"I am not what you say I am!" Merrin repeated the words. And he could feel it, that bubbling sense of self-greatness. The aspect that desired a great purpose. He should never accept it. Once was enough. Once he had drowned in that desire, in that awareness of one's greatness... and the consequence?
He had lost his brother!
That should never happen again! Merrin sighed. "For once, you are useless."
The bird seemed to care little for the spoken words. "Regardless of what you say, young El'shadie, you know what is to be done. What point, then, do I serve in entertaining your delusions?" It took to the air. "Drown yourself, if that is what you want, but do ponder the consequences they had in the past. There was little change. There was more death... all because you didn't accept."
Merrin closed his eyes, heaving a breath as the bird vanished once again from the castle. How often did it do that, choosing instead to ride the furthest skies of the Grayworld than stand with him?
"Dreaming," he corrected. "I should think of it... all of this as that. It's better either way."
Regardless, the matter that brought his presence here had not been answered. There remained questions—many, in fact—but one was of the next path to take. And perhaps the bird was right about one fact: he did know what to do. He simply chose not to. Why? Because doing it would present a wild death before him.
Take his sunWitnesses. He knew this with surety: every one of them was more than ready to be nothing but a corpse for his step. Somehow, they justified their lives based on how much they were worth to him. But they knew nothing. Each of them was priceless.
Merrin opened his eyes. "There is no better way out of this..." he said. "And I can't even take the coward's way out..." There was nothing he could do. "At least none of them have died yet," he muttered. "Which means staying away is something. But then there's the Black Eyes... those ones won't stay away."
A dark thought brewed.
"I need them away!" He paused, catching just then the surge of vileness that flooded his mentation. Oh, the wildness of the caster's mind—one that even from something as mere thoughts already produced a myriad of plans to boot.
How accurately he saw it now—the plan. To somehow sabotage the Black Eyes in whatever they planned for him. He might likely die as a result, by their hands or the hands of the Clan. They, too, would die. And that would be better.
His lips folded. "I can't do that." His eyes drifted up. "Death should not be the consequence of learning my secrets... my poorly guarded ones."
Perhaps I need to be more careful. He sensed this trail of ideation as nothing but a soothing thing for the facts the bird had laid bare. He could not do that one, so this was the alternative. Become better. Protect them better. Be away, but close enough.
He rubbed his face. "And here I return, back to the starting point, doing and saying the same thing I always did." He called out. "You mentioned something about Rapture?"
A voice rained down, mocking. "Does the homeowner ask where the rooms are?"
"You mean the residents," Merrin corrected.
"From your point of view," the bird countered. "Not mine."
Annoying.
But there was little reaction to the bird's words, just the total awareness of the path that awaited him now. Too many people had seen him—too many still remembered the things he did in the mines. That should be erased. Just like the Mask of the Shadowman was worn to cleanse himself from the immediate minds of the guardsmen, he must now deceive all of Nightfell.
Merrin Ashman should be gone. Not to be remembered. Thus, if ever it was revealed who he was, there would be little cause to link a mere Ashman to the ways of the mines. As the Black Eyes had said: "Ashmen are rarely ever slaves."
What this was, he knew, was the overlaying of new events over the old. A rather stupid and roundabout plan, yes... but it was all he had. Either that, or he allowed that desire to spark within—allowed for that self that viewed everyone as simple tools for his own glorious purpose. That Merrin should never rise.
So
He found a way outside the central castle within the Dreaming. The utter vastness! Stepping now outside its confines, sauntering down the high steps and over the red flora, he observed the elastic woods that dotted the scape. All pictorial, true, as he had not yet had time to search for true red foliage. But when that eventuality came, after the symbols had been thoroughly studied, he could then replicate them within the Dreaming.
He nodded, walking solemnly over the grand bridge that separated the castle from the larger aspects of the Dreaming. Around it was a vast, sparkling lake. Not true water; if anything, it was a replication of the sweat-made river of Catelyn. She would not approve of it.
"I will change it when I find water outside the Black Seas," he muttered, enjoying the silence of this realm. Above, the sky was a blend of colors: red in blue, green in orange. Although looking out, there were parts of the heavens with a still gray, lightning-sparked sky.
After all, not nearly enough of the Grayness had been changed into the Dreaming yet, but it was a steady task.
Merrin carried on across the bridge, noting the sections of black or red forest in the distance. He could feel them all. A fact that as more beads were changed, the space acted akin to the connection between him and the Ardents. He was them, and they were him.
Odd.
Even stranger was the fact that all this was accomplished as a Vested Caster. He stopped. "This means I should look for the next Honorific words," he muttered. "But not as the Ashman. No, perhaps Lucien would do. Or even the Shadowman. What difference is there… in becoming another myth?"!"
He sighed. This is heading down one path.
Merrin floated up—one of the many tricks being the El'shadie offered. Here, there was little need for wind-type symbols; it required only but a thought. Nonetheless, floating high above the Dreaming, Merrin took in the images—the paradise that awaited his people.
"Alright..." he said. "Where's Rapture?" The connection pointed, and Merrin was off into the air, hurtling for the place where the man was present.
There were questions to be asked. One was the means by which he had entered this place!
The style of Emerlt worn by the Gresendant Sonitras is no different from any other. What you see from the long gloves, the silver rings, the rocks placed centrally... all of that, as many of the things the Church did, served an aesthetic purpose.
Rapture was in a garden—what a place. Giant trees with canopied tops, black like those ones the brightCrowns used in their woods. What was it called again? He tried to recall.
"Ah, yes. Elastic wood!" he echoed.
Two sets of eyes quickly locking squarely at him. He cringed. "Sorry." He rubbed his head.
They were here with him—Rapture's sister and Mother. North. Dead now, she had been for a long time, but in here, he could see her. Remember her just like she was.
That self…
A woman touched Rapture's arm, cupping hers around his. How soft it felt—her skin against his, calling up those oldest of memories.
He looked at her face, and there was nothing!
A featureless woman with dark hair, dressed in slightly tattered black clothes. His mother, Rapture, he knew her. Yes, the features were a bit mucked up, but he heard dreams tended to be like that. So what did it matter if her face was a little strange? He did not need that to know his mother.
"What are you doing?" another voice called from behind.
He smirked, turning, smiling at the little girl in a baggy dress. She had hair—a particularly messy mane that covered her arms and tiny legs, almost as though it were cloth. The girl waved at him.
"Brother, what were you thinking about?"
At least her features were complete—two rather big eyes and small lips. That was the total sum of his sister. He grinned, jumping off, his mother startling from the suddenness. But he cared little for that—there was only excitement. He moved to his sister, grabbing and spinning her as she giggled and laughed at his work.
Oh, what a warmth that brought to his heart. He could do this endlessly—forever. If only the Shadowman would allow him. He hoped so, although he had chosen to also refer to him as the Lord of Dreams.
His sister palmed his cheeks. "What-are-you-thinking-about?" she mouthed.
He kissed her on the side. "About how I have the most adorable sister in the world!"
"Liar," she giggled. "You didn't even ask why my clothes had small burns that time I came back."
He paused. "Burns?"
"Ah." His sister froze, leaned in, and said, "It's nothing."
The thought was gone, and he continued spinning her in the air, listening as his mother—his North—clapped and laughed and joyed in his actions.
What a fortune his life was!