There was a chill to this place, embracing like a cold curtain wrapped around the total self. One could only wonder about the true existence of such things. A fantasy, likely. Yet, as humans tended to do, he craved the unattainable, curling hard into himself, snuggling for internal warmth as a counter to the external chill. It provided a shuddering sensitivity. An orgasmic collection of sensations. This he delighted in. This he took as a drug against the pain, fear…and memories.
Moeash had stabbed him.
Merrin recalled that moment freshly, like an immediate memory—there he was, falling from the sky, watching the ascension of his people. Moeash too. Without them. Alone, he fell. Then came the first stone; his head slapping on the side of a wall, his back smashing through peaks. Such pain. There was only one safety: the wind. Coated, worn like armor, that held against the major damage. Yet, it was not omnipotent. Eventually, there came the pain—bone-shattering, skin peeling from the constant collisions.
Yes, that—collisions.
He became a hurled stone, if said stone were a man of flesh and blood. Both necessities that existed vaguely within. Death loomed now, closer than ever. Not against the Fallen that culled Leim, not against the Fallen in the dream, not against the stone titan, or the Talemir. Not even the Excubitor. This was a different death—a silent one.
Moeash had stabbed him.
How recursive that memory was. A single moment—happiness at salvation, at a new beginning—destroyed. A single knife, rusted, pierced through the gut. Strangely, that center ached more than the rest. A mental pain, no doubt. But how close he was—that was the higher pain. The nearness of freedom, just a few steps, and it was done.
It burned to think that.
Like a river, tiding through his soul, devouring his convictions for anything else. A wheel. His life was a wheel. I am like Waton. I have done everything, sacrificed myself for others, but when it came for my ascension, I was pulled down, dragged into the mud, butchered by familiar knives.
Merrin sank within. This was pain unimaginable. Tears streaking down his face, cold.
Moeash had robbed him of something.
What happens now, he wonders. What has become of his people? Like children tossed into an alien world, the beasts ready to pounce on their meat. How different they were now—the mines would be anomalous to them. They would revolt. They would seek informality. A deprived thing. What about those who witnessed the betrayal—Moeash's knife buried in him? What would they do, say?
Does Moeash still live? Have they fallen into the eventual depravity that lorded these lands? Lowlander lands. There was fear in that thought—to know, now, above these grounds, were his people, butchering themselves, dying at the hands of the mine leaders, Casters, Excubitors. And…Moeash.
Why did you do this? Merrin cried within. WHY! He resented the man-child, yet wanted to know the source of the action.
"They do not need you anymore."
They still did. Just for a while longer, the witnesses needed his hands—it was not to be an eternal thing; one day, outside the mines, when he had ushered them freedom, peace, he would vanish. Seek personal atonement for the deaths and sins. But not now. Much still needed to be done.
And Moeash had halted the procession.
What happens now? That was the dangling mentation. To ponder it invited a greater agony. No peace culmination, just more death. More pain. More sorrow. If he did, the path led to one singularity.
The deaths of the Witnesses.
Merrin did not wish that; visualized or not, he sought solace in other memories. Anything else to avoid the inevitable ponderings. They still live, he told himself. They exist above these lands. Ron, Catelyn, Yeimen, Davos, and…Moeash, too. They would protect them. Safety could be assured.
Merrin scribbled the words on the earth, unsure of the outcome. Please, be safe. The throb warmed, striking a spasm through his awareness. Trembling. Uncontrollable quavering. This whispered a suspected notion. Moeash had done something else.
An intense suffering, yes, but something else. The internal self restored force in a weaker length; the stomach, oddly, felt distant, as though pierced by a million swords, emptying its internal contents in constant flows.
Something was leaking out of him. That kept the strength lowered.
Even the granted force, by whoever his savior was, grew dim by the moments. Soon, the nullness of the mind would return. A singular alternative presented itself. Before the severity reached the climactic point, the grayworld could be used as a means for empowerment.
This could not have been achieved before. The identity told of this. Beyond a certain threshold, insentience brought a greater danger. The mindForce was essentially the mind; hence, below a point, it collapsed into darkness. Brain-death. Alive, but not alive.
But now—that possibility echoed advantageously. So Merrin, despite the great despair that bubbled within the depths of his soul, screaming for absolute yielding, he took hold of hope, that blazing desire—there. And he moved on.
The first sound was the throbbing of distant thunder, violence flashing white across the heavens. There, Merrin existed, floating above the world, solemn, observing the discovered difference. Translucent, the sea of black beads below could be seen through his pale, sunken fingers. Strange, he moved them, swiping the air—nothing. No change, just the eerie gauziness. Odd to watch.
Something belted into a cloud, vaporizing. Out it went, a dark dot on the surface of the gray collection; the bird. Always flying. It circled above, wings flapping, resting in arched turns—almost a dance to behold. Then, it dived, piercing the wind. Downwards. Merrin stepped back, the creature cutting down past him. Its wings opened, hovering inches from the ground. Up it went. A flash of motions. And it was before him, winging, an amused expression plastered on its beaked face.
"You have been harmed." It said, no attempt at hiding the glee.
"Yes."
"Not the same thing." It rounded him.
"What?"
"I'm saying we are not talking about the same thing." It perched atop his shoulders. "Your soul has been battered, and I think the same for your heart. I always wonder why you, El'shadies, bear such emotions. Such futile things."
Merrin discarded most of the spoken words. "My soul was harmed?"
"Two times now," it said. "This could become a dangerous habit. Though I would say the current one poses a greater threat than the other."
A shiver ran down, strangely distant.
The bird continued. "That weapon that stabbed you is peculiar. A symbol is within it. A symbol that should not exist in your world."
Again, it made that distinction. "Your" world.
"Whatever it was, it had punctured a hole in your soul body; it leaks now. Of course, eventually this rift will be closed. I sense perhaps the user was unaware of the extent of its power."
"A weapon within a symbol?" Merrin recalled the severity ring.
"Yes, that. A daft definition, but it will have to do." It took to the sky, voice ever close. "The weapon left a scar, but the soul, like the physical self, can heal. However, this is only possible because of the immense amount of your force. A mundane human would have long died."
"Died?" It hovered down, tilting.
"Is your soul not the energy that moves the body?" it said. "The mind is the power of thoughts; the soul is the power of life. The emptiness of the latter is true death. No…afterlife, as you people call it. Damnation or whatnot."
"Is that why I'm like this?" Merrin showed the sheer fingers.
"Your soul, as well as your mind, are the aspects that access this world. Be careful of how you batter them."
"I see," Merrin said. "What about my people?"
"Hmm." It made a sound.
"Can I enter their dreams?"
"How easily you do this, even though you trap them each time it is done," it said. "But no, I do not know why, but a seal exists in those grounds. Nothing by casting means can escape it. Dreams or whatnot."
"What?" This echoed as essential.
"Must I repeat myself?" The bird settled on one of the dream castle spires, though that part of the grayworld was divided with a layer of painted image. Within it, they saw a vast landscape; outside, a horizon of grayness could be observed.
It continued. "Symbols acting against escaping exist within those mines; anything contained beyond a certain level cannot leave it. That includes you."
"What?"
"Does your harmed soul also affect your mind?" the bird said. "It's old, that much I can tell. A seal to keep beings contained by force, and certain extras. I suppose the latter was the original intent; Time resulted in the inclusion of most contained beings."
Merrin simply sighed. "So I couldn't have escaped either way." Moeash did not even have to harm me. "Is there a way out?"
"Destroy the casting."
"How?"
"That requires a better view of your immediate reality." Somehow, he felt the bird had shrugged. "Discover, learn, and maybe you might find something. That, or you become the first El'shadie to die in a cave—wait, no, there was the other one." It took to the sky.
Merrin remained now, alone, staring out at the world line of gray, into the black. Further, the mind played a game of thinking the end at that horizon. It was not. This he knew with frightening accuracy. Years could be taken walking the paths, and the end would remain beyond sight. It was a peculiar thing. To know he stands now in infinity.
It beckons a question: how long before that very infinity corrupts him and he begins to think like the divine? His thoughts shifted to another—the world below that required his attention. That action presented itself as a mind-clearing thing, to passively ponder whilst at work. More so, it trained the caster capabilities—more, more. Power played more parts in his universe.
Merrin sighed, hovered down.