XVII – The Last Drop Falls

Narg hated being there. It was not the first time he had visited that place—yet he could not recall how to depart.

He felt his hands trembling and observed them covered in blood. So dark it was—and yet he could still see them.

His boots were sunk in the mire—he thought he could feel the dampness upon the soles of his feet. He was afraid to move forward. But he did.

He looked for Santiana but could not find her. He had cast aside his sword during the flight, though he could not recollect why.

The blood trickling down his forehead stung his left eye. He wiped it away with the crook of his elbow and beheld it advancing towards him.

He ran as fast as his legs would bear him. He crushed dry leaves and the clamour deafened him; he sank into the mud and his breath was failing.

The earth beneath his feet vanished. He endeavoured to keep running, but the void drew him in.

Immersed in a cosmic void, he felt his body disintegrate and merge with the darkness. The dense air that seemed to cradle him halted the friction and slowed his fall.

He alighted on his feet atop a drift of snow. Without advancing, he surveyed the region and perceived that he had never set foot therein before.

He beheld his shadow stretched at his feet and did not recognise it. With one foot forward, it showed the world the sword he did recognise—with its carved hilt—and the name Alforast stood out in his mind.

Swiftly he cast his gaze aloft and beheld them: upon the broad shoulders of the shadow that was not his sat two ravens.

The steel footsteps to his right gave him warning. He drew a deep breath and looked to the heavens, summoning his ravens, yet none appeared.

He felt his legs stiffen; fear was at length binding him in chains. Resigned to being discovered, he cast down his gaze and fixed it upon the grey silhouette outlined against the snow.

How he longed to be like Alfredo, to be that shadow weighing upon his shoulders, that crown upon his head. Then he beheld them; the ravens glowed, took shape and took flight.

With a caw, they called him to follow. He did.

They led him out into the open snow. He followed through the trees. Until a branch caught his foot and twisted his ankle.

The ravens were no longer flying overhead; they had vanished. He crawled, through the leaves, through the mud, back to where he had been.

He hid within the hollow of an old, withered tree. With his knees bent and his head buried between them, he hearkened to the heavy footsteps drawing near.

A searing sensation began to scorch his buttocks. The earth and the tree were ablaze—the smoke choked him.

He was on fire, yet he did not care. He would rather die thus than be discovered. He closed his eyes—out of fear, out of pain—and with his sweaty hand he clenched the stone he carried in his pocket.

'Narg, it is time to unleash the War Roar !'

He recognised the voice—and the meaning of those words, along with a breath of fresh air, sent a shiver through him. He peered out from the tree trunk and, amidst the wild tongues of fire, beheld it floating.

He followed it without wondering what it was or who had sent it. The orange orb, with its unsettling light, guided his path.

The unfathomable darkness that prevented him from beholding aught beyond what his spherical guide illuminated sharpened his hearing. He heard it fall.

Drop by drop, drawing ever closer—and before him, a stone cave took shape, its entrance covered in honeysuckle. He entered.

In the midst, encompassed by stones rising from the earth, a fountain. Before him, the patter of water echoed. He drew near.

Lifting his head, he gazed at the thick root piercing the ceiling—which seemed to bleed. He cupped his hand beneath the flow.

From the wound in the silvery root, it took its time before falling. The last drop touched his skin—and the light blinded him.

Maed’s perfect white teeth were the first thing he beheld. He was smiling as he had never done before.

'We must go to the library,' commanded Narg.

'Kuopio, the knife. We shall have to pay for it.'