by Marc Mulero
“No different than any other place you go, is it? That’s what happens when you’re cooped up in Ombes and Elesion most of your life.” She grinned. “You’ll get there… you’ll get the answers you’re looking for.”
“Says the girl stowed away in Verglas,” he murmured.
“Hmm?”
“Nothing.”
Eres’ eyes brightened when he realized something. “Wait a second… Mudry… both of you, actually, did you sculpt for my fata?”
They peered sideways at one another.
“Course,” Kyta spoke. “Mudry is much older than he looks.”
“Can you take me to see it?”
Before he could even finish his sentence, his wrist was wrapped by Kyta’s hand and two large palms were flat on his back.
“One of most proud works,” Mudry spoke into his ear. “Agden hug me like you does. Feel warm.”
Eres looked back at him while being dragged along the winding alley.
“Father like, son like.”
“I don’t think that’s how the expression goes, Mudry.”
Deeper they went, to more profound blues, bright whites, where pinholes of light shined through from far far above. It was like a maze in the arctic, passing incredible works along the way. Soldiers clashing in mid-air, the details in their screaming faces so intricate that it appeared they were real people frozen over. Another one of a man on top of a mountain, smiling, holding a flag. Some great explorer, Eres figured.
Mudry stopped here and there, to pick at his works, to make sure the porum gel still held. He would take out a miniature pick and hammer and dig faster than Eres thought was possible, to perfect, restore.
This place is full of surprises.
“Ah, here we are,” were the last words Eres heard. Everything else went in one ear and out the other for the next minute. The image was breathtaking. Agden, his father, was younger and brighter in appearance… he was happy looking down on his child, his large hand covering Eres’ tiny one. And on the opposite side stood his mother, Miyannas. She was beautiful – smile radiant, soothing and perfect. She held his other hand, and a young Eres was looking up at her adoringly. His eyes were full of wonder, of innocence, because nothing had tainted them yet. His features were even more delicate – he appeared more feminine back then. He could understand in this sculpture why Lorfa would always scold Agden for calling Eres a boy.
His hand tingled like he was reliving the moment. But what caused the tears was something infinitely more painful, that even though his eyes must’ve focused on her in that point of time, he had no memory of it – he just couldn’t quite remember this moment no matter how hard he tried in that giant brain of his. It hurt. He wanted it. Needed it. To feel whole.
He wiped the wetness from his eyes and nose, blinked hard to come back, and sighed audibly.
“Powerful, isn’t it? It strikes me and I’m not even the one who lived it.” Kyta jostled Eres’ shoulder for support. “I should’ve warned you… but I’m glad I didn’t. Mine was the same for me.”
“Yours, huh?” He tried to change the subject. “That’s something I’d like to see.”
“Kyta’s sad. No can transform. Very sa- Ow!”
She had slapped Mudry in the belly. “Tsst,” she hissed for him to be quiet.
“Ah, a Dagos who can’t run on all fours,” Eres pondered. “Like a boy with no…”
Mudry laughed gawkily.
“So…” Eres reeled it back. “You guys knew my fata well, huh?”
“Great man. Of full life. Always hug and laugh. Me miss.” Mudry frowned. “Storm in Gushda when he pass. Two worlds cried.”
Eres tried to mask his reaction to Mudry’s powerful last statement, then fell into his usual resentment.
Everyone knew my fata, got to spend time with him, learn from him. Ilfrid, Ooma, Wudon, the Judicator, even Mudry. Everyone but me.
He shook his head and took a step back.
There I go sulking again like a child. Snap out of it, stupid… you have to grow up. You think Seren will wait for you to figure your shit out? I think not, so stop wallowing in despair.
He froze abruptly like one of Mudry’s sculptures, like someone would hear his thoughts if he moved.
Of course… how could I be so dumb?
“Guys…” his tone darkened, “you knew Seren before all of this madness, didn’t you? He was a Skrol once, introduced to the UnderSpire. Mudry, you sculpted for him, yes?”
Another sideways glance.
Mudry’s eyes were still on Kyta. “Y-yes.”
“Take me to it,” he demanded. “I must see.”
The trip further down this seemingly endless path was less hurried then the last. There was no excitement here. It felt like shame, maybe. Well of course, why wouldn’t there be? The UnderSpire trained Skrols, trained Seren to be one, and they were all gone because of him.
An eye into Gushda, he thought. An eye into what Seren Night sees.
“Eres… this work caused Mudry a great deal of pain,” Kyta spoke lowly.
“Does still,” Mudry said, bashful.
“Because of what he’s done?” Eres thought he was asking an obvious question.
Mudry shook his head.
Kyta looked back at Mudry for permission to speak of it, who then nudged his head forward like a dog.
“Mudry thought he got sick when he touched Seren. From just a handshake, way back when. He said that he’d never felt someone so closed off from the Eternal World, like he had no place in it… to see into his past was like seeing an unwanted guest in a house. A burglar in Gushda.”
Eres wasn’t surprised by this at all. Actually, quite the opposite. It connected with him on a very deep level, for he had his own bizarre experience with Seren, there, in Gushda. Trying to phase into him, to learn of him, proved to be exactly what Mudry was describing. Like bouncing off of a brick wall when everyone else was as fluid as water. It didn’t make any sense… it was unlike anything he’d experienced in his years exploring the Eternal. The memory collapse. All of it was foreign. What did it mean?
“Surely there must have been others like him. Not everyone could be pure of heart, or whatever it is that makes your sculpting experiences pleasant.” He glanced between the two for some kind of validation.
“Is true. Others, yes.”
“The Dark esper,” Eres said, “doesn’t it contain access to all of the bad that files into Gushda? Perhaps that’s where his memories belong?”
“We’ve had many discussions about this - Ramillion, Mudry, and I.
“I was still new when they showed up for the first time, but I do remember Ramillion having an incredible amount of faith in Seren, Wukaldred and Agden, despite the signs… the potential pitfalls. He believed that the three of them, great and different as they were, would carry the Skrols generations ahead safely, secretively, despite their differences.”
“But wait a second. In one of my fata’s memories, he said it was a shame that the ‘Ostara’ was handed down to Seren. In Umboro, Ostara translates to light, like new spring after winter. If Seren was known to have ‘signs,’ then why would he be given that, and not the Dark esper?”
Just then, Eres noticed the tapping of light footsteps coming from the other way, toward them.
“Dumos and Ostara are inverses, counterparts, great and terrible espers,” the voice declared.
Eres knew the sound, but not the tone. It was Ramillion, only serious?
“Burdens, Eres, to be taken only by those who can. And it is my job to help guide lineages to their decisions.” Ramillion appeared, hands behind his back in a new snowy white robe with voluminous sleeves, head tilted toward the floor, crystalized layers of hair fanned back like a wave frozen in time.
“Seren needed the light, and Wukaldred could handle the dark.”
“And my fata?”
“Agden, heh, that man needed nothing that we could give him.”
Eres tried to decipher those words. Is he refer
ring to a life with his family?
“His Reach was legendary, as I’m sure you’re now aware. To split espers was to have the gift of the Founder himself, tapped by the All-Mother, chosen by fate.”
Eres didn’t know why, exactly, but this angered him greatly. “Why, then… would he sacrifice himself so I could have his esper? I have no Reach, no real understanding of the Skrol ways, nothing to offer any of you. Wh-”
Ramillion sighed. “You know this answer.”
“Perhaps I do. But I want to hear it from you.”
“What Ilfrid told you is true. The Skrols were indeed backed into a corner, out of options.”
Eres scoffed. “He should have turned to fight, then.”
“Your father did not believe that to be the way. A powerful man, yes. But devout to the Skrol ways, also yes.” Ramillion nodded slowly, convincing himself. “A warrior’s journey is not always to act as a warrior.”
Eres had every intention of apologizing to this Kujin the next time they’d met, to take a lighter approach to this whole experience, but upon seeing Ramillion again, he could do no such thing. There were too many disconnections within the logic. If they had a thousand generations of a working system then why, why at the brink of losing it all, would he be calm?
“You want to explode, Eres. So many unresolved issues. So many questions. To live in a tornado like that would be to exercise chaos in Rudo. Perhaps you should be next to inherit Ostara.” Ramillion peered at the Dawn, knowing he likely hit a nerve.
Eres took a deep breath and, instead of lashing out, took a different approach. “Mudry,” he said in the calmest voice he could muster, “I’d very much like to see the sculpture now.”
Mudry gulped and motioned delicately to follow him.
“If you could only attempt to slow the storm within you, Eres, so much would become clear.” Ramillion paced beside them now. “Even your father, potentially the most stubborn and conflicted man I’d ever met, learned to laugh with us.”
“Here is!” Mudry presented his profound work, arms extended, frown deepened.
A delicate looking boy sat up against a rock, holding his knees, barefoot, naked but for a ragged cloth caught mid-sway in what seemed to be violent wind. The sculpture would’ve been small if it were of just the boy, but it was the captured dust storm that made it vast. Sheets of sand were high above him, slashing his body in half from a frontal view… it looked as chaotic as Ramillion describing Eres. But there was beauty in the intricacy - all of the tornado-like sand-speckled winds were connected so thinly together that they appeared to be floating in mid-air. A work of art made out of a single glacier.
Once the awe wore off, Eres realized something: He’d seen this setting before. Not in his esper… somewhere else. In class while at Kor Vinsánce. Proctor Vasa had shown them a rendition of this place long ago when explaining Ovar Octanious’ legacy.
“Why was Seren Night in the brutal winds of Okabin?”
“Ahh,” Ramillion approved, “you know your geography. Fantastic.”
“Spare me.”
Ramillion sighed. “Very well… this is where Seren’s parents left him to die.”
“Sacrifice,” Mudry’s frown was still apparent, “parents thought cursed. Do something wrong, so give child back to Ingora to make up for sins.”
“You saw all of this with one touch, Mudry?”
He nodded.
“W-why did the parents think themselves cursed? Were they mad?”
Mudry shrugged, looking slightly more disturbed the more Eres prodded.
“This is very painful for him, Eres,” Kyta reminded, rubbing the big man’s back, widening her eyes so Eres would get the hint.
“I see,” he said lowly. “I’d like to stay here for a while to understand this work. Sorry, Mudry, for making you relive something difficult. I’ll catch up with you guys later and make it up to you, okay?” He smiled weakly.
Kyta relaxed a bit, happy that Eres took the hint. “Meet you in Coldness’ throne room later.” She winked.
Mudry’s eyes perked up. “You for fire chambers, Eres.”
“Yes,” Eres said, “you can burn me all you want later.”
Ramillion motioned for them to go and they did.
“A talent seen once in a hundred generations.” Ramillion stepped up beside Eres to share the view, both of their heads cocked back to admire a whipping wind somehow captured through ice.
“So that’s how old you are.”
Ramillion hooted. “A blessing like that would put me on par with the Founder himself. No, my boy, but I am old. Not by design, but still. I am.”
Eres turned sharply away from the work, his mind racing. “It’s true then, what I read. Even though you were trying to steer me away from it. Ooganie Prince was on to something when she was studying your kind.”
“Oh Eres,” he shuddered, “don’t you find discovery to be so… rigid, when procured by another’s thoughts? Don’t look at me like that. I know, I know, you would say: ‘How would I learn anything at all if not through another’s teachings or works,’ and then I would say, ‘You, my boy, are missing the point.’”
Eres blew air from his lips like a horse. It’s too early for this. And so he inched forward, ducked under what appeared to be a delicate sand sheet - held up only by a thin icicle – and found himself closer to the child version of Seren Night.
“No need to be delicate. Porum gel preserves and strengthens on an exponential level.” Ramillion jumped to hang on the same sheet, earning a gasp from Eres.
He hung there, giggling to himself, flat, pale belly exposed. “See? Our artist takes great care.”
Eres couldn’t deal with the goofiness. It almost made him smirk, but still, he held back. “Clown,” was all he could mutter.
Ramillion let himself go and ducked to catch up. “At times,” he agreed, smiling. “You know, Eres, the winds in Okabin are said to be like clouds swaying past in the night. Dark, ominous, and-”
“A good place for something never to be found again.”
“Yes, right! Imagine all the treasure we could find there, if only we had the guts.”
“I’m sure this devil sitting right here found plenty since he survived it. I wonder how many Skrols he murdered in those winds.”
Ram clicked his tongue. “The boy didn’t start out treacherous, Eres. I mean… look at him, poor soul. He was abandoned. Can you only see what he has become? What about his beginnings? Does the present blind you to the past?” He considered Eres’ reaction. “Hmph. I certainly hope not. Origins are so important, so critical to what we are now.”
He bent down to touch the sculptured boy’s face, tracing the expression of fear. “I wonder, would you have had the courage to do all that you did in saving Kor Vinsánce, in your travels to me, had you not seen your father flying within storms, or Herim cutting through terrorists? Was it always in you, Eres? Was it always in him?” He gestured to Seren. “Or perhaps he was pushed into destroying the Skrols by fate itself.”
Eres plopped down and crossed his legs to be eye level with the sculpted boy. “I don’t buy it. At a certain point, choices are made. Intelligent ones – backed with accountability. I know because I made them myself. To take another life, even a justified killing. It still weighs, it’s still mine.”
“Ohh,” Ramillion goaded. “Look into those eyes, Eres. Look at the fear…”
They did, together, two frozen orbs staring forward at nothing because in reality, when this event occurred, there was nothing to see but whizzing black clouds.
“That’s not fear,” Eres remarked, catching Ram’s grin in his peripheral.
“Hm? Then what?”
“That’s pain. Betrayal.”
“Oh. You know of it?”
“In some sense.”
“And what did you do when you were… betrayed?”
He thought back to Kor - when he thought Windel blabbed about his impeller, how he shunned her, felt the need to ask himself a milli
on questions. Why did he trust her? What was the point?
“I reacted.”
“Hmm, in kind?”
“I guess you could say that.” Eres kept his gaze on Seren, studying him with half of his attention. “I didn’t respond with the same action but with something equally as damaging, I think.”
Ram nodded and plopped next to Eres. “How old would you say Seren is, here?”
“About the age I was when I started Kor.”
“Now what if your father - albeit mostly absent but still loving - and your ooma, were one day told by Dagos mystics that they were cursed and the only way to lift it was to sacrifice what they loved most? What if they sent you to Okabin, no, brought you there themselves? Kissed your forehead, untied you and let you free… to die. And,” he held up a finger, “since you know this man still has life in him, I’m not spoiling anything by telling you he got out of this mess. And!” he lifted his finger higher, “when Seren returned to respond in kind, like you once did, his parents were already long gone.
“Tell me Eres, what happens when you are cheated of everything and you have no one left on which to take your revenge?”
Eres tilted his head slightly, considering the boy in a different light. “I… don’t know.”
“Well, what would you have done?”
“I suppose carry that weight around with me.”
“Ahh yes. Yes. You are right. And now, I think you can see why Seren needed the Light.”
There it was again. That disconnection of logic. It had been festering within Eres since Elesion, since Kor, since he was staring up at the sky back in his chair, back in Ombes. Inheritance. How did it work? He’d read a hundred books, asked a thousand times in different ways, and never got a straight answer. It was to the point that he was scared to ask for fear of overflowing his mind with more disinformation. But this was Ramillion, ancient trainer of the Skrols, prescribed by the Judicator, and although it may have come in a riddle, he needed the perspective, otherwise he’d be slapping himself until the end of time if he ever got out of there.
“You say Seren needed the light. But that’s not really the point of all this, is it? It seems everyone keeps swaying me away from what’s really important here.”
