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Chapter 150 - Beneath the Armor
🕑 Added 2022-04-21 15:20:02 +0000 UTCChapter 150
Beneath the Armor
Sylas sat on a cold, rough rock, snow careening from the high sky and covering the surrounding landscape in thick layers of white. There was a gourd of ale in his hand, half-drank already, and innumerable thoughts swimming in his mind. Stories were weaving, and a myriad of scenarios was being concocted by his mind every second. So, oh-so-many possibilities existed... yet only one truth.
Independent from the story of the dead was his own--he suspected that his 'summoning' still had nothing to do with the dead, actually, and that it was ultimately his own noisiness that dragged him into it in part and in the other part the sheer cosmic coincidence.
He was merely a bannerman for a future King, a man with the power of foresight through demise to remove weeds and roadblocks from the Prince's path. He was never meant to travel north, nor was he ever meant to learn magic, nor most of the things he had done, chief among which was befriending a Prophet.
The King, during their brief conversation, all but said that Sylas’ purpose was singular--bringing Valen to the throne. All else, it seemed, did not matter. And yet again, questions persisted. If Valen needed to be Crowned, why was he banished? Why the subterfuge, the shadowplays, the secrets, and the lies? After all, the man was the King--the ultimate ruler of the nation. His word was final, his writs laws. And yet, even he, in all his might and wisdom, decreed it worthy of banishing Valen into the far, frigid north, and somehow orchestrating the summoning of a man from another world, in addition to granting him the level of magic that altered the reality, over simply retiring and giving the Prince his throne.
Taking a sip, Sylas' brows furrowed. The world was a vast array of tales and stories, but he was just one man, stuck on a singular road, with few means and ways of reaching out. Everything he'd learned thus far he'd had to claw and bleed and mostly die for, in fact. And with each new revelation, it felt as though he was just on the cusps of something worldwide... but never quite touching it. Like a carrot and a stick, it felt as though the world was baiting him through cliffhangers, in a way, to continue onward.
What peeved him the most was that the explanation for it all was likely simple. His current conjecture was a fairly basic one: back before, for as long the histories went, Gods and Men had a subservient relationship--Gods likely demanded worship, possibly sacrifice, and used mankind in proxy wars and sickly games. Ever so often, they’d award individuals with strength beyond measure, ‘Championing’ them, using other people as vessels for communications, creating Prophets.
Whether by the spurring of an outside force, such as Immortals, or mankind’s innate defiance and stubbornness, a rebellion occurred. The people of Empire, probably with the help of those backchannels and possibly even some Gods who sympathized, began trying to unwind the worlds, to try and craft a veil between the two, segregating them. At the same time, from the sounds of it, ‘barbarians’--or likely just nomadic tribes that have been hunted down by the Empire over the course of history--united and marched, using the opportunity where the Empire was weakened.
It is entirely possible that the ‘barbarians’ didn’t destroy everything to cover their shame, but likely as an exercise of vengeance. Then again, they might have realized the ‘sin’ of the Empire and did all in their power to distance themselves from it. Some remnants of the Empire survived, and even continued to thrive in the newfound Kingdoms, and from the sounds of it, even a few Champions lived on, likely acting as watchers if anyone gets inspired to create a new Cairn.
Then again, it was all just one possibility. Any change, even something as simple as 'barbarians' being just normal citizens of the Empire who didn't like that their leaders were warring against the Gods, entirely shifts the story and changes many of its aspects.
The grit of it all, Sylas suspected, however, was the frame he envisioned--a war to end all wars, as famously declared. But then the question came... what the hell was he doing here? He was beyond certain that he was not summoned by Gods in any capacity. The differences between how Ryne and Asha operated versus how he ‘communicated’ with his ‘overlords’ were simply too different.
One thing about his experiences in this world stood out the most--the fact that he interacted with the crow and the doe. Not just interacted, but they directly spoke to him. He didn't think they in specific summoned him, but it was entirely possible that it was some other Immortals. After all, from what he knew, no other entity had the magic of such magnitude at its disposal. Certainly not enough to waste it on summoning him of all people and granting him effective immortality.
There was also that key aspect--immortality. Even Gods, according to what he was told several times, could die. Be that from wounds or old age was fairly irrelevant. They were not immortal. And yet, he was--in a way, at least.
He’d tried finding information on the Immortals and Gods, specifically those believed to have the power over ‘time and space’ and such. However, there was nothing. Whatever information existed was incredibly vague and clearly just one of those ‘we don’t get it, so let’s just make up something’ scenarios.
Yet, that felt like a solitary, possible explanation for him, specifically. All else notwithstanding, as it could just as well be just a fantasy version of an Empire being eaten from within and without, he was the grandstanding anomaly. An unlikely brood, and a variable in the equation that made every mathematician assign him a very specific number just to do away with him.
But life wasn’t an equation, and it wasn’t the land of hypotheticals. Whoever ushered him here, and whoever wrought upon him the magic of immortality, had to have those gifts themselves. Just as the ugly man who’d only ever seen himself in the mirror cannot sculpt beauty, a mortal, frail, and timed creature cannot grant immortality, wants notwithstanding.
That he was asked not to question it, that he was expected not to pursue it... somewhat angered him. To ignore his own visage was a selfless act that he’d never undertake. Even if he was of the singular mind to put Valen on the throne and hopefully be granted ‘retirement’, he was very much keen on learning his own circumstances, the means and ways which led him from the single-bedroom apartment infested with cockroaches and ants to here, to the bloodied immortality.
“You vanished,” a quaint voice called out to him, causing him to slip out of his thoughts and face back. She stood barefoot in the snow, her visage downtrodden, her white hair whipping in the gentle wind. “I looked for you everywhere.” She repeated, her voice uncertain. The look in her eyes invoked guilt within Sylas for a moment before he forcibly dispelled it. He couldn’t have let her see him like that.
“I had to go do something,” he said.
“Something awful, I imagine, if you left me behind,” she read through him, staying her distance.
“... aye, something awful,” he ascertained.
“Did it help, at least?” she quizzed.
“Marginally,” Sylas replied with a sigh.
“I thought you were doing better.”
“I am. Of course I am.”
“I thought you put it behind you.”
“I’ve learned new things,” he tried to steer the conversation.
“But you’re just walking in place, Sylas,” she ignored him. “You tell us, tell me what we want to hear. You sweeten our ears and our eyes with pretty words and smiles, but they mean nothing.”
“...” Sylas remained silent for a moment. Though he despised the utterance of ‘they wouldn’t understand’, in this case, they truly wouldn’t. And he had no desire whatsoever to share what he actually did, even if he had ‘it didn’t actually happen’ excuse. “Men don’t change in leaps, Asha,” he said. “We don’t bound bridges when a pretty little thing kisses us.”
“...”
“Certain things, even with all the love and support in the world, stay with us, root and ferment with us, and die with us. We get better, we become happier, but it’s a journey, not a turn of the page. Some get better by talking, venting the truths of their souls. I’m not like that.”
“What are you like, then?” she asked. “ A liar?”
“Yes,” he replied. “I lie and I fake and I cheat and I hide things from the people I care for. I do not want my words to undo your smiles. What am I like, you ask? Mad, in many ways. Mad and angry. But you need not see those parts of me.”
“I want--”
“I don't want you to see them," he interrupted. "I... I like the way you see me, Asha. I like the way people in the castle see me. Silver-tongued, funny, broad-backed man with many means and ways. I like when Ryne looks up to me with this wonder in her eyes, the spitfire respect of a teenager toward an adult. I like when Valen poses a question and then stealthily glances at me, as though I'm the only man with answers. I am selfish for those things, for those moments when the world around me looks at me and sees this... this good thing. This man that inspires them. And day after day, I fight to truly be that man. I fight with the world and myself to keep the whispers at bay so that each day I can smile and be who they want and expect me to be. It doesn't mean I'm ignoring myself," he added with a faint smile. "Merely that I'm using you guys as my strength in the time of need. Sometimes... sometimes though, that strength fails. And I don't want anyone to see me when it does. I don't want to break the illusion, as it were."
“You’re a strange man, Sylas,” she said, walking forward and stopping by the stone, looking up at him with a faintly smiling expression. “But for all your street wisdom, as you call it, you fail to realize why people like you. It is not your silver tongue, nor your vaguely juvenile humor. It is because we get to see the man beneath the armor,” she pulled him down by his legs, forcing him to stand in front of her, and placing her hand against his chest. “Beneath all the bravado, beneath all the anger at the world and himself. And that man is good. He cares, he loves, and he fights for those who would otherwise be shieldless. We like that man, Sylas. Someone who would stay and defend the castle for countless, heartbreaking lifetimes instead of simply walking away.”
“...”
“I know you are angry,” she added, leaning her head against his chest, as though to listen to his heart. “But I don’t mind that anger. Of course you are angry. Everyone is, Sylas, including me. We are only human, after all,” she pulled back. “Reigned and ruled by such primitive things. We may build high towers and palaces and castles and we may spread as far as the sun casts its light, but the simple truth is that... we always surrender to something primal. Fear, loathing, love, anger, sadness, apathy. But I understand,” she added, widening her smile. “Men need their ‘me hours’, they say, apart from the world. I’m no longer that naive girl you met in the frosted fjords,” she chuckled as she spun around and began walking away, tossing her head back for a moment and shooting the last sentence at him. “I am a naive woman now, and I shall have my respect!”
“...” Sylas stayed silent for a moment before cracking out into laughter, shaking his head as she walked away through the naked trees and toward the castle. There was something cathartic about him being lectured so nakedly in the reflective woods, with no canopy to alter the shame. He didn’t linger long on it, however, his mind swiftly drifting back to the questions of the Kingdom, of the dead, and of him and the things that brought him here.
