As days and nights went by, the forest turned more and more familiar as old memories of things done before climbed from the back of his mind to the forefront. He had found the markings, crosses burned onto the bark of trees, and they led him through the wilderness. All he did was this: walk, eat, sleep, and dream.
The figure in his dreams always waited for him wherever he found his way. Some nights it would idly sit on the other side of his campfire, other nights it came closer and closer, until it would lie beside him and stare. Yet still, even when the figure was so close, shadows covered where his face would be, and its screams filled every silent moment that one might have in a dream.
Perhaps, without such nightmares, he wouldn't feel like the world looked at only him; he wouldn't feel like the shadows in the night and throughout the days were following him. Even the reflections in the creeks and the small puddles loomed closer and looked within.
The days and nights grew colder, yet it had not rained since he first stepped into the woods. And through the branches and small clearings, the red hue of the clouded sun lit his way with its dimmed lights. Kanrel wanted to be embraced by all that it could offer, but how could it and how could he, when the clouds so gathered, awaiting for a moment where the world below could only be cleansed by the white of snow. Surely, it would wash away his sins.
The further away he traversed from the first burned cross he had found, the more clearings he found, where signs of woodcutting and other human touches could be seen.
And soon came the day when, through the trees, he saw a structure. Perhaps it was Jersten, though he was at first unsure of it, for unfamiliar buildings spread across his view. He stood still for a long while, staring at a location that felt familiar, yet wasn't.
A memory went through him. Children playing in the snow during the last days of winter; already, the signs of spring could be seen. A snowball lunged at him.
He blinked, and the memory ended.
This was the field where he had first met Roslyn. Now it was a clear extension of the village. Houses built from stone and wood rose from where flowers had once grown. Some were two stories tall. The once-village sprawled further, more buildings had been erected, and there were even some paved streets in some parts of the village.
Kanrel shook his head. This was Jersten, but not the village he once knew. It had grown into a town, one that he had envisioned could become, but never had the chance to witness its growth. He knew that within there should be a sense of satisfaction, but he could only despair, for no walls had been built to protect the town from potential banditry, wolves, or even worse... cultists.
But perhaps there had been no need. Perhaps the kingdom was now rid of such things. He could only hope.
He descended the tiny slope on which he stood and walked by the couple of last remnants of the forest. His hands left the final birch tree, and he stepped onto a path that converged into a road connecting civilization with nature. Above, the red sun loomed; and as he reached the first building, a simple house certainly used by a family of few, he already knew that things were awry.
There was stillness around. No voices to be heard, only the wind traversed through the town, and as it went by, it carried many different sounds, like memories of people.
The wooden creaks of a house that fought against the wind and its own weight. Fallen leaves that brushed against the streets and the sides of the buildings as they flew further away. A bell that rang far away, a sound so muted and dim, like the sun above.
He crouched down and felt the stone foundations of the house, and wondered whether Isbit Jenkse had decided to return to masonry instead of tending to the farm that his father left behind. He got up and walked to the door. He knocked a couple of times, but heard nothing inside. "Hello?" he called, "Anyone in there?" but no one replied.
He tried the door... it was locked. The family who lived here must not have been home. He walked back to the other side of the house and peered in through the gently frozen windows. Inside, it seemed, was just like any other home. Though strangely, in the middle of the room he could see into, he saw clothes in a loose pile; there were even shoes there.
Kanrel shook his head and moved on, returning to the road. He entered the town proper. He went from door to door, knocking, trying to see if any of them were open. After each house passed, it all felt more wrong. He felt so tense, like a bow ready to fire an arrow; so ready he was to just sprint, or even to hurl a ball of fire or whatever he could to stop whatever he first would come across.
The town was dead. Empty and abandoned... Why?
Then, he reached a house that didn't have its door locked. The door opened with a long screech that forced shivers through his spine. He stood by the threshold for a moment longer than felt comfortable; in fact, the idea of just waltzing into someone else's house, their domain, felt like an infraction of privacy.
But the door was open, already. He could see within. A simple kitchen-living room, with a table and a fireplace, some chairs, and a few doors that would surely open to bedrooms or storage rooms.
If it was just that... he would've not stepped inside, but the place was messy. Things were thrown around, cabinets were open and empty, and a shattered plate lay on the wooden floor. No one had touched it. No one had cared to sweep away the sharp shards.
He stepped inside. He knew it was impolite to do so, especially while still wearing shoes, but he would much rather keep his feet safe from the pieces of porcelain.
The next few minutes, he carefully investigated the house, and found no reasons for leaving such a functioning house behind—some would've called it lovely, or homely. The building was well-constructed. Any sane man or woman would buy it for themselves if they needed a good home to live in for the rest of their lives.
From what he could gather, the house was perhaps once inhabited by an older couple; neither of whom could read since there weren't any bookshelves or books left behind; no random notes or even writing supplies. Maybe they had a daughter or a son who now lived in a home of their own, further from here, for there was an extra room with things still intact, which a child might've once used.
Wherever they were, the couple and their offspring, Kanrel hoped that they'd be fine. Whatever had caused their sudden departure from their home, or from Jersten, had been because of other reasons, potentially violence.
Followed by a sigh, Kanrel stepped outside and closed the door behind him. He stopped knocking on every door and even trying to open the doors. It was clear that no one was here.
But the wind washed over him again, carrying a sound... a slam... a slam... a slam... His ears perked up, and he followed the sound... He walked by a couple more houses until he reached one that had its door wide open; with the rhythm of the wind, it opened with a creak, then slammed against its doorway.
Shivers ran through him. Not because of the door and how it kept opening and closing under the mercy of the wind... But because of the house itself. It was the first one he so clearly knew and remembered.
This was Joor Kenver's house.
Kanrel had visited once before. Mainly to check on the man, to make sure that he hadn't died through one way or another. Kanrel had, back then, knocked on the door and forced himself inside, only to find the house empty. Rancid and disorganized. A mess, but the man had been nowhere to be seen. And just when he was about to leave, to call for a search party to find the damned fool, Joor simply waltzed inside. Surprised as ever, though a cloud seemed to follow him.
"What's the matter?" Joor had asked, and Kanrel could only stare at him for a moment before asking a question of his own, "Where were you?"
The shadow covered Joor's expression as he said, "The backyard."
Kanrel blinked and went to the door. He looked inside. It was empty, clean, there were no things scattered around. His brows furrowed, and he closed the door and made sure that it would stay so. He stepped down from the steps and walked around the corner, following the walls of the building, then reached the backyard.
He came to a stop.
Across from him, below an old oak tree, were two headstones, neatly placed beside one another. One was clean and much newer; the other was weathered and had stood there for at least a few decades.
With hesitant steps, Kanrel reached them. And again, like way back then, he could only stare at Joor, or where he now was.
He felt conflicted. Someone he knew had died, perhaps many years ago. And what was left of him was just a stone that read his name and nothing more. But... Kanrel stared at the other, older stone... He now lay beside the woman he longed for.
Kanrel remembered what Joor had asked him: "Can I see her again? Can I one day see her just for a moment? Can I love her when I am no longer here? Is there nothing after death?"
And Kanrel had tried to comfort the man, he had tried to give him answers... but the man was still just alone. Joor could not touch her again. He could not hear her. What Elys had become was just ash, and the memory of her had weighed him down with her. Because of his love, his obsession, he had become a shell, unable to live as his own being.
Kanrel shook his head. He tried to discard all these complicated emotions that rushed through him, for they only made him wonder whether there was such a thing as an afterlife, just for the two of them, just so they could be one again, even if only for a moment that would soon turn into endless darkness to give both the rest they deserved.
He swallowed the answers to his questions; the tears that felt wrong to shed, for Joor had surely gotten what he had wanted, and Kanrel's tears could never be the thing that should be placed over an outcome meant to be joyous.
If only he had flowers with him, to form a bed of roses to arouse two lovers long torn asunder for the moment of their long-awaited reunion.
He stepped away and left Joor's house, and from far away Kanrel heard the bell that called him to enter the house of the Angels.
Kanrel stumbled forth, like a ghost in a town meant for the dead. The other houses around him had lost meaning; only the tolling of the bells was something he cared for. He was tired, a lost soul on his final pilgrimage. The temple, he thought, the temple would have the answers he was looking for...
The tolling got louder as he approached the temple at the center of Jersten. Much had changed, though some things remained the same. He approached it from the east, and what he first noticed weren't the changes that might have happened to the temple itself, but instead the market that now sprawled before it.
Markings of another, perhaps much more powerful religion that all men bowed to, even in their most vulnerable moments. For what mattered more for a living man, salvation from sins that he would take to his grave no matter what, or another loaf of bread that could sustain him for another day to worry about the next loaf?
He eyed the booths and the stalls around. On tables and in boxes, there was a wide variety of produce presented to all customers in need. But it seemed that what was left was only a little, and of the things that were left, much of it had been ruined by rain or rotted by time. But the meager offerings that he could steal for himself meant little to him, for his eyes remained on what lay between the booths...
Multiple pairs of shoes and scattered clothes, as well as other belongings, such as purses still full of coins. Why? Had people simply undressed themselves and run away fully nude? Surely not.
He sought for himself another pair of boots, much more fitting for the weather and for traveling. His old pair had barely survived his journey, first through the Veil, and then through the forest. Atheian footwear hadn't clearly been designed with long treks through woods in mind. He also stole a purse filled with coins, as well as another pouch he could carry with him. And the next few minutes, he spent walking from stall to the next, finding whatever supplies he might need for another journey that was surely ahead of him.
He found another blanket and some new clothes that might fit him. He packed it all into his new pouch, and with a sigh, he laid his gaze toward the temple.
It, at least, was mostly the same, though the park surrounding it had grown in size, the trees were taller, and there were some benches scattered around. Brown leaves covered much of the ground surrounding it.
The bell tolled again, and a sudden silence arrived; only the echo of the bell's final ring could be heard. Even the wind had gone still.
Ahead. There stood a figure. Dressed in darkness, it stepped along the main path toward the temple. It moved gracefully, as if sliding towards its destination.
Instinctively, Kanrel yelled after it, "Wait for me!" Through him a new wind sprouted, and he found himself running toward the figure, for the figure had not stopped, nor paid any heed to Kanrel's call. It just went forth, toward the doors of the temple, which were wide open. Inside, lay darkness.
"Wait!" he called for it again, and kept running, but the figure stepped into the temple, disappearing into its darkness.
Kanrel ran past the trees that had shed their autumn colors long ago; he ran past a couple of benches that wore those colors proudly, though mostly in hues of brown now, as did the path that led him to the tall doors that remained still in this sudden silence.
He stood by the doors and looked in, wondering why the figure had not stopped... Had they not heard his call? What if... Kanrel produced multiple codes, one to light his way ahead into the temple, and another that would allow him to subdue whoever had ignored his calls if they proved to want to harm him.
Now, he could see what was inside. A familiar sight, rows of benches, unlit candles, engravings that garnished the walls of the old structure... and the painting above the altar, crooked for some reason. And in that painting was the Angel, still holding on to its sword, still clad in gilded armor; still their face as grotesque as ever, though now Kanrel knew that its face wasn't a mask.
There was no sight of the figure. It had disappeared. Had it ever even existed? Kanrel's brows furrowed, and despite all the bells that rang in his head, screaming of potential danger, he stepped inside. He walked toward the painting, which had become the sole thing he cared about.
It was like fire had gushed within him. Deep, warranted hatred for the thing that he now saw. That he now recognized... He stepped past the benches; no longer was he hesitant. He was certain, and the closer he got, the more certain he became.
The Atheians had called him the Lord from Above. The Sharan had known him as the Angel of War and Peace. Kalla had named him Ignar Orcun. Kalma had known him as his son. The Angel himself had proclaimed himself as such, and what the Book of the Heralds knew him as was simply the Betrayed.
And there he was. In all his glory, trapped in the frame of a painting. A thing he had once wept before, had knelt before, had professed his faith before... To him. To that thing.
It ought not exist.
He discarded his earlier code. Simple fire was not enough; it could never be enough to remove such a stain from existence.
He felt the familiar disgust crawl through him as he formed the light that could only be known as unholy, so as to do a deed much holier than he himself could ever be.
The white flame scorched and filled the silence. Kanrel directed it at the painting, then hurled it toward it, and when this pure magic drenched with its own disgusting existence touched the painting, it was engulfed in fires; it burned much like the many Sharan Kalma had slaughtered with his magics; much like the Sharan Ignar had slaughtered in N'Sharan; much like the Atheians Ignar had slaughtered before his imprisonment... much like the cultist Kanrel had killed, but without leaving a body to remind of his deeds.
As the painting burned, so did the Angel within it, leaving behind naught more than a pile of ash, much like Ignar's lover had left behind as Kalma engulfed her in flames.
Though in these ashes there never was anything worth loving.
Kanrel stared at it for a long while. His chest rose as he recuperated from running and the emotions that he had let control him for a moment, and he found that this petty revenge he had taken toward the lifeless piece of art had left him only more dissatisfied; more disgusted with himself as well as the simple existence of said painting.
How? He almost cursed. How was his depiction here? No man had ever seen him, and surely no Angel would allow any man to know what he had looked like... Unless... Unless they found some reverence in his final actions before his imprisonment... Did the Angels, had they truly judged the Atheians worthy of such a disproportionate punishment? Even if their primary crimes were something so evil as slavery?
Kanrel gritted his teeth and engulfed even the ashes with the unholy light, unnaturally white, burning them further, until there wasn't even ash to exist as a reminder of the painting's existence.
Even that filled him with only further disgust. No satisfaction. No glee of revenge. Nothing. He was hollow. He stared at where the ashes had once been. They might not exist anymore, but his memory of them did, and he couldn't simply burn them away. If only a man could remove his own memories so as to live with himself.
He turned away and walked to the door from where he could enter the living space that had been his home years ago. He opened the door and stepped in, not wanting to spend even a second inside a place meant for the worship of beings not worth deifying.
He shut the door behind him, hoping that if he did so, then the thoughts and feelings related to the temple would dissipate and become a thing of the past. A useless thing to do, he knew.
The room was the same. Nothing had changed. He suddenly relaxed. His clenched fists opened up as he studied his home. The idea of it had not been altered; perhaps the chairs and table were new, but similar enough looking that one could barely tell the difference. The windows still showed the same view, though now with a larger garden.
Though he would have never left all these papers and books just spread on the table. His eyes wandered around and found multiple half-burned candles, which he lit with a simple code; the flames burst from thin air, and their warm lights filled the room with their glare.
He let his own light fall away as he stepped toward the table, his focus fully set on its papers and books. He hoped that he'd find anything at all to give him direction, to point to him what had happened here. Why had people just disappeared, seemingly in the past few weeks or so?
Only one of the books was open, placed next to a stack of papers, a bottle of ink, and a quill whose tip was still tainted from its previous use. Not too far off was a sealed letter, stamped shut with the insignia of the Priesthood.
Before taking the letter, he read through a couple of opened pages of the book. It was a medical record, and it listed many of the ailments of a specific townsperson: Hergen, Orav.
He quickly read through it, only to find himself shaking his head. The old man would soon become but a husk of himself. Someone who can remember only the long-ago-lived youth of their life, not in bliss, but always in constant fear, surrounded by people they would not recognize.
The name sounded somewhat familiar, so he assumed they were someone who had lived here way back then.
Even then, he moved on and grabbed the letter, breaking its seal. Another invasion of privacy, but one he had to do. If there were any information on anything at all, then this letter would have it.
He laid his eyes on the parchment and read through it; his eyes widening:
An inquiry regarding the potential naming of the nameless living in Jersten, specifically Dar, his wife, and their three children.
Although it has long been a taboo of sorts to even discuss this topic, even then, there ought to be questions regarding the matter, as there are many nameless in Jersten, as well as the Kingdom in general, who've given their lives to the crown and the Priesthood. Their contributions to taxes and labor are as valuable as those who have names, and it would be a great shame to needlessly punish these individuals for only living as they should, still discriminated against solely based on things their forefathers did hundreds of years ago.
Though I cannot speak for most nameless, but the ones with whom I've interacted and worked with throughout the years, both in Jersten as well as in Er'Eren, have some merit, dare I claim, enough to deserve a right to a name.
This is, of course, but a humble suggestion. I await your consideration.
Roslyn Hergen, Priest of Jersten.
"Roslyn?" he muttered, and folded the parchment back into its letter. He placed it back into his pouch and read the name in the book for a final time. The old man with dementia was Roslyn's father, and she must have found out about his ailment the day or around the time when the people of Jersten left, or disappeared.
He left the book where it had been, and instead found his way into the bedroom, which now would've been Roslyn's. He searched through the room, finding many of Roslyn's belongings. Had she left in haste, would she leave her things just like this, even journals from years ago?
He even found his old copy of the Book of the Heralds. He flicked through the book until he found the final few lines that he had seen:
'Locked, imprisoned, those you know as the other. Waiting for the lock to open; waiting for the ascension; to breach the surface; to usurp those above. Punished for betrayal; conquered and then enslaved by the shadows; by those within, around, and above. Bloodshed, famine, death. An ending from and for below.'
He felt the earlier tension return as goosebumps spread around his body. He turned the page and read the new additions to the Book of the Heralds, now in someone else's handwriting than his own...
'Time, human, your kind know nothing of time. Your meager minds can barely understand a year, let alone a day. You see it as a connector of one happenstance to the next; a simple chronology of things; a list of events that have happened one after another throughout the course of history.'
'Time, dear human, it is much more complicated than that; for it is what fundamentally alters all of existence, not just the things that you or I experience, but instead the very fabric of reality. Time, in itself, could be the very essence of all things.'
'It is an inevitability. Time will run its course, and all the things that I have seen will come forth, and will change; everything but time itself.'
His skin crawled, yet he turned the page and read the next:
'There will be a tomorrow, not long after today, when a punishment undue shall be completed. There are no chains that can hold it down; no darkness vast enough to hide its desires.'
'There is nothing that can be done in the face of inevitability.'
'Do not shed your tears, human, for when you are gone, love will arise from within you, and at the peril of your people, shall you find a joyous smile to wield and tears to wash long-begotten pain.'
'Do not forget, human, as war comes, peace shall follow, as life ends, death shall rule, and from its wake, another form of peace will rule.'
'I saw them in a dream, embraced by love unfelt by both, with tears in their eyes, with unspoken words stuck in their throats. At the end of them, it descended from the heavens. It claimed for itself a moment meant for joy and reunion. It locked away those words they were never allowed to pronounce.'
'Half of them will be missed, the other half forever cursed.'
Similarly, it went on and on, page after another, mourning the inevitable, never again showing just a conversation between the Angel and the Herald. And on the final page, for now, of the Book of the Heralds, it read:
'Dreadful beauty, a dark flower in bloom. Let your shadow embrace the earth below; let your beauty bless the living with the grace of death.'
There were no other lines written, just this. Kanrel read it again as his skin kept crawling. All that he should've already guessed long ago clicked into place, and he could only woe his existence, for what else had caused all that had happened?
Quickly, he stuffed the book into his pouch, then ran to the front door. He refused to leave through the temple. He ripped the front door open; it slammed against the temple wall; he looked up, up at the heavens, up where the red sun still remained.
The clouds above... dark and suddenly so familiar, for where else could the Veil have gone?
What had he done?
Despair jumped at him. The world; it looked at him. It blamed him. It cursed him. It despised him, perhaps more than he did himself. How could he live with himself now?
All the crimes he had committed, and now this? He had allowed Ignar's freedom; he had allowed the Veil to usurp the world above, to place its darkness against the light of the sun, to shut it away, and bring cold with it.
Kanrel ran to the market and again found the clothes and shoes left behind. Now, they were much like the tools left behind in the Veil. All these scattered things were proof of lives that were now lost. They had become one with the Veil. They had lost their individuality, their memories, and instead gained the collective torment of billions of Sharan.
The world would not stop looking at him, judging him. Kanrel fell to his knees, unable to fully comprehend the entirety of his crimes. But he knew...
He ought not exist.