Eventually, he got himself a bowl of bead-sized crumbs all scattered and mixed into the black paste. Whatever that was.
Halo! Merrin prayed and scooped the amalgamation of bits and paste, his lips parting to devour them. He hoped for a delectable meal, however, he did know that such was impossible when it came to the mine's food. Yet, he hoped for it.
He closed his lips over the scoop, munching with a sour look. Teeth clenched and chewed, tongue sliding around to taste. Distasteful, yet, slowly, the sour expression worn melted into one of wide exhilaration.
Delicious! Merrin screamed inwardly, his fingers quaking to the savoury fever. What is this? He looked into the bowl, unsure of what he was eating. He ladled another, closing it within his mouth.
The magnificent taste washed over him again.
No way this is the same thing? He stared gawking at the food. How long has he eaten the sour, tasteless paste the mine offered? For how long has he fed on something so horrible when something this good existed? In fact, in his memory, nothing had ever tasted this splendid.
He wanted more—so much more. And so, without minding the presence of the giant, Merrin devoured the food. Forgetting all about ethics or manners—now he ate like an ashman. Time lost meaning, as only he and the bowl remained in their own little world. A world of taste and flavor.
A beautiful world.
However, as he dipped the last remnants of the paste into his lips, savoring its deliciousness, it came to him that what he had just eaten was impossible.
How did the sun Witnesses get this? Merrin thought, No way they bought it. Did they make it? A stupid thought he quickly banished with a glance at his silent observer, whose presence had long been forgotten. The giant of a man remained frozen in place, his demeanor like that of an aspirant.
He claims he is not. Merrin smiled at him
Ron smiled back.
He was dazed for a moment, then suddenly said, "Ah, eyes water again. Beautifully indeed, but better to hide before others see. The sister remain clear on her words."
Merrin froze, a thought forced by words echoing through his chaotic mind. My eyes are like water! Crystal…Not normal. Like the eyes of the strange bird when it took the form of a child. Is that a mark of something? One of a caster or el'shadie?
And why does it show? It brings calmness, yes, but why does it show? Why does this happen? Ron doesn't seem to know the reason for it. Moeash assumes it's something to do with being a sunBringer, but it likely does not. It's something to a caster! Maybe a sign of an order?
Merrin lowered his eyes on the bowl—Wait! "Ron?" he called out to the stagnant giant.
"Hmm."
"Who made the food?"
"Don't know, but I sense mine cookers did. As the rest are done."
"So nobody specially prepared this…like making it sweeter?"
"Ah, if cells for good food exist, then cells for many food exist."
Yes! If the sunWitnesses had enough marks to buy things to prepare a sweeter meal, then they could have spent it on buying more of the sold ones. It wouldn't be sweeter, but still…
Merrin returned his thoughts to the bowl. Then why is this better? He pondered. It's possible they did have such money but chose to buy it instead, but Ron did not link to that, which means they did not have enough marks for it. And how would they even get such?
Then how is this sweet? He trailed his fingers over the lip of the bowl, placing a remnant slime on his tongue. The taste mesmerized him, sending a shiver down his person.
This is just amazing—But! Merrin paused, realizing a conception that bloomed in his mind. Didn't I say that before? And when I did, Ron had said my eyes turned crystal.
This!
I did this! I made this food!
The realization came rolling through his mind, settling in like a raindrop swallowed by heat. He quickly yielded to his inner self, feeling the intuition that resounded deep within. He held it, willed it, forced it, and before his eyes, the room alit with a dark and white radiance, surged; a grayness drowning through it all.
Strange sharps, dots of distant light, and a bizarre bolt of white lightning blended into the world. Illusory mists tendrilled from the ground, fuming out from dark cracks on the floor. Stones rippled like water, and the walls turned into a wave of stone and sand.
A melange of colors flowed through the room—turning ever chaotic as the moments dragged. Marks of dark Z glyphs hovered about Ron's head, some edging only to be bounced away by some force. It was a strange sight, which, just looking at, brought a sense of tiredness—a need to slumber.
Merrin fought against this feeling, watching with total awe.
I did it! Now he knew. This is how it works! This has always been how it worked. To force it or to will it. To belittle it or to control it. That was the method to cast.
When he tried to cast with the stones, he hoped for a change, for a miracle in casting. He begged for it. This was wrong. He was not to beg the symbols, he was not to hope they would obey. The instinct alone allowed him access—awareness to do it so, but each time he prayed for the outcome, it refused him.
The power of the caster was to be forced, not to trust. When he cared not for the outcome—or what the symbols held, they obeyed him.
To belittle, to force, to control them. This was what it was to be a caster!
Merrin surged his strength—force as he knew it was called. It was such a simple thing—right there in the words. Symbols required force, not a gentle hand. And casters were those hands….He had been doing the polar ever since, now, he would become one such.
The dots of light around him pushed away, blown back by a surge of queer light.. His mind poised, his senses moving towards Ron, the giant of a man who remained oblivious to what was happening.
He reached for the dark glyphs, clubbing the floating symbols within himself. He hadn't touched them, yet he felt as though they rested in the palm of his hands. Just there, silent, obedient. He would bend them, will them, force them to what he wanted.
This he knew…This he understood as he grew to know them. Their knowledge, alongside everything else, was pouring into his mind. Symbols of sleep, they were—or to be exact, drowsiness.
And what they did to Ron was something easy to grasp. Yet Merrin did not wish to stop it. He heaved a breath and pushed. The dark symbols quivered, as though echoing a defiance to his will. Merrin cared little for that and pressed harder with force, and before him, the symbols stretched into tendrils of grayish dark light, shattering into glowing strands of such radiance. They curled and slithered around Ron's head, like threads they flowed globular around him, and the man—the giant; he stumbled.
Dazed, tired, drowsy.
I'm sorry, Merrin thought, feeling a pang of hesitance flow through him. He abandoned it, reaching stronger with the strength that waned with each moment. He would do this—he had to do this. For his future, for the witness, this had to be done, he reminded himself. And so he did.
The threads of light unraveling from the symbols flowed down, lathing over the surface of Ron's head. He tried to will them in—an attempt to fuse them into the man's being. An experiment, yes. But they refused; a resistance like a boulder pushed against him, haunting his attempts.
Why…
Regardless, the outcome remained the same; as the strands curled around Ron like a layer of skin, the man wallowed.
"This…" he said, voice distant despite the closeness. "I feel…hmm."
Merrin smiled. "Find rest!"
The man dropped, his body falling towards the scratching ground….Ground!
Mists!
Merrin reached out—mentally. He was aware. In a moment or so, the man would drop to the seated floor—and he would burn. No Instants grew vague—like before—like when he stood before the Witnesses and promised them paradise. He felt clearer, calmer—was this him as the el'shadie?
His gaze fell to a lone froststone shimmering at the end of the left wall, near the mouth of the cave room. Like before, it had fumes of queer air flow fluid upwards. However, unlike before, now, he sees its symbols.
An odd shape; small like dots of servs, but with six clean edges meeting at a sharp angle. It formed a balance unnatural to see, with each side mirroring the other. There were many of them, swirling inside and around the stones; these shapes of frost blue were the symbols that made the cold.
He heard their knowledge: Chills, and he moved them.