Beyond the Weeping Gallery silence engulfed the world completely. The wind, which had roared and stung on the inclines suddenly ceased. There was no whisper of off avalanches no call of birds not even the noise of his own breathing appeared to pass from his lips. It was taken in devoured by the stillness of the summit. The lone noise was the crunching of his boots, on the coarse icy rubble—a sound so faint and intimate it seemed like a secret shared.
The Echoes had vanished. Not faint not remote. Vanished. The psychic chorus that had persistently agonizingly accompanied him since the Drunengalm had disappeared. The quiet, in his mind was total, dizzying. He sensed himself emptied, stripped bare. It was a void, a lost limb of the spirit. He continuously gripped the handle of the Penitent's Blade seemingly to confirm its presence, that the recollections of truth and uncertainty were genuine and not a hallucination, from a more chaotic existence.
Exhaustion here felt unlike anything. It wasn't the sting of aching muscles or the scratch of scarce oxygen, in his chest—though those sensations existed. It was a weariness of the soul. A deep drained apathy that rose from the rock and settled into his very marrow. The drive of his quest the terror of the Abyss the lingering sorrow of the gallery… all appeared as abstract issues. The quiet presented an answer: to cease. To take a seat. To allow the chill and the stillness to claim him. It would be incredibly simple.
He continued forward one foot, after the other propelled now solely by sheer persistence.
He discovered the pool situated beneath the last ridge of the summit. It formed a circle of jet-black water roughly ten feet in diameter resting in a hollow of white granite, undisturbed, by wind or dust. Its surface appeared as a unblemished black mirror. It mirrored not the blue sky nor the daunting peak overhead. It captured the essence of depth.
His waterskin held no water. The arid still atmosphere had left his throat parched. He crouched by the pools rim the icy chill seeping through his armor. Taking off his helmet he placed it on the rock nearby. His white hair, damp with sweat and dirt hung around a face he scarcely identified in the times he glimpsed it—all defined edges and darkness, beneath a layer of mountain dust.
He formed a cup with his hands to take a drink.
When his fingers pierced the surface the flawless mirror fractured into waves. He paused for the water to calm. Once it settled he leaned down to view his reflection and take a sip.
The face in the water was not his own.
It was much older. Years older. The white hair was sparser, retreating, marked with creases not from weather. From profound enduring fatigue. The eyes held the hue yet the sparkle was missing swapped for a dull vacant grey resembling ashes left from a blaze. This was a visage that had witnessed conclusions. A face that had enforced quiet and had been confined by it.
This was the face of Alexander Magnus, Messenger, after the victory.
He stepped back his heart pounding like a hammer inside his chest. The water slipping from his hands was startlingly cold, against his skin.
The image stayed behind as he moved. It lingered, looking upward from the abyss with that gaze. Then its lips—dry and colorless—opened slightly. No noise emerged,. The word they shaped was clear etched by anguish into the quiet space separating them:
PENANCE.
The waves, from his water splash spread to the picture. Wiped it away leaving behind nothing but a plain black emptiness.
Alexander recoiled from the brink inhaling uneven silent gasps. He gripped the rock, the surroundings spinning about him. It wasn't some illusion or mind assault. No sorcery existed here to cause that. The Echoes had perished. This was more straightforward, yet grimmer. The mountain revealed the reality of his fate—not, by enchantment. By the essence of the quiet he pursued. It was a mirror of outcome. The ultimate cut of the Penitent's Blade, shown not in the moment of sin, but in the eternity of its aftermath.
Penance.
Not because he failed his task. Because he achieved it. The everlasting quiet penalty for stopping the world's motion. For exchanging the agonizing magnificent clamor of life for a pure lifeless calm. He would turn into the guardian of a mausoleum he created himself his visage a testament, to the price paid.
The impulse to retreat to escape down the mountain into the realm of noise and suffering was a torment. He was able to leave. The Ring could remain. The conflict could continue. He might be a Messenger yet still live. He might listen to the breeze the streams, the girl's laughter the man's tales. He could hold onto the Echoes as a haunting blessing.
He stared at the helmet resting on the rock. The golden metal, so radiant had become a faded tarnished gold. An artifact of a belief that seemed like a tale, from childhood. His gaze shifted to the Penitent's Blade strapped to his back. An instrument of truth that had brought him to this intolerable reality.
He remembered the knight. The one who had seized the Ring listened to the bells. Returned it. He had preferred a demise to a quiet forever.
Alexander rose to his feet his legs shaking not due, to tiredness. Because of the immense burden of the decision. The peak ridge was a steep ascent ahead. The Ring awaited. The conclusion of his journey. The conclusion of all.
He refrained from placing his helmet on. Allowed the air to chill his face. Let it witness what was approaching.
Of facing the peak he glanced backward along the trail he had traveled. The landscape beneath was obscured by mist and remoteness.. Within his thoughts he perceived a faint echo of the Weeping Gallery's bells. Ping. A tone of grief. A tone of affection.
He confronted the peak more. The sunken-eyed visage, in the water revealed the conclusion of one route.. It was a mirror image, not an order.
He was uncertain about his actions upon encountering the Ring. Yet he realized with a definite clarity—the first genuine reflection in hours—that he would indeed encounter it. He would face it directly. He would comprehend its silence. After that would he determine whether to become the image, in the water or the warrior who abandoned an artifact to perish amid the magnificent dreadful clamor.
Penance was not a punishment to endure afterward. It was the decision itself.
He began the final climb.