1.4 Like Floodwater

General Summary

Day 6

Before we leave the village, whose name is Whitewater, Bran gives me some gifts: A blade meant for my own flesh and a sword meant for others’. I hope I can wield them well. The sword is long and agile and it feels familiar. I wonder if I was a warrior as well as a mage.   As we walk, the three of us talk about the history of this world. Whitewater is named for the sulfurous springs that purportedly have healing properties, though Bran scoffs at them. Apparently shysters happily accept coin to guide desperate people to bathe in foul-smelling waters that they hope will cure them. People want to believe things.   They also tell me more about Elder Haman. He rarely shares his knowledge of magic, taking apprentices rarely. Apparently he likes teaching pretty young girls and his apprentices flee to Ipth when he pushes too far. I think of Hella...perhaps when we return I will make an effort to lend her some caution. She was so curious..maybe she would make a better mage than mystic.   Bran has told me that wizards use rules to channel the arcane, while mystics are conduits for something more personal. While Thalien focused on a striking snake for casting a particular ritual, Bran’s focus for the same ritual is a kingfisher. This sounds likely. I know I could teach someone the precise glyphs and somatics to cast the same way I do, if they have the talent, but it sounds like Thalien had to help Bran discover his own methods.   Bran and Rosalia tell me of the other races of this land: Fae who are small and flighty and pack so much into short lives, Trolls who are taller than Bran and are still in mourning for god-knows-what, and the Dwarves who keep to themselves. This land is full of humans who came from across the sea and left their gods there as well, though their worship persists here. Elder Haman’s god apparently doesn’t care about his behaviour, or is too far away to do anything about it. They also tell me of the Beast, who is the only figure that people here seem to fear the same way they fear me.   I asked why there are so many humans here, but Thalien once asked why there are so few compared to the ruins they inhabit. They came across the sea and settled in abandoned cities that were here long before. Whose cities are they? Why were they empty?   This is a grand question, but the thought is interrupted by the vague prickling feeling of ill-made magic in the air. Rosalia is thankfully oblivious to it, though Bran and I are both on edge.   As we make camp, Bran offers me a ritual. He knows one to help gaze into the future and offers to try reversing it to see into my past. This sounds like the sort of decision that will bring questions but no answers...but what’s a few more questions on top of the ones I already have? He hands me a bowl of water to gaze into and positions me between four candles. Rosalia takes up watch while we focus.   Bran chants in Elvish. The phrases refer to time as a river. To the lenses that we see through as we look forward and back. The water grows in my vision until I feel like I’m underwater.  

Dal is with me. Thalien is with me. There’s a woman - an archer...her name is Lyssa. The four of us are standing, looking out at a horde of soldiers. The horde of soldiers are not elvish. They’re massive brutes with thick, elephant-like hide. Some have tusks, some have trunk-like snouts. Their armor is brightly painted, almost like the reflective enamel of an insect. They glisten in a myriad of colours and hues. There are four us between this army and...whatever is behind us. We never look back at the thing we are protecting. I know we are protecting something vital. They charge us in a narrow mountainous pass. As they charge, I cut myself and start casting a spell. As I cut each other person and collect their blood into a vessel, I mix and use to draw a glyph on each person’s chest. Power flows through me and my vision sharpens. Everything is more. In my memory, I know I have Lyssa’s vision, Dal’s strength, Thalien’s reflexes. Each of us shares in each other’s strength. The army charges and the four of us unleash hell. Lyssa is unleashing arrow after arrow and never missing. I raise a staff and lightning crackles from my hands as bolt after bolt of energy sails towards them. Anything that gets past us dies on Dal’s spear. Thalien is dancing back and forth across the line with a sword like a steel blur...like a striking snake. Wherever he is, bodies seem to explode away from him like they’ve been struck by my lightning. Eventually we are in the thick of it but nothing gets past us. After hours, the army breaks and retreats. I am beyond tired as the magic finally drains from us. Part of this memory says, as I think about the foe, that they will regret the day they stood against the Dread Lady. I am referring to myself, I think.

 

I’m walking amongst row after row of wounded. They’re not soldiers. They’re villagers, craftspeople, farmers. I’m kneeling here and there to offer words of comfort. Deep in my chest is a seething anger. I make promises that I can’t keep, like ashes on my lips as I tell them they’ll be able to go home again. I know it’s a lie but I also know that the people I’m lying to won’t survive the night. I tell them I’ll take care of their children. I tell them that I’ll find their loved ones. I tell them whatever they need to hear. I keep looking over my shoulder at the people who aren’t there. This feels like a fresh memory - Thalien should be with me. It’s hard to do this without him and Dal and Lyssa. It’s hard to do this without...the name escapes me. It’s so very hard. I’m so very worn. My arms are covered in dozens of self-inflicted cuts. I know I have cast myself dry for days on end and the magic and self-sacrifice is taking its toll. I don’t know how much longer I can do it. I go to the next person and tell them another lie. They relax and die in my arms. There’s a sense of duty in what I’m doing. These people were looking to me for a reason. I am responsible for them not just because of my conscience, but because I have an obligation to them.

 

The creatures from before - I’m fighting them again but without the others. This time I’m not winning. This time soldiers standing next to me are falling. I’m being picked up and dragged away in the big meaty hand of one of the beasts. I’m thrown deep into the charging horde. I’m being cut and smashed and stomped underfoot. At some point, I think they believe I’m dead because the pain stops and the march moves past me.

 

Thalien is singing to me. I’m so very weak and I can’t make out the words. But the song is familiar and it calms me. It’s not just that Thalien’s song is there...my head is in someone’s lap. They’re running delicate fingers through my hair and holding me close. Someone my mind still labels “Mistress”.

  In all of my early memories, I’m wearing plain clothing. I came from common farming folk. In these later memories, I wear elaborate robes of silk and brocade. There are runes along the seams. I’m dressed like a high wizard - an archmage.   When I come to, I’m curled in Rosalia’s lap, sobbing, and Bran is singing Thalien’s song. I want to stop them, because Bran is not Thalien and that song doesn’t belong to him. Rosalia is not my Mistress and I don’t want her fingers running through my hair.   But these are my people now, and they are not responsible for avoiding memories that even I didn’t know about.   Rosalia reassures me, as she always does. She’s still amazed that I keep going and I can see these memories. I don’t know what other option there is. I sent friends here to wait and die for me. I was protecting something. Something was worth doing this for, and so I must remember what