Without a word, I move forward. One foot in front of the other, despite the knowledge that the entity walking this ground possesses the ability to slap my cheek and make me disappear.
Defeated, the old man kicks some debris. "Sure. Go towards the Eclipsant, why don't we?"
"Because the Ones above are looking down," I reply firmly.
Straight ahead through the trees, its silent approach is carried by whispers in the trees. Though the distance between us is somewhat vast, this pace will bring us face to face directly above the stone tablet. Furthermore, a considerable gap of soil separates us from the shared target.
Therefore, a brisk walk ahead is a useless plight.
Sighing inwardly, I bring my focus to the underground beacon. This time, something else catches my eye. There is movement. Other, lesser flames scurrying about, freely navigating the underground in minor bursts and cautious lulls. Of course! Thank you for this guidance, dear Heavens!
"Senior Squalling!" In my excitement, I turn to the old man and place my hands on his shoulders.
A deep grumble rises in his throat, followed by another coughing fit. "Sorry!—ahem—forgive me. That horrid cough of yours. You were a miner at one point, yes?" A brief silence before he mumbles, "Trying to get to know me in our last few moments?" I say nothing.
"Was in the same business," answers the old man after a sigh. "Why?" "I seek something hidden within the caves below—an object of great purpose. Perhaps even the key to your salvation. Lend your light to your shepherd, and help me find the way in."
"Mhm…" The old man grumbles, scanning in the dark. "S'over there somewhere. Grass grows thin where the soil's thin cause the bedrock comes up high." He grabs my wrist and pulls me along. "Let's just get this over with, number nine."
The earth shifted beneath our steps as he led me forward, his grip rough and certain despite the tremor in his breath. The ground changed first, becoming softer, cooler, the air thinning with every stride. I could hear the roots groaning beneath us, their lifeblood humming against the stone they failed to pierce. The wind no longer wandered but pressed downward, heavy with the scent of wet stone and decay.
When he stopped, I felt it before he spoke. The breath of the world escaping through a narrow mouth below. Warm air, ancient and damp, brushes against my face. It carried the taste of minerals and memory, a slow pulse of life buried too deep for midnight to touch.
"This is it," Squalling said, voice hoarse. "Your hole to the underworld."
"Thank-" Without an interval to express my gratitude, he releases my hand and goes forth into the shadows. Raising an eyebrow, I examine the shape of his flame to make sure he hasn't been replaced.
Then, I take another look behind to confirm if we are being followed. We are. Now I know that instead of having sensed a disturbance in its territory, owed to the noise of our footsteps and boisterous conversation, it was our flames that pulled it out of hiding. Or, more specifically, mine.
Closer now, I feel a strange pull within my chest. There is a gentle calling in my soul, beckoning me closer to the stone tablet hidden underground.
That being said, the feeling is more like kinship than anything else. It feels like a part of myself that yearns for reunion with the whole. Similar to the object that some in my village may call the catalyst for the awakening of the abilities I already possess.
I am no stranger to the baudroie, but the shepherd cannot shun the candle simply because it was left in the darkness. With a deep breath and a stride, I… … … … Fall. The initial fall knocks the wind out of me. The old man steps aside without a change in his breath. A one-second descent turns into two. Each throbbing bump turns me in a different direction—head above the feet, feet above the head.
Two seconds into four. Had these past months not stripped me of my physical capabilities, I would be able to catch something and hold—instead, every attempt is futile, grace to days of starvation and my sleepless nights.
Four seconds into ten. My forehead catches an especially harsh impact.
The world exists in threes. I can see color despite being blind. And it is only when my ears stop ringing that I realize I've come to a halt. Bile rushes up my throat and floods through the gaps in shivering fingers. My dislocated heart beats inside my brain from a thousand ren away.
As I am still yet to regain my composure, the old man ambles right by me, dropping a line that feels like spit upon my bleeding face. "Cave's sloped, by the way."
Taking a moment to remember myself, I push against the ground. "I see. This is your way of telling me that, despite the light ahead, I should remain vigilant. Thank you, Sir Senior. I have indeed been too hasty!" He kisses his teeth and walks off.
Our footsteps carry inward, echoing off the unseen. The air grows colder with every step, the walls closing in until I could feel the damp stone brushing my shoulders. Water drips from above in slow, deliberate intervals, each drop landing like a measure in some forgotten hymn.
The ground slopes unevenly beneath us. Loose pebbles shifted underfoot, and the old man's cough returned, softer now, swallowed by the stone. A narrow passage forces us to crawl, our severed chains scraping the rock, sparks biting the air before dying in the dark.
I sense the weight of the earth above us pressing down as though listening for our trespass. The cave smells of stone and age. Then, without warning, the air opens. The sound changes first: the drip of water no longer near but distant, falling into a space too ample for echoes to return. I rise to my feet, breathing in a hollow vastness.
"Holy…" Squalling mutters, voice low with disbelief, which echoes right back. "The hell is this thing doing here?" "I ask myself the same question…"
The stone tablet rests in the center of the cavern, radiating a blinding white light—its purity matched only by the gentle warmth it spreads across my skin. The heat seeps into my bones and settles there, offering a strange solace to the soul.
The air itself bends toward it, drawn by some silent command. Even from where I stand, I can sense its balance—the weight of eternity carved into a form impossibly thin. It is neither warm nor cold, yet its presence fills the chamber with the stillness of a temple.
Over twice the height of my late grandfather and as wide as the distance from one fingertip to the other with the arms fully outstretched, its presence floods my weary mind with a thick, aching nostalgia.
Like a sheet of stone carved into the likeness of parchment, resting upon a base of cold, silver metal. The air around it hums faintly, the way still water vibrates beneath a struck bell. I should have known it would be much larger than I imagined. For this is the tablet that once spoke the words of the prophecy. Or rather, there exists another just like it back home. "Wait, you've seen this thing before?" we ask in unison.
Dunreach is hidden beyond the depths of a dangerous woodland and surrounded by the Men of Fer who guard the golden plains. Those who survive the forest do so marching behind my late grandfather to the hunt. Those who enter the plains only make it through with my grandmother's permission.
That is, unless you are native to a neighboring village. "' Course I have," we go again. "There's one just like it back in…" "Dunreach." "…back in… Sera." "Except ours isn't blank," the old man continues.
"Neither is mine." The awkward silence descends once more, and I find myself wondering if either of us still clings to reason. If the old man speaks true, then it seems the people of his village share the same conviction—that the Great Stele of Prophecy stands alone beneath the heavens.
Eventually, he clears his throat. "Reckon this one's a knock-off some con artist didn't manage to sell off. Safe to say, your granny couldn't've been that wise if she bought into it."
"Silence yourself, you senile thing!" I snap. "The Great Stele of Prophecy is no fake!" "Well, the Great Stele of the Ancients isn't a phony either," he fires back. "I saw her radiance drag the damn thing in herself—bloody and all—the day she walked into Sera!"
"Then perhaps she was conned on her way in, because I watched my grandmother do the same the day I received my bestowment! And she told me that the Heavens themselves said it was the only one of its kind!"
Halfway through my correction, the old man scoffs and turns away. In all my years, it is the most infuriating thing another human being has ever done. Yet I bite my tongue. For a harsh word stirs up anger… and a soft answer turneth away wrath.
A heavy sigh escapes me, and then I am beside him once more, standing at the foot of a relic that towers over us. "Putting aside the ones we know of," I say quietly, "I am certain this is no fake." "How'd you figure?"
"The stone from which it was carved is saturated thoroughly with the divine breath. No ordinary human being, much less a con-man like you claim, can accomplish such. Furthermore, I can see the base."
"First of all, sir bumpkin, no. Speaking with the experience of a man who didn't grow up in Shithole Fucktown, human beings mastered imbuing shit with your so-called breath since my own great-great-great-grandfather invented the quartz hammer! And second of all…" He coughs into his fist. "…the base ain't glowing, so I can't see it. What does it look like?"
I can't restrain the smile that creeps upon me, and answer somewhat smugly, "It's forged entirely of the Divine Metal, Solidflame."
"The what?"
"The Divine Metal of The Heavens," I say again, slowly this time so that he can understand. "Solidflame."
The old man curses under his breath and stoops down, most likely rubbing his hand over the base in disbelief. "Oh, for crying out loud!" He says, standing up. "This ain't no what's-it of the who's-it. It's silver!"
Then, after a brief pause, the flame in his chest ignites. "Holy, shit! It's silver!"
He turns to me with the sour smell of greed on his breath. "Do you have any idea what this means, kid? What's in front of us is gold!—I mean, well… nobody cares about that yellow shit!—This is gold! A single chunk of the stuff can turn a broke-ass like you into a billionaire!"
"Like me? If what you say is true, would you and I not both be billionaires?"
"You and 'I'?" The old man stops in the middle of his pathetic little jig. "Kid, your 'eyes' don't even work. Now get to lugging this damn thing, and I might consider remembering your name, whoever you are."
Disdain floods my spirit as he resumes his dance. If I were in better condition, perhaps I would wait for the Eclipsant to come down into the caves and make him and his foolishness disappear. Unfortunately, I alone lack the cruelty needed to change face upon those who marched with me on the first day.
I say a prayer of apology to The Heavens in advance. There is no water in the cave to show my utmost devotion, so I have to settle for the cleaning of the feet using only my spit.
It takes some time, and multiple licks, and the image of a tiny old woman bowing frantically above the clouds sparks shame within my core. I remind myself, and my grandmother, should she rise up from the ashes and beat me, that I am only doing this because I've been left without a choice.
Stepping onto the base, a cold shiver runs up my spine.
The call of the second Stele is gentle, yet insistent. A gentle chiming into the soul that takes me back to a painting many years ago. Colors of red, blue, green, and gold in the background—songbirds over dandelions in a sun-touched plain. Faces lost to the years, weeping for a miracle un-promised.
Soft hands hoisting a child onto the base.
Standing on the silver alongside him is his idol—robed in white and crowned in gold. A ring of Heaven's favor floats above her head, and all the color in the world bends toward her sacred temple, forming a second halo out of every hue.
She gestures with a smile that feels like sunshine upon his skin. He reaches forth in that direction. A strange, back-breaking thing she dragged into the village all alone. However, she would never bring this here to harm him. So said many promises when the two of them were all alone.
A tear rolls down my cheek. It was from that thought onward that I would never see her face again.
Reaching for the back of my head, I undo the bandages while maintaining a straight look ahead.
The old man goes quiet when he notices what I've done. Thankfully, the conversation between him and my brother was enough of a warning to combat his curiosity.
Somewhat startled by the sudden nakedness of my face, I ask the Heavens for the strength to follow through. For the worst thing in the world is not blindness. Instead, it is letting uncertainty close your eyes before seeing the whole picture.
I open my eyes to the light. And it looks back.
A quick and silent appraisal before being granted privy to the secrets only my eyes can see. Approval shines upon me in a blinding flash. The old man shrieks quite womanly as he gets a taste of that which he ridicules.
The light dims as the breath within it changes, softening sections of stone which melt and reshape. One by one, the symbols emerge, seared into being by heat and will. Eight rows take form along the Stele's heart, each line alive with silent fire. And above them all, one word brands itself into the stone—darker, heavier, and holier than the rest.
[The book of mass departure, Exodus.]