Nestled by the hills and the fields around it, by the great, gray mountains to the north of it, and by the vast forests to the east and west of it, lay Atarkan. Once, it must have been decades ago, Kanrel had stood on this very hill, on this very road, overlooking this very view. Then, what had it felt like? Surely, just like any departure. Surely a sense of redemption. As if leaving behind a nightmare, wondering whether there'd be new dreams to be had, whether all dreams would in the end be just nightmares.
Mirai stood beside him, not saying a word. Her expression had remained the same for almost a week now. She had become distant, merely someone who tolerated him. They had barely spoken to one another. Why would they? All the conversations that they could have had and perhaps should have had were already exhausted. She knew of his shame, at least enough of it, to become someone not worth talking to, just a commodity, or a prisoner you're bound by law to bring to justice and nothing more. Why would there be anything more?
Kanrel glanced at her. All this time, she had held her chin up, her eyes ahead, never faltering as she stepped forth, filled with this determination to reach this specific destination, and although she did wear that expression, her posture had already cracked. The facade so dearly held would break sooner rather than later. Would she reach the city gates on her own? Without his help? Would she accept his support if she did fall? Kanrel looked ahead. It was better not to think. Better not to wonder. Never think nor wonder; what had such abilities ever given him? Had there ever been such a thing as peace of mind or clarity presented from the world that he held within? The hermit's words suddenly came to his mind: 'Do not believe yourself, from within you, you cannot find the truth of you, or even about you.' And even less so peace.
He almost sighed, but fought against it. This wasn't the moment for such things. He took a step forth, first down the hill, toward the first set of farms and fields, now covered by a hardened layer of snow, past which the farms and fields would mix with the city, becoming one, until there'd be the city walls dividing the two. He heard Mirai take a step of her own; she walked a few steps behind. For most of the journey, she had been embraced by Kanrel's codes, the warmth that they would provide them, but now, she preferred the cold that the wind might offer her. He wanted to glance back, to make sure that she might still hold her chin up, and that her steps might be steady as she descended the hill with and without him. But he dared not. He looked only ahead, stripping the codes that he had held up. There was no point in keeping them going if she wasn't the one to benefit from them. He'd much rather brace the cold than be touched by the curse of magic.
The snow crunched beneath his feet as he felt the cold once more, as it was meant to be. Shivers ran through him, his breath came out as steam, his nose and his lips soon felt cold, and he found himself sniffing. Without thinking, he cradled himself, and he found himself hunching over as he trudged forth. It was cold, yet he knew that he preferred this over the warmth that he had forced to exist. For there was no feeling crawling and bubbling within; no nausea. Instead, coldness within, the numbness of before, the emptiness, the nothingness, the nothing. Empty. If there be truth that could be found within, then his truth would be oblivion and its purgatory. He curled his fingers, digging into the skin and flesh of his sides, wanting to feel something other than just that. The road ahead is not there. Is the road home different, or is the man who is wrong?
Far ahead, there was motion, two figures running toward them; one waved at them as they ran; they yelled something, Kanrel could see their mouth move; he stopped looking into nothingness, his eyes focusing on the two figures, on the two men. Their smiles are wide, their eyes must have been bright... but then, they slow down, their smiles die, their faces alter, they shift. Mirai walked past Kanrel; she had quickened her pace; her brows were furrowed, her gaze sharp; she did not look like herself. Torment. She stumbled toward the two, and Kanrel almost went ahead to help her, but she pushed forth and soon reached the two. The steel in her eyes passed away, her expression softened; there was no joy. Her eyes became sunken and suddenly red; she seemed, for the first time, truly fragile and out of it. She looked into the eyes of one of the two men, who now held her at arm's length, and looked right back; he glanced at Kanrel and asked, "Where is Torin?" He returned his gaze to Mirai, who slightly shook her head, and as she did, her posture collapsed further; the two men quickly helped her up. The earlier joy was nowhere to be found on their faces.
"Who is he?" the other asked. "A priest, calls himself Kanrel," Mirai muttered, then she cleared her throat and issued a command, "Go and report to Captain Vareth." She quickly found her strength and stood as though a soldier ready to take command herself.
"What about you?" the first man asked. Mirai glanced back at Kanrel. "I will be taking him to the Academy... He claims that there should be other priests there who knew him a long time ago... Now go!" she almost screamed, her voice cracking slightly. The two men saluted and ran into action. Mirai was left standing on her own, without any other help than her own will, Kanrel just a few steps behind her. For a moment, she was like the tallest tree in a forest, or the lonesome tree that had been left standing after a great desolation. Her posture did not collapse as she stepped forth; she was herself, or what was expected of her to be.
Kanrel stared at her for a moment. If he could feel awe, or recognize such a feeling, then once, years ago, he would've felt it in this moment. He swallowed and forced himself to stop slouching like an old man. He stopped hugging himself and ran after her, taking his place right next to her. They did not look at each other again; they walked past the farms and the frozen fields, entering the city itself, as slowly, larger and larger buildings came into view, replacing the fields. Soon enough, they could see just Atarkan around them; they could smell just it, and nothing else. People looked at them as they walked by, perhaps wondering if they were refugees from the east, or worse, beggars. But how could any of them look at them as either? Did they not see Mirai? Did they not see a warrior, a general most regal, marching past them? Could they only see her starved shape, her haggard hair, her tired eyes, her damaged and dirty clothes? Ignore their eyes; although they are human, and what Kanrel had longed for, they ought still recognize someone who had fought harder than most.
Kanrel found himself shaking; his eyes gazing at people past whom they stepped, faintly recognizing streets and buildings through and past which he had walked before. Still reminded by the shape of it all, yet unfamiliar with its current state. Can and does the world change in such a short time? What about a city? What about the people who inhabit either or both? The world is vast, he had now learned such a truth firmly; before he had thought that he knew it to be so, but having now taken steps where no man before him had ever stepped, he knew that what he had thought before was simply untrue. What he had known then was just a sliver of the truth. Even then, it all felt smaller and smaller. Even though the sky pressed onto the world from far above, there had now come days when it felt closer than before; a world where only the distance between one location and another remained lengthy, but the distance between life and death, the sky and earth, was as thin as a fine line of string. And when it felt as such, why did then the distance between man and another exist as vast as the sea and its furthest horizon? Right beside him, now in all directions, wherever he would choose to walk, there would be a human he could reach, or so it would seem. But so it wasn't. There was a knot that had wrapped itself around his heart, that had stitched his lips shut; but his eyes and nose and ears forcibly open, that kept him seeing and hearing all and everything around him at each given moment without a stop, but held his lips sealed, his hands firmly to his sides, his legs just walking on by. Such unfathomable distance, indeed.
Thousands of voices and so much more; to and from work, the marketplace, a temple, or wherever. Cold yet so warm. Outside the city, the world felt like a frozen wasteland; here, if there was snow, it remained on the roofs of the buildings, the rest of it had been melted away by priests who did it almost daily. Was there even a need for that, if so many people gathered in such close proximity? Wouldn't the heat produced by the many melt it away on its own?
People still stared at them as they went by. But no one said a thing. Their eyes pressed on him. Slight glances, and only direct when one would look back. The gazes of the many; the judgment that surely belonged to him, bestowed through them. The city grew denser and denser; this, which could be called the front yard of Atarkan, soon presented a wall and a gateway. Beyond it, a vestibule to its center. The taller, larger, richer houses would dominate the view. The shops that would sell things the poor could never imagine owning for themselves. Fur capes, silk from the south in colors more varied than men knew how to name, perfumes with exotic smells, jewelry of gold, silver, and precious gemstones, and then, there was the truest inequality... the bookshops. Expensive tomes and books, hand-copied by the most skillful scribes in the Kingdom, with the latest knowledge of the world, of history, of politics, and so much more. Empty paper, journals, and quills, iron gall ink, so precious. To think that Kanrel had, for most of his life, had access to such things, when most could only ever dream of anything like that. But even this, the men and women in their expensive dresses, in their furs and their leisurely pretense, all paled in comparison to what was the true heart of Atarkan. The Academy itself.
From the outside, it looked like just another part of the street, though its architecture was clearly different, clearly older, something that hadn't been upgraded in hundreds of years and instead carefully tended to, so as to keep its original shape and artistry. It was darker than the houses across from it. Taller too, with hundreds of windows looking outside, at the city beneath it; the vestibule to its grandness; its halls and corridors, its riches beyond understanding. Kanrel couldn't take his eyes off it. And he found himself wondering what the people around him, outside of it, felt about it. To a normal man, a woman, or a child, was it more like the Grand Library; something that instilled awe and hope within? Or was it like the Sanctuary... awe turned to fear? Surely the former, for the people did not keep far from it; they didn't mind walking past it, not even past the entrance that had come into his view.
His legs had turned numb, and his spine felt like it would soon collapse, yet Kanrel still held his posture, clenched his fists, even his jaw, to keep himself as straight as he could; to keep up with Mirai, who pressed forth like it was nothing; neither the journey behind nor the journey ahead. They reached the entrance to the Academy and suddenly turned toward it. Kanrel came to a halt and, with gritted teeth, walked up beside her; they both stared at the guards, who stared back at them. The two stared past the guards, toward the courtyard, where students walked, so far away, as if faceless figures within a dream. People walked past them, some entered the Academy, some exited, most went on their own way, down the street, not taking a step to or from the Academy or its grounds.
"Who can testify to your identity?" Mirai suddenly asked; her voice remained even, and she did not even glance at him.
Kanrel thought about it for a moment. There could be many, but how many were here, in Atarkan, or in the Academy, at this very moment? At first, he couldn't find anything to say... But then, he saw a woman running their way. She had long, black hair, deep blue eyes that felt like they were drowning; a despairing expression had pressed itself against her face; it looked like she had wept not too long ago. And she wore long, gray robes. She was a priest. But her eyes... and something about her face in general.
Kanrel pointed ahead. To which Mirai nodded, without a word for Kanrel, she stepped forth, placing herself in the woman's way, who came to a sudden halt. For a moment, they stared at one another. The woman had a hint of recognition in her eyes as she stared at Mirai. Then, suddenly, Mirai spoke, "Priest Roslyn, your presence is required for the confirmation of this man's identity. He claims to be Kanrel Iduldian, and says that you once knew him."
Roslyn furrowed her brows as her gaze turned to Kanrel. She looked at him, up and down, and shook her head. "He is dead. He died long ago; I even found his suicide note. This man cannot be him. How could he be?"
Kanrel stared right back at her. Barely hearing the things that she had just said, only seeing what little Roslyn had grown into. "Do you still find it wonderful?" he suddenly asked.
Roslyn blinked. "What did you say?"
"Do you still find it wonderful?"
"Find what wonderful?"
"Magic. Is it still wonderful to you? Did you plead and beg so as to become a boring old priest and nothing more?" he asked, stepping closer until he stood right in front of her, meeting her eyes.
Roslyn's eyes had gone wide. They went back and forth, as if she was reading Kanrel's face, or the very air before him; perhaps, seeing a memory play itself within her mind. Then, her despair seemed to deepen, and she took a step forth. "You tried to warn me... Didn't you?" She halted, again. Her brows furrowed further. "Where did we first meet?" she asked.
"Many years ago, just west of the village. You were playing in the last snow of the winter as spring arrived. Your friends were there, and you called me a wizard..."
Roslyn rapidly blinked. "What was the first act of magic I witnessed you perform?"
Kanrel furrowed his brows in thought, then muttered. "It was either one of the shows I performed at Vien's tavern--" Roslyn's expression shifted "--or the snowball I stopped from hitting your face." She blinked again and stepped closer until she reached him. Slowly, gently, she wrapped her hands around him into a warm embrace. "Just where had you gone, master?" she whispered into his ear as he stood in her embrace, like a stone-cold statue. He found no words to give her; no lie nor truth to offer. He let her embrace him, whilst promising to her in his own mind that soon she'd learn of everything. Soon, she'd know the truth.
A deep sigh escaped Mirai; she seemed unimpressed. "You have plenty of time for touching reunions later on. But there are things much more pressing than this. They must be waiting for us at the headquarters..." she said and stepped past them. "Come with me," she then added, before marching off.
Roslyn's embrace ended soon after, and Kanrel could see her face again. She had quietly shed her tears, and so her eyes and her face were redder than before. Gently, Kanrel produced a code that dried her tears. "Lead the way," he whispered; his voice coarse. Without another word, Roslyn grabbed Kanrel by the hand, perhaps having realized or seen his poor physical condition, and pulled him with her to follow after Mirai's steps.
Her hand was certainly as cold as his, yet her touch jolted through him, as though the unbearable distance between them had become as fine as the space between two fingers pressed together, as is the space between two hands grasped together. For a moment, it felt like he was gliding, and that there were no steps that he had to take for himself.
- - - - -
The old, graying man sat at a desk; his brows forced into a deep furrow as his wise eyes merged with the paper he read through. If it weren't for that gaze of his, one would think him to be just another piece of furniture to ornament the otherwise austere room that was, by all means, the central command of not only the Ranger Corps, but also the City Watch. The man had not raised his eyes when the three stepped in after Mirai knocked on the door thrice. He had not raised his eyes nor said a word, even when she had stood across from him, her posture as straight as an arrow, as if she awaited the right to speak, let alone breathe.
Kanrel stood to the side, Roslyn still holding on to his hand, not letting go, as though she had suddenly grown afraid that her master might dissipate into the air or run away for whatever reason. Though it was much more likely that she had simply forgotten that she was holding his hand. Kanrel didn't mind; instead, he felt thankful. It brought no resolution, but it made him at least realize that in this world above, there were still those who had longed for him, who might be filled with joy at the sight of him. Of course, Roslyn wasn't one of them; she couldn't be. And so sadness rises once more; pity she had become like him.
Time crawled, and minutes went by. Kanrel's legs had begun to tremble, collapse was nearer than before, and he wondered whether he'd find himself against the wooden floor and its threadbare rug before the old man gave them even a glance. Then, a sudden sigh filled the room. Kanrel moved his eyes from his legs and the rug to the man, who now suddenly stared at Mirai.
The way he stared. Was there warmth in those grayish eyes of his? Had the room been cold, or just devoid of warmth?
"Corporal, I hear news of your return and of the departure of another," the man spoke; his voice was coarse and deep with a familiar twang to it. Kanrel couldn't quite place it. The old man glanced at Kanrel, and their gazes met and lingered a moment. "But I see that things aren't so bad. One saved at the price of another. Sergeant Torin should be proud of himself, wherever he may be; be it in the Halls of the Angels, or in a place different altogether." The man got up and walked around the table. Tall and lean, and somehow much younger in his stature than one might at first think if one were to only look at his face. He reached Kanrel, looked him up and down, and circled around as if he were a hunter in search of prey. Then he stopped, again, right in front of him.
"I have heard a rumor, one that needs confirmation. Something about you being the long lost son of the Herald... Do impress me, 'Kanrel Iduldian,' prove your identity or be proclaimed insane, or worse, placed into a cold cell of the Inquisition, where heretics of the worst kind sooner rather than later find themselves..." His eyes were sharp, like two swords adequately sharpened to pierce through even the heaviest of armor that a knight might wear on the field of battle.
Kanrel felt how Roslyn's grip tightened, and he almost winced from pain. Even then, he almost smiled. "I think we've met before," he suddenly said.
The old man's brow arched. "Oh? Have we now? And where might have that been?"
Kanrel's brows furrowed. "It must have been many years ago by now. And I can't be quite as precise as I'd like to be, for it has been too many years since I've known which year it might really be."
The old man's expression remained the same. "Cut to the chase."
"If I am correct, it was during an interrogation at the Academy. You were there with an inquisitor. A woman, who gave me a pen and a notebook to write upon."
For the briefest moment, something moved behind the old man's eyes. Something faint, nothing whole; the way a hand drifts toward a pocket it knows is empty, reaching for the absence of a thing long lost. His gaze slipped from Kanrel's face to somewhere past it, to some year he could not quite reach, and then the furrow that had held so steady faltered. Then it was gone, smothered beneath the discipline of his station.
"That is hardly unique," he said. But he had taken a moment too long to say it. Kanrel watched him and could not tell what he had seen, whether the old man had almost remembered, or whether he himself had only wished him to.
"Even if it had something to do with three murders? Three bodies found in the rooms of three students?"
The old man scoffed, and there was an edge to it now, as though he brushed away an annoyance. "A thing most know about, at least be inventive when you try to pretend!"
Kanrel blinked and was ready to argue back, but the old man raised his hand and said, "Spare me the anecdotes, they don't work here. What I want are witnesses, people who can confirm for or against, and I do presume that the woman tightly holding your hand as though a daughter might, is said witness of yours?" He slowly moved his gaze from Kanrel to Roslyn and raised his brow again.
Roslyn let go of Kanrel's hand; in an instant, he could feel the wave of cold that departure might bring. Roslyn cleared her throat and spoke, "I believe that he is Kanrel and--"
"On what grounds?"
Roslyn suppressed a scoff and continued, "I believe so, because he has spoken of things that only Kanrel and I could know of."
The old man peered at her. "And what might that be? What is your connection to Kanrel, or this supposed Kanrel?"
"I am his pupil. I was in Jersten when he began his service as the village priest. I witnessed most of the things that he achieved there, and I know most of the people who knew him there."
The old man stared at her for a while, in his eyes a challenge of sorts, and all Roslyn did was stare right back at him. And after a while, he sighed and said, "Sit down, you too." He walked around the table and returned to his chair, all the while Kanrel and Roslyn pulled two chairs that were at the side and placed them right across from the man. Kanrel almost collapsed onto the chair, but managed to do so gracefully. Only Mirai was left standing; she had kept staring ahead, her expression beneath the mask she wore trembled.
The old man looked at her for a while, and at last, his expression softened. "Corporal, I expect two things from you. Firstly, write a report on your findings during the expedition. And secondly... Torin's death... It has to be reported. It is your duty," he said; in his voice, past the authority resided that same softness, he was almost gentle.
Mirai saluted. "Yes, Captain Vareth!" she said and turned promptly around. The steps she took to the door seemed almost confident, but before she reached the door, Captain Vareth yelled after her, "Oh, and bring a priest with you!" At that moment, she glanced back and met eyes with Kanrel, who looked away in shame. Her brows furrowed, the door opened, and soon gently closed. The other three were left together in a discomforting silence, one that was only broken by a sigh, once more.
Captain Vareth stared at the door, where Mirai had just been. At last, his worry was clearly seen by Kanrel. "She is your daughter," he suddenly said. And Captain Vareth nodded without thinking, but soon caught himself doing it, his expression shifted once more, and he said, "She is, but we aren't here to talk about that. Instead, you two have a lot of explaining to do... I'm not wholly convinced that you are who you claim to be, but I'm willing to give the benefit of the doubt... For now, that is..."
"What do you want to know?" Kanrel simply asked. What else could he do?
"Everything. Isn't that clear?" A faint smile touched Captain Vareth's lips. "Everything that proves you, everything that proves otherwise. Where you were born. Where you went. What you did across nearly two decades of silence, and why you choose now to break it. Before, during, after -- and in order." The smile thinned. "Leave a gap in it, and the Inquisition will fill that gap for you."
"So let us go to the beginning, to your childhood, and confirm a thing or two. For you aren't the first to claim yourself to be the son of the Herald, and you aren't the last, that I know for certain. Which is why I have this," he said, and from the depths of his desk's cabinet, he brought out a book. He placed it on the table and gently patted its leather covers. "Your mother wrote a book, for this purpose only, and it contains much knowledge about you, or the supposed you. From childhood to your adolescence, containing things about your formal education, some of your most embarrassing moments, and even snippets of things in the journals that the supposed you left behind..." He opened the book, and brought out an empty piece of paper, his right hand hovered over it, holding a quill, the other was set against the 'Book of Kanrel' as he read the first question: "Where did the Herald first meet her child?"
Kanrel stared at the old man and the book, and found himself trembling. This time, he couldn't blame his legs or his otherwise neglected body. He blinked as tears pushed themselves out. He tried to swallow that familiar lump that had recently become almost a permanent resident within him. Then he felt a sudden grip on his arm, and he looked down and saw Roslyn's pale hand against his. He met eyes with his pupil; her eyes so blue and bright; for a moment, they were the eyes of that same child who had looked for him with wonder within her, begging him to take her as his student, to make her a wizard. Now those eyes begged for something else, though in the form of reassurance. 'If you are him, then all could be well and good. So be him, lest you break my heart.'
Kanrel's brows furrowed, and he swallowed. He swallowed the lump away, he blinked the tears away, and he returned her grip with a faint smile. Then, he turned his gaze back to the old man, who now peered at the two priests across from him. His grayish eyes remained ever-sharp, ever-patient.
Gently, Kanrel licked his lips. "In Lo'Gran, at the doors to her home. She brought me in after I had knocked on her door and collapsed against it. She brought me to the warmth of her house. She fed me. She gave me safety. She clothed me and allowed me to stay by her side. She made me her son and gave a nameless boy a name," he replied, at last. All the while, the old man wrote down what he said, and soon after, another question followed: "What were the names of the three servants that lived with you?"
"There were only two, Dal, who'd cook and clean around the house, and she'd also play with me plenty. And then there was Jan, who'd take care of the garden and make sure to fix any broken things found around the house. Sadly, he perhaps slipped on a day like this, in the garden, and lost his life because of it," Kanrel answered after a moment of thought. He could imagine the man's sly smile as if he had met him just the other day. Then his brows furrowed. "Though I do not know what had come of Dal… Is she alive?" he asked, but Captain Vareth only wrote down what he had just heard, and moved on to the next question…