Chapter 153
The Prince Foretold
The winds were blowing cold and harsh, their touch akin to a knife's scrape against the skin. They were relentless, void of emotion, cutting through the world at their own pace. Valen had heard the winds often, but always from the comfort of the castle's walls--especially recently. To him, the winds were a soothing melody deep at night that chased the demons away and allowed him to catch a few hours of sleep. That melody, however, had turned dark and turpid--for even coated in several layers of wool and leather and while perched on the back of a man that seemed to be burning, he still felt the cold.
His cheeks suffered the most, but he could not voice a complaint; after all, there was a woman there, walking on her own, who seemed entirely unbothered by the weather. And then there was Sylas--the man who was walking dressed as lightly as though it were summer, carrying Valen on his back, next to several bags and satchels of supplies. It was strange, Valen would think. He could still recall Sylas when he first met him--a scrawny, strange man who looked more a bookworm than a soldier. That had changed, however. Now, he hung on the shoulders of a broad giant who seemed he could lift a boulder and toss it a mile high.
They took breaks often--every three hours--but it was not because either of them seemed to require rest. It was all for him. For even carried, he grew weary and hurt. And he was. Often, he wanted to close his eyes and drift--but the chilly, bone-cutting cold would not let him. He'd snuggle against the flames and was in want of leaping into them, only ever stopped by the scrutinizing eyes of the Prophet.
There was little conversation, Valen realized, even days into their journey. Most of it was cut and dry check of supplies and condition. Both the woman and the Prophet seemed single-minded in their pursuit of something--and Valen was left hanging in the dark. He did not know why he was being taken or where he was being taken. He knew it had something to do with his String--the tiny bit of magic that Gods had assigned to him upon birth--but even after repeatedly telling Sylas that the String was worthless... the Prophet did not listen or cared.
As such, he could only remain mute and swallow his thoughts. All else aside, he trusted Sylas, perhaps more so than all men and women in his life combined. The trust weaved beyond mere words and tempers; it was the kind of trust that abounded logic and reason, and almost seemed innate, as though it was always there. Like the trust unbetrayed children had toward their parents. There was a bit of that, too, Valen knew--Sylas, though a grinning fool of his choice most of the time, was much older than Valen. In many ways, Valen felt, Sylas was older than his age. And he'd taught him many things--all of which Valen had held close to his heart.
Due to it all, Valen would walk--or at least crawl--even through the fires upon the Prophet's urging. Though it was hidden and silent and brooding, the Prince was not blind to the guilt and shame in the Prophet's eyes. It was strange--Valen had dreamed many dreams in which Sylas had gone completely mad following that day, but with each dream, it seemed to be a bit better. A bit less lonely. The Prophet held his flesh and mind stitched together by the needles of something far higher than Valen could glimpse. But the guilt remained. It was there each and every time their eyes would lock. It was there every time Ryne spoke, and it was there every time Derrek would touch the handle of his blade longingly.
Prophets were above men, the old adage uttered--but more and more, Valen glimpsed more of a man in Sylas than the Prophet. And it made him realize one simple truth that the world seems to forget when in the presence of people touched by the Divine. Before they are divine, they are human. On that day, all their hearts were cracked as though a bolt of lightning speared through them--and Sylas wasn't above it. Perchance, in a strange way, he was worse off, for he was the only one to come unscathed. He seemed to hate the Gods' love for him. Hate what he had become.
However, though the Prophet was wise to many truths, he was blind to the people of the castle. There was no blame toward him, no ire, no anger, not from anyone, living or the dead. After all, the only reason the castle stood, the only reason the castle still stands, are the eyes of the man who buried himself in the cold winter to stay with his fellow man. He fought against the dead with his own flesh and bones and heralded the defense that had no right in succeeding. They all should have died to the army of the ghouls and monsters beyond the wall. But they lived. It was as though he went against the Gods' plans... and they attempted to reconcile his sins, to warn him that though their vessel he was, he was not above them.
"Two more days, I suppose," the woman spoke softly as they reared into a tiny opening in the side of the mountain, hiding from the winds that were now as sharp as the steel-forged swords. Were it not for Sylas effectively acting as a fully-body shield for him, Valen had no doubt he'd be covered in cuts and bruises from head to toe.
"Yeah," Sylas replied, stirring the stew in the pot hanging over the finely blazing fire. "You're hanging much better this time around."
"What do you hope to find there, Sylas?" the woman asked the question Valen himself had been burning to ask ever since the start of the journey.
"Answers," Sylas replied.
"Answers to what?" she added further. "Are they really that important that you need to drag him through the hell for it?"
"Yes," the Prophet seemed firm in his answer, though a shiver of doubt and uncertainty was there, even if deeply hidden. "They have to be."
The uncertainty was revealed in the answer, though neither Valen nor the woman pointed it out. It was clear that he was searching for something--and that he was desperate. As for what... Valen didn't know. By now, the Prince had realized that the Prophet hardly ever shared the whole story with him. He kept Valen in the dark and longing, only ever giving just enough to sate the Prince's curiosity. The biggest one--that he somehow seemed to have conversed with his Lord Father the King--was given no further explanation. Audience with the King... there can't be more than two people in the last ten years who have met Father...
Most of the public things had been taken care of by the Queen, and the King had slowly drifted into the lull. And yet, the Prophet spoke to him--spoke to the man who was as elusive as the Red Star.
They began moving soon after, climbing up the steep and slippery mountains that Valen--and the whole rest of the Kingdom--thought unconquerable. After all, the men and women gazed upon the misted behemoths and saw the untouchable gods, the deviants of death that would freeze and murder every man courageous and foolish enough to temper them. And yet, despite the discomfort, the climb was... easy. It is because of them...
As the woman predicted, within the two days, the trio reached the summit--a flat and open floor of sorts sprawled forward in a rough circle, edges heaving up like jagged blades. They were above the clouds, and the blue sky was all Valen saw--and his breath came to a standstill in his throat like a lump. It was a sight beyond beauty, the kind that a man can only ever see once in his life.
There was no longer the gray and ashen hanging above them, no snow drifting to chill, no thunder and darkness. He saw the sun looming, saw the cosmic reality drape across the tapestry of creation. It felt as though he had just taken his first breath, had just begun the life those joyful foretold. It was a new world, a world divorced from the infernal cascade of drudgery down below. A world void of pain, suffering, ills, and inflictions. A world without misfortune. The world that only ever sang the songs of joy.
"Beautiful, ain't it?" Sylas commented, his lips flickering into a smile.
"Most beautiful," Valen replied subconsciously.
The Prince remained silent for a long while, and neither the woman nor Sylas spoke or moved--they let him have the moment, he'd come to realize after waking up. They let him live inside the blissful dream for as long as he wished. For those brief moments of respite, he was no longer a cripple bound to a wheeled chair, but a dragon who could part his wings and fly free through the aeonian skies.
"... thank you," the Prince mumbled, cowering behind Sylas' nape, teary-eyed. "Thank you," his voice cracked softly like the rustling of the Autumn leaves. A story was told between those two words, but the story was silent. Just like his heart became for the first time since the day he nearly died.
He felt Sylas move once again as they began to cross the summit's sprawl, moving toward the other edge. Valen quickly stabilized his heart, the best he could, and peeked over the Prophet's shoulder. He was brought for a reason, and it was not merely for the sight of the cosmos. He'd do all he could to justify being taken all the way here, however. All he could.
Soon, the trio reached the edge and a new world opened up before them--strangely enough, there were no clouds blocking the view, there was no snow or ice or any manner of hell. It was as though this side of the mountain existed in a completely different reality independent of the one on the other side. There were trees and lush bushes and grass and flowerbeds and wild orchards and even a lake.
And there were people dressed in simple yet luxurious raiments, and there were mild-tempered, horned hogs running about, and there were white-eyed children, and tail-having creatures like humans, and there were dragons bounding the sky in wide and open circles, and there was the fish in the lake that shone in the colors of the rainbow and cosmos and danced unperturbed, and there was love and calm and peace and harmony, and there was the scent of lavender and rose and perfumed beauty of life. And there was a man with one eye where two ought to be, and the man was standing still and was silent, and the man turned suddenly and looked at Valen, his one eye turning kind and warm.
"Welcome," the man spoke in the means of the wind, the hustle that tingled Valen's ears. "The Prince foretold."