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[1385] - Y06.285 - A Man of Trouble V
🕑 Added 2025-09-29 17:00:14 +0000 UTCThe room felt so much colder, the young half elf sitting in the middle of his bed, cross legged, staring out at the wall ahead of him, but seeing nothing in particular. He remained uncertain. Uncertain of what to say. Uncertain of what to do. Uncertain of even what to think.
‘I threatened him, but should I do more?’ Adam thought, closing his eyes shut as the darkness enveloped his mind, washing away his thoughts. Yet, the swirling Chaos returned. ‘I should do more, but who am I to say anything? I’ve killed so many people, it’s not like I can talk. He at the very least didn’t kill her for pleasure or anything like that, it was to make her stronger, and didn’t he bring her back? Still, I can’t let him go around killing people. We are our own people, masters of our own Fate…’
Adam let out a long sigh, for how could he be so audacious to think the weak could be masters of their own Fate? ‘When you’re weak, you can’t even choose when you die, huh?’
The half elf hoped the young woman could use whatever it was that Bael had gifted her to its full effect, and to make a name for herself to stand out against all the rest, to the point even the royal family needed to consider her feelings.
‘Although, when she’s on the rise, she might get some unwanted attention…’ Adam considered what he could do for the woman to help her out. ‘I should carry way more magical weapons for times like this.’
Meanwhile, Bael enjoyed his pink tea, sipping it slowly. The sweetness danced against his tongue and warmed the chill within his bones, the same chill that would remain for at least a season. He looked down at his hands, so rough from all the training, and yet so much softer than those who had trained for a tenth of the time as him. The same rough hands also could bring death to so many, and as he grew older, as he grew stronger, it would become even easier for him to kill.
‘…’
‘I don’t particularly care if you kill,’ his great grandfather admitted, holding the little Bael within an arm as he walked back. ‘Except, if you’re going to kill, at least kill the right people.’
‘I’ll kill anyone I want because if I want to kill them then they’re the right people to kill!’
The old man laughed wildly, the kind of laughter Bael inherited, but as the old man’s laughter disappeared into a chuckle, he pinched the boy’s cheek. ‘Even if you are a fool, you are different to a beast.’
‘I’m no beast, I’m a hero!’
‘If you’re a beast, you can’t be a hero,’ the old man said, pinching his cheek again. ‘At least don’t bring me any shame. Anyone can kill a thousand ants, so don’t grow drunk on that.’
As Bael recalled his memories, he thought about how much time he had spent with his great grandfather. The old man who had raised him more than his own father. Bael narrowed his eyes.
‘I do not have the luxury of worrying over a woman who is alive and will succeed in this Realm thanks to my assistance,’ Bael thought, letting out another sigh, his annoyance slipping out of his lips with it.
Kizwolima pouted, holding onto the cup of pink tea, the girl’s eyes darting towards Bael, before glancing to another side. She had barely touched the fruit before her, something which Bael had yet to see.
“Do not worry, it is fine,” Bael said, crossing his arms as he leaned back.
“Okay.”
‘I should gift the daggers once I am done with them…’ Bael thought, peeking down towards Kizwolima who continued to pout, before he reached down to reveal one of the daggers to her, the girl’s eyes peeking at the metal. “You may look at the dagger for now.”
“Okay!”
Tanika wondered if she would receive such training but realised it probably wasn’t her Fate. She was a sand giant, with more connection to fire and earth than the storm. However, even if Bael was a dragon, how was he able to do something like that? ‘Just what kind of pedigree do you have?’
John stared down at his tea cup, considering what he had heard. His eyes fell to Bael, who had randomly killed a woman, apparently, but the way he heard the Iyrmen speak of it, it seemed as though it was a good thing? ‘Just what kind of world have I stepped into?’
“If you wish to reach such a height, you must work harder,” said a voice, the young Iyrman staring down at the young father.
John considered her eyes and stood, accepting the invitation to spar with her, especially since it wasn’t everyday he got to spar with the grandchild of a legend.
Except, it was almost an everyday thing for him now…
‘What kind of power will she awaken?’ Uwajin thought, sparring with Yasha, daring to only pay half a mind to the battle, but then again, that was just how overwhelmingly powerful she was compared to the Aswadian who was roughly her age.
‘Lord Noor, what have I gotten myself into?’ Maharan thought, while the Iyrmen were abuzz with apparently witnessing, or being beside something that was spoken only in legends.
“It seems there is another within Aswadasad who we will need to keep an eye on,” Chosen said, the young man leaned back within his chair, half laying down into it.
“We may be witnessing the birth of a new era,” Tanagek agreed, feeling the gentle throbbing within his heart.
Zabir decided against thinking too much about what had happened, he was too old, too weak, too much of a commoner to be thinking about anything that involved such majesties. He stared up at the darkening sky, praying that all would be well, and their journey would remain safe, even if he knew it would not be uneventful.
Under the same sky, another stared up at the darkening sky, the same sky, and yet they were so far away from one another. The figure was an older man, with a handsomeness that was expected of him, for he held such a title, with shorter white hair, cut weekly, and a small beard, trimmed neatly at the same time. He stood surrounded by the company of the most beautiful flowers, and considering what he was, it was not those kind of flowers, but the kind that cleared the air, and filled it with such a beautiful smell, and a beautiful sight.
Near him, an old man sat, just a simple old man, who certainly was not a legend that time had forgotten long ago. He wore simple clothing and carried a staff, a simple staff, and certainly not a legendary artefcat. He wore a bracelet of bronze balls, certainly not the kind which held great magics.
“Mother’s Mercy, you seem to be deep in thought,” the figure said, hearing the young man’s heartbeat, so gentle, so slow, for he was already so old, within his seventh decade, and if he had not taken the title of King, he would have lasted at least to a century, but what could he do now that he had taken upon such a heavy responsibility.
“I received a letter this morning,” the King said, to a figure who had arrived silently, and no one would know had come to greet him.
“Do you wish to speak of it?”
King Merryweather remained staring at the sky, noting the stars which had already begun to appear. He stared at the stars, the same stars she would also stare at, though that had been almost a lifetime ago. He thought of the woman, who he had adored more than any other.
“It contained, one may describe it as knowledge, another a request, another a warning,” King Merryweather admitted, unsure of how to consider it.
“What is the warning?”
“I must consider the matter of the Reavers seriously, to the point I must forgive one who should not be forgiven, perhaps.
“Mother’s Mercy, such is a great burden you hold,” the figure said, reaching down to his rosemary beads, beginning to pray over them. After completing a round, he glanced towards the old man once more, though his eyes remained firmly shut. “What are your thoughts?”
King Merryweather did not respond for quite a while, but for a figure who had lived for so long, what was a few minutes in the span of eternity?
“Considering this knowledge, request, warning, she has requested a reward,” the King admitted, staring up at the sky. “I do not know if it is appropriate to call it such.”
“To consider the Reavers tomorrow, you must consider Floria today, to consider Floria today, you must consider the Reavers today, to consider the Reavers today, you must consider Floria tomorrow,” the figure replied.
The King remained silent for a long while. “Are your words devoid of meaning?”
“Can words be devoid of meaning?”
“Yes.”
The figure looked up towards the sky, his eyes still closed, praying over his beads. “Mother’s Mercy.”
The words emanated a warmth out towards the King, who felt the magic coat him, soothing his exhausted heart. ‘I should pray to the Mother.’
