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Chapter X: An Uglier Truth
Bright Dawn’s light draped across his shoulders, her comforting warmth seeping into his skin.
It was the stillness of the scene that reached him first; that unsettled him so. Only the gentle rustle of leaves and whispers of reeds could be heard.
The edges of his vision remained misted as he surveyed his ever-swirling surroundings. The sight of crimson red splattered across the grass, as if by a mad artist's brush, was erratic, yet hauntingly beautiful.
It stained the quiet morning, just as surely as it soiled the sodden boots of soldiers shrouded in shadow. Despite their features fractured with fog, the soldiers were frightfully familiar.
One, situated at the base of a looming statue, —their eyes sunken; life little but a flickering flame in a rainstorm— was so familiar that Sthen’s heart ached at the sight of them, feeling like a physical weight in his chest.
He tried to move, to run, yell, scream, anything, but he found himself rooted in place; by his own fear or the rules of this plane, he couldn’t tell.
He was left standing, distant, late—
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Sthenorax jolted awake from where he half-lay, toppling off his stool, with the accompaniment of a flurry of scrolls and parchment joining him in his unorganised sprawl across the floor.
He quickly turned his gaze to their shared tent, only to find it empty. Dread curled in his gut, nestling there like an old and hated companion.
That wasn’t—it couldn’t be— not now, not so soon.
He wasn’t ready!
He racked his sleep-addled mind for an answer as to where Silan would be at such an early hour, his thoughts racing back to the night before—
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The tent flap had been pushed open, his dear friend entering with the usual aggravated sigh, before flopping onto their hide-covered cot, face first.
“Ochtheoros?”
“mmgh,” was the muffled reply.
“I’ll take that as a yes. What did he do to ruffle your feathers this time?”
A particularly grouchy grumble could faintly be heard before Silan deflected, voice no longer muffled, “Shouldn’t you sleep, Sthen? You’ve been staring at that same scroll all day!”
“No! I haven’t… —How would you know anyway! You were out all day!”
They turned just to deadpan, “’Cause I know you.”
Sthen opened his mouth to say something, just to pause and reconsider, “ah.”
Silan snorted before devolving into laughter. Sthen couldn’t help but laugh alongside them, their levity contagious.
“Anyway,” Silan said, out of breath, “I’m going to hit the hay; got a hunting trip to head tomorrow. Get some sleep, will ya? —and don’t forget to eat something, you missed dinner earlier.”
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He hurriedly grabbed his satchel and cloak before rushing out into the cool morning air, movements stumbling and stilted, in his haste.
He ran, watching how Rosy-fingered Dawn had begun to claw her way into the sky, with a feeling that could only be described as dread.
He could hear his heart pounding in his ears, each beat feeling like time was slipping through his fingers.
It’d been this same dream for years now!
Yet, there was a finality about this one…
That finality kept him moving in spite of the strain and tough terrain to where he knew that statue was; It had him scrambling up rocky hills and crashing through creeks.
Finally, he burst into the clearing, his lungs burning from the icy air he desperately gulped down; hands on his knees.
After a long moment, he hauled himself back to his full height, only to have his hope dashed when Dawn’s radiant fingers caressed his shoulders. Her light felt more like sharpened knives than soft, supple rays.
A cold comfort to the sight before him.
“—Fates be damned!” he hissed, barely louder than a whisper.
Without the fog typical of his visions, it was clear to see they’d been ambushed; stripped of their weapons and armour, just left to rot!
A whole hunting party, slaughtered, like pigs in a rich lord’s house for some feast.
Their wounds still weeping, black with blood, and their corpses not yet cooled.
And there, under that looming statue, was Silanthos.
Sthen rushed forward, his legs obeying if only so he could collapse before Silan. His hands were buzzing about, barely brushing skin, helpless as to what he could do.
It was bad, the blade had torn through flesh and almost shorn through the bone, leaving Silan’s limb limply dangling.
Silan’s head shot up from where it lolled to meet Sthen’s eyes, the clarity clearing the clouds from their gaze, recognition shining through.
“You're late, as usual,” they rasped wryly, the corner of their lips twitching up; amused, though their brow was pinched with pain.
Sthen’s breath hitched at the weak quality of their voice, especially from one who was always so steady. His one constant in this godsforsaken war, though it seemed like the gods were laughing at him now.
“Silanthos~” he breathed.
“Bad, ain’t it? What’s the verdict, doc? Will I live?” They joked weakly, their attempt at a chuckle choked.
“You’ll live,” Sthen replied, his intonation flat, hiding what he wasn’t saying; ‘You have to’.
“A pretty vision? Or a prettier lie?”
Sthen’s silence spoke volumes, his gaze cast down, unable to meet theirs. Instead, He set about dressing Silan’s wounds as best he could with only a dagger and his own clothes.
“You can’t die here! You’re—you’re meant for more than, this.”
“Let’s be honest with ourselves, Sthen, —shit!” They hissed at Sthen’s ministrations, “I was meant to die a nameless so—ldier in a war where no one would remember my presence… At least, it’s a nobler death than most get ou—t here, knowing I’ll be given proper burial rites, if only due to your persistence.” Silan chuckled with a sardonic smile.
Sthen, on the other hand, was barely listening. Too consumed by his task and swirling thoughts.
“I have something that could work… but it’s unstable, I don’t know exactly what it’ll do… but if I’m right, it should save you.”
He felt as if his chest was collapsing in on itself, ribcage constricting his lungs as he tried to explain what he’d been so tirelessly working on.
It wasn’t ready.
He wasn’t ready.
“Cheating death himself is a dangerous game, Sthen, the deathless gods—”
“—Don’t give a shit! —about, mundane. Mortal. Affairs!” Sthen snapped.
Silan looked pensive at that, before humming in acknowledgment.
“I—” he faltered, tears threatening to spill from his eyes, as he desperately wiped them away, “Sorry.”
Silan’s gaze softened. “It’s okay,” they soothed, trying to comfort him, but it ended with them slumped against Sthen’s shoulder, their fight having fled them.
Silan smiled into the crook of his neck, murmuring, “I trust you.”
Sthen froze, dumbstruck, a thousand thoughts flitting through his head.
“If I’m wrong, you’ll be the one carrying the consequences.”
“I’ve carried worse burdens... Talking to Ochtheoros for one.”
That startled a heartfelt laugh out of him. Silan’s confidence almost assured Sthen of his course of action; almost.
He ran a hand down his face, unwittingly smearing blood and mud down it, much to his disgruntlement.
He wished he could have sat there, crushed under the weight of his own ruminations for eternity, maybe continue his research if he was lucky. He would have begged the gods for the chance if he thought they’d listen.
But he didn’t have that time, so he acted.
He rushed to start rummaging through his satchel, flicking through the myriads of materials within, for once irritated that he typically kept most of his belongings on hand.
In his haste, he upended the bag; books, scrolls and the occasional tablet tumbling out. Sthen rifled through everything, but with each scroll discarded, slowly, a sinking sense of dread stoked the flames of nervous tension licking its way up his spine.
His fingers flew, sorting, searching; he could have sworn—
…He knew he never let it leave his sight— or his bag…!
But… in his rush, he’d forgotten it, hadn’t he?...
Sthen threaded his hands through his hair, tugging sharply, a frustrated growl escaping his throat.
He could cast the spell without his notes, but it would be—madness, even more complex than it already was! But, but! What other option was there?
Watch Silan die?!
He was torn between two terrible options. He knew that.
Slowly, he wove runes into the air, the very wind that flowed through the clearing now carried glittering threads of magic.
Sthen carefully, deliberately took a breath, almost blissful despite the steady trail of tears tracking down his cheeks. He muttered a quiet prayer to anyone, anything, that would listen, that this would work.
Powerful magic engulfed the clearing in a brilliant, blazing light like the stars themselves had caught fire.
In an instant, it was all reined back in, channelled into one point where Sthen had placed his hand on Silan’s chest, over their heart.
Sthen pushed further and further, siphoning every bit of energy he had into the spell, spurred on by the fluttering and flinching of each beat of Silan's heart.
When finally, he couldn’t push any further, black spots filling his vision as he swayed where he knelt. Blinking away the spots, he looked up to see, blessedly, Silan’s wounds were no longer dripping crimson; instead, they were sealed over.
“ha… haha!” Sthen laughed, breathless with relief.
He rushed to hug Silan, lingering in the moment of peace as time ticked by leisurely.
It was quiet— silent.
…!
Silanthos didn’t die, nor did they live.
No, instead their face relaxed, pain fading from where it had creased the corners of their eyes and mouth and held their shoulders taught. Silan regarded Sthen with a gaze so full of knowing.
It terrified him, as what could only be described as stone bloomed out from Silan’s core, creeping, spreading.
“Hey, hey. Stay with me.” Sthen pleaded, with a choked cry.
Silan opened their mouth to speak but quickly found that they couldn’t, instead opting to just smile. Eyes trying to convey everything they couldn’t say.
It shattered him.
Anything he ever was, anything he ever could be, turned to ash in a moment, as Silan was consumed.
Just another statue among the now many in this cursed clearing, all watched over by the statue of some long-forgotten god, their stoney back turned away from the carnage that cluttered the clearing, above such simple affairs as they were.
Uncaring of the crumpled form of a mortal curled into the clutches of cold, hard, stone.