of mercy is proportional to the evil deserving of justice, my son.”
Javaiaqlar dropped his eyes.
“There’s not much point in me pretending any further, is there?”
The priest shook his head.
They sat for a moment.
“You said I was searching for something, Father. What was that?”
“I’m not sure. It could be purpose. It could be absolution.”
Javaiaqlar could feel the priest’s eyes on him, silently waiting.
“I’m sorry.” He said at last. “For the pain and death. I didn’t know how bad it would be.”
“Javaiaqlar.”
He looked up into the priest’s eyes. The sad smile now sat comfortably in the wrinkles of his face.
“I forgive you.”
An hour later the priest put out the lamp, and both slept, on opposite sides of the stove. The priest had offered the bed roll, but Javaiaqlar had insisted that the priest take it.
In the morning, as Javaiaqlar prepared to leave, the priest had one last thing to say. He recounted his time seeking the secrets which lead him to Javaiaqlar, and about a crucial discovery he had made.
“You are forgiven my son, and need not earn mercy. However, if you desire to serve the people you have hurt, some goal to throw yourself into, I have a piece of information for you.”
Javaiaqlar looked at him, one eyebrow raised.
“There is a war coming my son. I do not know when. It is not soon. But when it comes, there will be a great need for some form of Light.”
The priest pulled out a small parchment scroll.
“It would not be easy.” He said. “But it may be that you are the one to create it.”
Javaiaqlar accepted the scroll.
“I’ll take a look” he said.