Chapter 174
A Puzzle Called Life
The woman had strangely spawned a table of delicacies—from fruits and snacks to drinks, some of them even those from Earth—while Sylas perused her thoughts in silence. The table floated slightly above the water, just at the level of his knees, adjusting per his body's movement, staying the perfect distance.
He nibbled away at the various fruits absentmindedly, occasionally reaching for some beer and whiskey to water it down. It all still felt quite surreal, and part of him believed it was all a dream, that he had died while battling just outside the citadel and was making this all up just to make himself feel a bit better. It was nonsense, of course. He had died plenty more embarrassing and shameful deaths… and never once did his brain conjure up an excuse. That wasn't how it all worked.
"You've made me quite depressed, you know?" Sylas chuckled, taking another shot of whiskey.
"You were already losing your grip by the time you came here," she replied with a smile. "It needed to be brought up to the surface… so that you may slowly languish through it all."
"Was much easier just keeping it buried."
"Floods wash out even the best-hidden secrets, Sylas, and many floods you would encounter. Best you face the mirror in the sanctuary like this."
"Still can't quite grasp why you're doing all this. Entertainment?"
"… in part. But… you have stopped asking questions."
"The more I ask, the more I wish I didn't," he sighed. "What will happen to me? After I help Valen, I mean. Will I die? Since I won't be returning to Earth, it means I'm either gonna die, or you'll take away my immortality."
"What happens after… will be your choice to make and not mine," she replied cryptically.
"Ah, of course. Answer that is a non-answer. How very… cosmic being of you."
"You'll come to learn that most answers—the ones that truly matter, anyway—are like that," she explained with a smile, one that seemed to never go away. "Poets of your world have anguished over putting love into words for thousands of years, each trying to come up with the perfect way to summarize something that every human innately knew. And though many of those words came close, none quite captured the feeling perfectly. And if something as simple as love, something that almost everything with a heartbeat or its equivalent feels, cannot be quite summarily explained in words… how do you expect most of those grandiose things to have perfect answers? Let alone your fate, one of which I have no control over."
"But you know things," he said. "Things that could give me those answers."
"Things I know would only give you more questions. Let me tell you a story."
"…" Sylas stayed silent, pouring himself another glass of whiskey.
"Long, long ago, before Earth was even a cosmic spec, there was a family of five living in a distant, distant world. There was a mother and a father, and there were two sons and a daughter. They were a family of what their people called 'Shaemeen'. Fits well with your understanding of 'Shaman'. Close to nature, loved by it, adored even. One day, however, their oldest son got extremely sick. They sought help from all the famous doctors of their world, but nobody knew what was wrong with him—and thus, they said it was a curse… and it was the punishment for something he had done. But they knew their son—he would have never done something to draw the ire of Spirits. That was when the mother recalled an old legend that was passed down in her family—if ever in need of something fanatical, one ought to climb the Hill of Dreams with a pot of fine wine and pray for seven days and eight nights. Then, at the break of dawn of the eight day, the Spirit will come to their aid."
"Let me guess—you are that spirit?" Sylas asked with a smile.
"I was once taking a rest on that hill," she smiled back. "When a young man came upon it. For seven days and eight nights, he prayed and wept like a little babe. Rather than taking pity… I was just annoyed by his crying, to be honest. After I helped him, I suppose he spread the tale down his family line. So, one day, mother and father and their two healthy children all made the pilgrimage. Though I wasn't there, I always leave my marks around the worlds I visit, to keep an eye out on them. So, I felt them approaching—and got curious. Just like the man before them, they prayed for seven days and eight nights and, unlike before, I showed myself out of pity."
"…"
"And so they asked me: o' great Spirit, why is our son sick? He had never hurt a fly! Never cursed! Never lied! Never cheated! Why is he being punished?"
"… he wasn't," Sylas mumbled.
"He was, though for his own negligence," she replied. "He was bitten by a snake because he tried to rescue a rabbit from its grips."
"Jesus. Who was this guy? A fuckin' saint?"
"I didn't have an answer for them—not the one that could placate their souls, anyway. To tell them their son was a moron would be wasteful. To lie it would be pointless. So, I simply gave them a bottle and told them they should feed it to him as soon as possible. Do you know what they did?"
"Kissed your feet and sang you songs?" Sylas chuckled.
"They gave their two healthy children as offerings and left."
"…"
"…"
"Say what now?"
"And so, the young twins, barely six years old, stood there on the ledge watching me. I never asked for them, never asked for the offering, for the sacrifice. But was given it nonetheless. Then there it came: another question with no answer. Why?"
"'cause people are stupid? Seems to be an answer to a lot of questions."
"If you wish to be dishonest about it. The truth is that they valued their oldest more than the other two. Or, perhaps, they never wanted the other two and found that to be a nice way to discard them and then blame it on the 'spirit'. 'Oh, no, no—you see, we didn't want to leave the twins behind, but the spirit made us, we swear!'. Or, perhaps, they thought I would take the twins under my wing and make them spirits too. Or, then again, it could have been a million other reasons. We can make educated guesses, but we can never truly know what is in someone's heart."
"… I'm guessing you can," Sylas said.
"In time, you learn, there is nothing worse than demystifying the mystique of life."
"So, what happened to the twins?"
"…" she merely smiled.
"Ah. Another question with no proper answer. Can you at least tell me how old are you?"
"Very," she replied. "I don't think a number would quantify it, not really. I have lived long to see dust warp itself into galaxies and see those galaxies turn to dust… many times."
"So, I'll leave this place as blind as I entered, then?" Sylas quizzed, taking another shot of whiskey. Strangely enough, he was beginning to feel hazy and oddly wobbly, something he hadn't felt in a long, long time.
"I don't know about that," she said. "I've told you many things, I do think. And you've learned the beginning of your story, Sylas. Isn't that what you wanted the most?"
"I wanted the whole story," he said. "Not just the beginning."
"How can I give you the whole story when you're still living it?
"Help me remember them," he suddenly asked, lowering his head.
"… why?" she asked back after a momentary silence.
"Because… I have to remember them," he replied. "Either help me remember them, or make me forget completely. The darkness around them is… terrifying."
"You have done for them in life all that you could," she said. "In death, you are free to let go. Isn't that what she asked of you?"
"… I wouldn't know," he mumbled.
"There is a journey ahead of you, Sylas. A journey that will determine everything. I understand that past is comforting for it is known, and the future is terrifying for it is veiled in the pitch-black darkness, and the uncertainty is like a sharp blade for a soul, but all things must move forward. Time is such, even for you, and for me. Though we may bend it to our will here and there and replay some parts of our lives, one day or another… we have to step bravely into tomorrow and face all the demons waiting for us. And we must do so without looking back. What for others is a lifetime, for us is a flash. While they can reckon in regret and woe, we have to rise above it."
"And if we don't?"
"We do. Always," she added with a gentler tone. "Some do it in centuries, some in millennia, and some yet in the infinite. The alternative is death, but the temptation of infinity is oft too sweet."
"You think so?" he asked.
"Is it not?" she asked back. "In your darkest moment, you would have given the world to die, I have no doubts. But, today, if a whisper came and told you a simple thing, that you could die right now and right here… would you say yes?"
"…"
"Happiness is the fuel of life—and once a soul is found in its content, it fears relinquishing any of it. Some day, we will die. Nothing is infinite, not even the time itself. But, until that day, there is much recourse to live, and even more to enjoy the life. Today, perhaps, is drenched in pain of loss—but tomorrow yet could be a rainfall of joy. And once a heart experiences the exult of the invincible, it latches onto it like the claws of a hunter latching unto its prey, never letting go. You now love and have reasons to wake up in the morning, even in the chaos of reliving your greatest regret. Such is a human heart, Sylas. Full of wonder and mystery. Just like life itself—a puzzle nobody has ever been able to quite solve."
END OF BOOK II