The horrors she had seen, the dreams that had plagued her, a nightmare after another. What was the difference between the waking moments and those spent in deep slumber? All was colored the same either way.
Roslyn had led her people to safety, yet lost so many along the way, along the King's Highway. She had seen it happen more times than she would want to remember. How the dark mist came down, how it took the shape of a man, how it reached for those who ran as fast as they could. How darkness claimed them. Clothes, things of the material world scathed away, as if only the body was burned and all else was left untouched by the fires.
In Jersten, among them were those she knew by name. Though many were people she had never had the chance to meet, to know. All that they'd be now were names on paper, left behind in Jersten, much like their lives, nothing more than memories held by others, or a now-lifeless house, left in the shadow of the black mist. At least some of them she had known by name.
Then there were those from Aucklyn. The kind people, who accepted the folk of Jersten into their homes, even when said refugees would claim every building so as to sleep at night. Even when they'd make lives of those in Aucklyn more difficult by their sheer existence, as the food they ate, the wood they burned for warmth, it was all collected and grown by the people of Aucklyn. And now, even Aucklyn was claimed by that same black mist. How they must now curse and blame the poor refugee from Jersten for bringing them such folly, for how else would the mist know where to go, if not for following the refugees down the King's Highway?
Along the way, there in Jersten, there on the road down, there in Aucklyn, there on the road west to Atarkan, but not yet here. Hopefully, never here shall the black mist collect itself like miasma and remove life.
Roslyn shivered at her own memories. She'd never be rid of them. They must have been the reason why her dreams had become so hellish. It was just a reflection of reality, and nothing more. Whatever Angel spoke to her must have been her despair, warning her of the unknown, of time itself that would push forth without a care for whatever torment an insignificant creature like Man could go through.
As silently as she could, Roslyn got up from her bed, stepping past her parents' bed. The Priesthood had been gracious enough to provide shelter for the refugees in temporary housing, mostly in taverns and inns near the Academy itself. Though Roslyn would've been entitled to have a room in the Academy, she refused it, wanting to stay with her parents. To look after them, especially her father.
As she stepped by, she couldn't help but glance at their faces. They'd gotten so old, it felt like. Especially her father. He looked like an old man, even though he was only in his fifties. His wrinkled face showed a man who had lived a hard life. His hair had gone fully gray, and even his beard had become so. Her mother didn't seem as old. Her hair was still mostly black, but on her face remained an etched expression. This... frown that you could not remove; it was there even when she smiled. If only she would smile. There just hadn't been much reason to, not for a while now.
At least Atarkan was safe, Roslyn thought to herself as she stepped out of their room, making her way down the hallway, and down the stairs, all the way to the first floor, where the tavernkeep had already begun work. He didn't seem to mind that all of his rooms were suddenly occupied. And why would he? The Priesthood paid for everything. But what he minded was the woman who now hung around her, as if some expert in all things tavern. Normally, a businessman like him would smile at the thought of having his rooms filled and rent being paid for them. But a constant frown told it all: If this woman who harps at me and around me doesn't leave me be, then I'll surely lose all my hair, and if not, then they'd turn gray in a fortnight or less. Yet, instead of harping back, he held on to his mask-like smile and poisonous expression, and nodded along, repeating, "Yes, yes, I know, I know," to Vien as if he were some saint blessed with patience beyond human comprehension.
Vien's tips and tricks must have been obvious to Jork the Tavernkeep, but as Roslyn stepped to their view, she spoke a certain nugget of wisdom, "You could hire a priest to do magic-tricks... Many years ago, I had one, and by the will of the Angels, he was like a prize horse, providing a never-ending source of income. Folks will flock in by the hundreds just to see some magic trickery!"
Jork met Roslyn's gaze; his frown had deepened, but he still managed an apologetic look. "Good morning, Priest Roslyn," he suddenly said, almost yelled, and stopped doing whatever he was up to. He almost ran to her, perhaps in search of something like safety from the blight of a woman at his heel.
Roslyn couldn't even reply, as Vien already filled the air with her greetings, "Speak of the devil, or the Angel! I have this wonderful proposal that you might find lucrative!"
Roslyn suppressed a sigh, but quickly found her wits. "I won't be performing any magic trickery for any price, not in this tavern or any, and especially not when the Academy is right around the corner. The moment they hear of a priest who sells their services, I'll surely find myself in an Inquisition cell in less than a day."
Vien frowned in turn. "But... Kanrel did..."
Roslyn scoffed. "Do I look like Kanrel to you?"
Vien eyed her from feet to the top of her head. "Not really, but..."
"Am I him?"
"Well... You might argue that--"
Roslyn lifted her hand. "I simply must reject this offer... No offense to you, Jork," she said and glanced at Jork, who seemed somewhat nervous.
"None taken! I wouldn't want to offend the Priesthood, not for any petty price," Jork managed to say, but Vien already interjected, "But you mean offense to me then, don't you, Roslyn?"
"Surely not. Did it sound like I did?" Roslyn asked and stepped toward the kitchen door, which stood around the desk where most of the service was provided. Vien nodded almost eagerly, to which Roslyn smiled as beautifully as she could and said, "Good."
Jork's frown turned to a horrified expression. "Surely you jest!"
"Of course she does, you fool," Vien said while an uncontrollable smirk appeared on her lips. "This is exactly what our priest here is like! You'd think that they're all humorless bores, but the couple I knew did have the humor, though zero appreciation toward it!" She ran after Roslyn, who had already made her way to the kitchen, but before entering, she threw a glance at the baffled tavernkeep and yelled, "You could learn a thing or two from her!"
Jork was left standing by a table which still had its chairs on top of it. He ruffled his dirt-colored hair out of anxious annoyance and continued lifting the chairs down, while muttering something about the eccentricities of northern folk.
- - - - -
The kitchen was what one would expect. A somewhat small space with only the most essential equipment. A stove, near which the tavern's cook was already preparing a large pot of porridge for all to enjoy as their breakfast, paired with yesterday's dark, rye bread. The cook stood by the stove and suppressed a yawn as she stirred the porridge thickened with oats. She muttered a quick "Good morning" to the two invaders of her kitchen the moment she noticed them, yet her expression remained the same; the two women could do as they pleased, and she wasn't going to say a thing about it. The cook was the tavernkeep's wife, a plump lady a few years younger than her husband.
Roslyn found herself a teapot she had used the morning before; she filled it with water, invoking the codes to bring it to a simmer, then sprinkled in the tealeaves. At that moment, someone leaned over her shoulder and whispered, "Add a little more, or else it'll taste like nothing; just lame tea."
Roslyn peered at Vien, who, with a smirk, leaned away. At least Vien knew not to bother the cook with her endless commentary on the most menial of things. Roslyn scoffed and placed more tea leaves inside, then she placed it on a flat, sturdy-looking table. She peered into the teapot and slowly brought the water to a simmer, then let it boil.
"And you said that you don't do magic trickery," Vien muttered.
"No, I said that I wouldn't perform it for any price."
Vien stepped closer. "Then... you're saying that you'd partake in monetized magic trickery for as long as you yourself don't get paid?"
Roslyn simply scoffed and tried to ignore her. She kept her eyes on the teapot and its boiling water, trying to eyeball the correct shade for tea.
"How do you even do that?"
"Do what?"
"Boil water by just staring at it."
"Oh..." Roslyn furrowed her brows, then tried to explain, "I suppose I just imagine that it does so, though with a few more steps between."
Vien thought about it for a while. "And you couldn't just imagine the mist away?"
Roslyn shook her head. "Our powers, well, at least my powers, seem useless against it. Though why that is, I'm not sure. But if I had to make a guess, I'd suppose that whatever that mist is, it's something beyond magic itself. Perhaps something that cannot be altered with it. Usually, magic is like that. It has to be something that can be observed, something that you know the properties of, something that you know can do the thing that you want it to do."
"Whatever the mist is, it is something that doesn't satisfy one or more of these qualifications for magic to have an effect on it," Roslyn explained, then glanced at Vien, who instead stared at the ceiling, perhaps not understanding a word, or not having listened to even a moment of her. Roslyn couldn't help but scoff and returned her gaze to the teapot.
A few moments of human silence went by before Vien spoke again. "You know, you aren't that good at saying things in a way that a layman could understand them."
Roslyn didn't need to even glance at her to see the smirk on Vien's face. "Magic isn't meant to be understood by laymen."
"Sure, but if it were, then there wouldn't be so many people afraid of it or the priests because of it, right?"
Roslyn shrugged and stopped boiling the water as it had turned to a pleasant reddish hue. She couldn't tell if it would taste right, but it at least looked right. She grabbed the pot by the handle and found a couple of cups, as well as a loaf of bread and a chunk of cheese. Before leaving the kitchen, she thanked the cook, who offered a smile in return. Vien ran after her, up the stairs, all the way to Roslyn's room, where her parents were already up and dressed, her father sitting on a wooden chair, her mother staring out of the frozen window; her expression remained the same.
Without even a word, Roslyn set a table for her parents. She placed two cups on either side, poured them full with tea that looked just right, broke the bread into three pieces, and cut the cheese to be shared among the three of them. Roslyn glanced at Vien, her expression telling her to leave, but Vien instead gestured for Roslyn to step closer, so she did, and Vien whispered into her ear: "I forgot to say this, but earlier a scholar came by, he spoke something about the Herald's book; new addition, or something. I tried to pry from him what he meant, but he was too distraught to even explain; instead, he just ordered a bottle of wine from Jork and left."
Roslyn frowned and stared at the woman for a while. Vien shrugged and added, "Jork said that the man often came by, but never for ale or wine, the scholar apparently never drinks or something, doesn't even smoke. So I suppose that whatever addition there now is in the Herald's book must have been something bad..." Vien then promptly left, saying, "Enjoy your breakfast!" as if she hadn't said anything worrisome at all.
Roslyn looked at her go and held her urge to run down the stairs with her and make her way to the Academy without eating breakfast. Instead, she sighed and turned around, again faced with her parents, who now sat by the table, drinking tea and biting into the bread that she had brought with her.
"Everything okay?" her mother suddenly asked; she looked at Roslyn with worry in her eyes.
Roslyn just shook her head. "Just some priestly duties that await... but they can wait," she lied and sat down. She quickly bit into the bread before she was forced to answer another question that she preferred not to answer. The familiar taste of ash filled her from within, yet she pretended to enjoy the food. She even returned a smile to her father, who patted his daughter on the shoulder, holding a proud, wide smile on his wrinkled face. Yesterday, he had told her that he was so happy that his little girl had become a wizard. Today, he said the same. Tomorrow, he might repeat it. And each time he did, Roslyn's heart would sink an inch further; as boundless dread filled to the brim, sadness that made her not want to leave his side, nor get out of bed, nor face him, and instead remember him as he was once, years ago. How long would it take before he would forget her? Roslyn glanced at her mother, who stared at nothing. For how long had she suffered with this, all on her own?
Roslyn bit into the cheese and hoped that her tears would not pour over. But the wine was poured, the cup already spilled. If tears fell, she hid them behind her mask, much like her mother did, much like her father would, if only he could remember what he had every day since years before forgotten all over.
- - - - -
The guards who stood by the entrance to the Academy of the Heavenly stepped aside as Roslyn approached them. Their discerning eyes must have gotten used to the sight of a priest; maybe they slumped more than the average person might, or their expressions were a bit emptier than most were. Whatever was the thing that made them recognize a priest didn't matter; they stepped aside and saluted as if she were a high-ranking official in the Atarkan City Guard. She nodded as she went by, not paying much attention to them; it wasn't like they much cared for her, they were just doing their job. It was akin to a neighbor you walked by each morning on your way to work, just someone you'd always pass by, perhaps nod or say 'good morning', but never partake in anything deeper than that. What was the point, really? Although human, much like her or her parents or the rest of the people of the Kingdom, she knew, even though she had her duty as a priest, she'd mostly ignore them until there be a good-enough reason to actually pay any attention. Much more comfortable for all the other people bound to this general social contract by which, she reasoned, almost all sensible people abide.The guards wouldn't mind, not one bit; instead, they'd dream of being back home, in the embrace of a beloved, be it their wife or someone else, or shoveling food down their throats. After all, lunch must've been just around the corner.
The courtyard, and by and large the Academy itself, had always been a world of its own, a world unto itself. The things outside of it didn't much matter, not to the students nor the faculty that inhabited this smaller corner of existence to themselves. Sure, people might come and go, but even then, for those who were in the 'come' stage of being, this is all that would matter. The courtyard was all the nature one would need when on their way to the next thing they had to do. It was a dark forest, an oasis in a boundless desert past which none would exist; it was the all, if not everything. Back then, it had felt like it to Roslyn. Now, or for a while now, it was difficult to say what she felt about it. If anything at all.
Now, it was covered by a soft layer of snow; the trees wore their white gowns in silence, and the pond remained frozen. There'd be no nudists taking baths in there this time of the year, unless a novice priest decided to help with a few warming codes, then, Roslyn had heard, it could be quite pleasant even in the dead of winter. But now, students just passed by, hugging themselves in the cold of this little world of their own. She ignored them, much like the guards by the entrance. The same social contract ruled here as well. Of course, the students would greet her; all of them could tell that she was a priest, the novices wouldn't recognize her as one of their teachers, but they'd greet her either way. She made her way past the snow-covered courtyard, making her way toward the cathedral, and she wasn't the only one on her way there or returning from there.
She passed people with confused faces. With despair and what seemed like hope. Eyes that met the snowy ground and became one with it, as if they were frozen from within, as if they were lost in a boundless desert. There were novices and priests, even regular scholars, even students, who must have known a sense of curiosity at the face of this ruckus. When was the last day so many priests had gathered and made their way to the Cathedral, on a day that wasn't even the Ceremony of Vows?
On the steps to the cathedral, a priest sat, his face buried in his hands; they were so still that one could mistake them for a statue, just another believer judged by the almighty Angels around him. Other priests poured in and out. Roslyn stepped past them, as if against two currents going against one another. She went with said currents, entered the cathedral's main hall, where Angels looked from far above, from every corner of this sacred place. And far ahead, at the head of it all, the grand painting of the Herald's first meeting with the Angel made her almost choke on tears of nostalgia, or torment. She felt as though, for some reason, the time that she had had run out. The moment she had jumped off the stairway during the ritual had made all that had happened before it somehow naught. Like the time before, it had indeed been lost.
The flow of people brought her into the library, where, around a large copy of the Book of the Heralds sat upon a pedestal, a grand tome, one of the few onto which the very words of the Herald herself emerged when she wrote onto her own copy of it. One by one, priests, novices, scholars, and regular students got their turn to read what had been writ. And murmurs emerged, and those who understood what they had just read stepped aside with despair in their eyes. "The end of all things," was something she heard. "The end of time itself," another thing. "The end of all," a growing sentiment; a fear known by all.
Roslyn had no clue what was to come, but she felt it within. Nausea and anxiety mixed into one, an ebb and flow of despair, of anticipation. And when it was her turn, minutes later, she found that her legs did not want to walk forth, she found that her eyes did not want to read what was before her, her mind wished to remain in a state of not knowing. For what is scarier than having known?
Yet she ripped herself forth and soon stood before the pedestal. She leaned slightly closer and stared at the pages of the book before her. And she read:
'He who proclaimed Himself god through patricide, He who proclaimed Himself savior through deicide, He who proclaimed Himself bound by duty through genocide, He who has now freed Himself through a flower in bloom, He who enacts vengeance onto innocence, He who claims through His war that peace may arise. He has arrived; so take witness and know that this is the end.'
Her eyes trembled as her mask broke.
'And this is as far as I've seen; it is all that I have seen; all that comes after is shrouded in shadow.'
She walked away and almost collapsed against a novice who leaned against a bookshelf, his eyes set toward the ceiling. He helped her up and guided her aside. Roslyn found herself on a chair, tears running down her mask; she did not cry of grief or of reverence; she wept, for is there a thing more horrible than being set loose without a guide to give you direction and meaning? Does a faithful servant of god wish to be set free by her master, even if she is nothing more than a slave in the holy presence of their existence?
Roslyn ran her hands through her hair, again and again, almost pulling strands of it from her scalp. If only there was someone in existence who could console a priest, for not even an Angel, her gods, could do such a thing. There had only ever been the grief and the torment of having known and having felt the blessings of them. And now, there'd be only the bittered fear of the abandoned flock, freed against their will at the face of the end. Why had their Angels not descended? Why had they not saved them? Will they be saved? Will there be nothing at all?
Somewhere past her thoughts, at the entrance to the library, someone ran inside and yelled: "From the east, two figures have arrived! One of them is said to be a priest!" The yell of whoever it might have been spilt her thoughts, as if it were lightning that had so suddenly struck her. Roslyn got up and began walking, her steps weakened and flimsy, she had to support herself with the shelves around her, but soon she found her footing, strength in her legs, and she ran out of the library, past the despaired priests, out of the cathedral, past the statue-like priest, who still held his face in his hands, through the courtyard and the students that greeted her, toward the entrance to the Academy itself, and as she was to run past the guards there, she came to a sudden halt, for what she saw was a haggard man, his body thin and battered, his beard unkempt and long, his expression pained and forlorn, beside him a woman Roslyn knew. The ranger who had been sent with her commanding officer to find any survivors of the coming of the dark mist.
They stood and stared at one another. The woman, Mirai, was her name, suddenly spoke, "Priest Roslyn, your presence is required for the confirmation of this man's identity. He claims to be Kanrel Iduldian, and says that you once knew him."