Let Your Teeth Go Black

By Miraduel

Chapter One – Woah There, Son (What’s Going On?)

He discarded all his memories of rubbish bins and police sirens and strange rooms and

buried them far into his mind so that he could dig them up at some other time. He looked

around and digested this new world that he had birthed from his head and thought it was

pretty cool. He blinked and things changed back to the way they were, but through all his

psyche-wracking he managed to make it diminish again. Occasionally it would make its way

back through the neurons, but for the most part he was now completely immersed in a new

stranger dimension.

And it started to snow again.

And everything was strange and he could hear music and wanted to sing along too and he

breathed in and out and admired the way that nothing ever fell apart and it was all there and

he was there. He concentrated on filtering out the music, because it was something from

before, and if he really wanted to cure himself of whatever he once had, then he would have

to get rid of all of the ‘befores’ and only have the ‘nows.’ The music slowly faded, and all the

memories of the older world disappeared, and he was plunged into the loving arms of the

grim memories of this world, and it was like he had been in this world forever. The persona

was adopted and it was as if this first bit had never happened:

He looked at the wall of mist in front of him. He could hear the humans talking behind him.

The mist didn’t shift when the wind blew and he tensed his muscles and he stopped. He

tensed his muscles again and he was still shivering and he looked at his sister who was to his

left.

He looked at her as if she knew the reason why they stood in front of the tower of mist. She

was scared as well and he looked into her eyes and brought his hands up to touch them and

she was crying.

“We won’t die.”

Snow was falling.

“We won’t die and everything will be fine and you will be fine and it will all go back to the

way it was.”

The guard slashed him across his back with the end of his bow and he cried out in pain and

his voice echoed around and he tensed every muscle in every part of his body and he gritted

his teeth and turned and the feeling burned through his veins. He felt tears flowing down his

cheeks, which he was totally bummed about, because he didn’t like the feeling that other

people could see him being not-of-the-type-not-to-cry.

“Be still. You’ll probably figure out what’s going on soon enough. It shouldn’t be that hard.”

He brought his bound hands up and stretched them around the top of his head and he was

shivering and he felt an indent the same as the grooves of a sword and when he brought his

hands back up to his eyes he could see a streak of red and nothing else and the wound froze

and turned from pain to a scar and it fixed itself to the back of his head and he covered his

eyes.

He looked up and watched as the guard slowly walked away and he wanted to look into his

eyes but not once did he look back and he moved further away still, reaching for the end of

his bow. Somehow he felt like he knew what was going through the guard’s head, but he

probably didn’t have a clue.

He turned because he wanted to know that he was not the only one that was scared and he

saw the line of men and women standing there and they appeared to go in order of age and

they were paired with people of their gender and they were all wearing the same robes, which

were dark and ragged and infested with frost and snow and it was scattered all around them.

At the end of the line stood two old women, both with their heads raised to the heights of the

tower of mist. Their mouths were trembling and their quivering hands were put together and

he thought that they were praying. Probably. He didn’t really know what was going on, to be

honest.

There was no end to the mist above him and it loomed over and its weight pressed against

his skull and his feet were pushed into the ground. It felt like his knees were made of water.

He felt as if there were nails driven through his feet and he tried to move but couldn’t and

every muscle in his body that he tried to alter tensed and then failed and his shoulders were

chains and his body was being dragged down beneath the soil, but really he was just standing

there and it was super cold, so his brain was probably being changed so that he thought all of

these dumb things.

Above him there was no light at all. There was a torch but all that it radiated was darkness

and it was placed firmly in the ground and the wind battered against it. He felt the urge to go

towards it and feel its heat against his hands. He was tied around his siter with a thick rope

and it had been frozen in place and she was fixed to the ground by her own anxiety and her

hands were no longer over her eyes and she was staring into the mist.

“Why are you looking there, dude?”

And the wind swept across and the pieces of white drifted past his eyes.

He thought that he knew the same fear that she did and his mind was changed somehow and

the chemicals rearranged themselves in his head and it was as if the fluids were pushing his

face to make new shapes and he tried to get her attention, looking up at her, waiting for a

response, but her eyes barely moved. Her jaw was fixed open and trembled while shadows

moved in front of her. He put his eyes to the point that hers were because he wanted to see the

same as she did. But he could only see a wall of white and hear the sounds of the wind and

the murmurs of humans who stood behind him.

He turned again and his sister’s face was no longer fixated on the wall of mist, but on the

ground. A tear ran down the side of her face and it stopped short before it reached the corners

of her mouth and it was frozen with the salt that it was born with – ha! He felt good because

he knew he wasn’t the only one that was scared enough to cry about whatever was going on.

“Um… who are we?”

There were cuts on the inside of his fingers and his hands were small and dark and the red

and blue had been pulled from his veins and there was no warmth there. Thinness strangled

his wrists and his bones pierced his skin and he was only in that moment and nothing more,

like in a more menacing way than in those books where it tells you to try and exist solely in

the moment.

He stood there and there was nothing and nothing stirred except the wind and the shifting

mist and still there were the sounds of the humans carelessly kerfuffling cluelessly behind

him.

He turned to his right and his neck was practically made of ice (because it was pretty gosh

darn cold) and his eyes were sore when he opened them and still there was nothing but the

frost over the ground and sheets of ice or something.

The mist cleared to the right of him and he could see the edge of a cliff, looming over a pit

of wind, ice and mist. The mist cleared further and the winds were dying down to reveal that

he was standing on the edge of a sharp height over a coast and it was littered with snow. It

was a pretty sight. Like, he would have painted it if he had a paintbrush or some paints, or

something.

The beach was endless and it stretched out over miles of swept sand and dust. Though he

could not feel the same wind against himself, he could imagine standing down on the shore

with the wind blowing waves over his robes. He imagined it would probably feel quite nice.

But, then again, it looked pretty cold so he retreated on that thought and got annoyed at

himself for ever having it.

His mind began to wander. All of a sudden he swore he could see the shadow of a figure

stretching across the beach. The waves began to stir, and the colour was sapped from the

view. The shadow spread and engulfed the whole beach, and in the middle he could see very

clearly the outline of a man. He stared at it for a few seconds and after a while he lost his

perihpheral vision. He snapped out of it, his vision returned, and the figure disappeared along

with the shadows that once stretched across the beach.

His sister had seen the same that he had and her head was bowed towards the ground and she

was shuddering in the cold and she must have been crying. He figured that there was probably

a lot going on in her head that he wasn’t really ‘getting’ at that point. So he smiled, and tried

to release a few chemicals inside his head and maybe that would lighten the mood for both of

them, but it really wasn’t any use.

He moved closer to her and he put his bound hands in hers so that she knew that he was still

there. He turned again. Now the silence echoed and the humans had become still. The silence

only lasted a short time, but it was long enough for the cold to completely engulf all of him.

The air echoed around and the chemicals pushed against each other to make words inside his

head and he could tell that the humans were moving and he stood still.

Occasionally he swore he could hear the sound of a galloping horse, but every time he did it

would disappear again within a matter of seconds. The sound of hooves made him hopeful,

because maybe then at least something would happen. But it felt like the more hopeful he

was, the less likely it became for anything to happen.

Then, the sound of hooves across the ground grew louder and he could once again hear the

noise of the wind and the murmurs of those who stood around. Now, the humans’ voices were

clearer and sharp, even with the sound of the wind. On the ground what seemed like dust

seemed to fly beneath his feet, gliding along the frost like the wind over the beach below him.

As the galloping stopped, he heard a distance sound of hard, clanging metal. He became

afraid, holding the thought of another guard, wielding heavy armor, though he dared not turn,

in fear also of the guard with the scarred head.

“You should all probs bow for Aelenthir.”

He could hear the sounds of all the humans behind him kneeling to the freezing ground. He

didn’t understand why no one in the line bowed as well, but he kind of just went along with it.

He lifted his feet up and down, one after the other, and hopped around on the ice for a bit

just to generate a tiny bit of warmth to get him through this horrific boredom. He admired the

beauty of the mist in front of him. It shifted a lot, and occasionally cool patterns would

emerge in unexpected places. Every time the mist moved towards them, even by an inch, it

would be pushed back somehow. He thought that was pretty cool too, and wondered where he

could buy some mist like this... maybe they sell it in jars someplace?

So he stood there in the cold, his feet pressed firmly to the white earth beneath him, and he

waited. Waity, waity, waity. He wanted to turn around and see what was going on. Everything

behind him was so motionless that he wouldn’t even be able to tell if the humans had just

upped and left. He was bored. And cold. And bored. He looked to his sister again. Her mouth

was open and there was saliva coming from over her bottom lip. He thought it was gross but

didn’t do anything about it. He had no idea what was going on. He turned around and the

guard had gone. Behind him he could see a bunch of people on their kness, and in the middle

of them, some weird looking old guy.

The men who had their knees to the ground were motionless, stilled by the presence of this

man, as he stood there, his right hand resting on the sword that was tucked firmly into its

sheath. The man standing was small really old, probably. Definitely small, though. Even

though he was dressed with many warm expensive looking robes, they were torn and were

covered in bloodstains, muddying up the brown of his coat with occasionally splodges of red.

“Arusath, get up; I need to speak to you.”

The man rose at his command, though did not rise the full way to the height of the aged

man, but lowered his head and moved to a patch of lower ground than him. They whispered

to each other, occasionally pointing in the direction of the thirteen who stood before the mist.

The kneeling men were asked to stand after a few moments of the men’s conversation, but

were told to stand far from them as they conducted their business.

At once the humans moved away, standing as close to the thirteen as they could manage

without touching them. Everything was very quiet apart from the sound of the wind and the

whispering of the men. They looked strange, like really strange. They didn’t have that same

skeletal-like charm that he had, but for some reason it really seemed to work for them; like it

was how he should have been.

The old guy was angry, and kept throwing his hand to the line of thirteen and swearing and

rubbing his face and generally being a pretty creepy dude. They moved further away still,

looking through the mist. The humans gathered round each other, exchanging scarce words

while the conversation between the two men continued. Again came the deadly silence, and

again he was afraid.

The power of the humans seemed to have diminished as the man rode up to the place, as if

they maintained power among the thirteen until anyone who bore more power than them

should be present. The boy turned, looking into the eyes of one of the humans who stood near

to him. As they made eye contact he noticed something different in this guy. It kind of looked

like the guy pitied him somehow.

The human’s eyes did not move, and only occasionally blinked. It was as if he felt the same

way that the he did as he pondered down upon the beach, connecting with the echo of the

shadow that lay there before mist should come to pull it away. Perhaps the human did not feel

it just to let them stand around in the cold, as his kind were let to wander in peace about the

north, bearing thick robes that protected them from the torturous cold. Then came the most

unexpected thing; the human, from his pity, reached for his pockets, bringing out a piece of

frozen bread, which the boy held in his hand in confusion. His sister was totally baffled, and

broke out of his salvia-filled daze. She rubbed the spit from his lip and chin, and looked at the

human as if to say ‘wtf.’

“Just keep this on the down-low, okay?

He walked away again.

He broke from the bread the smallest fragment his shivering fingers could take, and passed it

to his sister, rationing the rest for what he thought to be the long journey back to what could

be his home.

He looked at his feet, the bread still held firmly between his fingers, as he did not want to

get his bloody hands on it; his feet looked sore, blackened by the cold ground, the skin ripped

from the journey north, which he had little memory of. All that protected his feet were ripped

pieces of hide, tide around his bones with a knotted rope. He felt weird inside; things just

weren’t quite right. He felt like he’d been staring at a computer all day writing stuff.

Computer?

As he looked at them he began to imagine the journey he must have endured to let them

become in such a state, and as he did his memories echoed, bringing back his distressing past,

and ringing the silence about the air once more, which was broken by the shout of the old

man, who strode through the mist in order to declare the seriously selective ceremony.

“All fourteen have been summoned as representatives of Ilãrys’ fate,” he said. “This is not a

punishment. This is a reward.”

Well, fuckadoodledoo, he thought to himself.

There was a long pause as everyone thought about his words. His voice was loud, though it

cracked and the air around his mouth hissed as he spoke like some dumb guy working at a

fast food restaurant, asking you if you’d like fries with that. What? Anyway, the most

important human began to roarand lunged to the ground coughing violently, spitting a vile

liquid to the floor of some weird unexplainable sort. He lay there, his hands pressed to the

frost. His legs were bent against the mound that he lay on. He pointed at the scarred man and

at once the guard came across to the boy, now with a whip in his hand. He struck the boy to

the leg, striking him down to the ground as he cried out in pain.

The feeling was excruciating; unlike anything he had ever felt before (except probably when

he was also hit like only a while ago (that also hurt quite a lot)). He writhed about the ground,

his hands pressed against his chest, pulling apart, tearing the rope that bound them. He gritted

his teeth together, unable to register anything else that was going on around him. Again and

again in his mind was the feeling of pain, striking again and again between his legs.

Suddenly, the thought broke, and he let out into a whinnying cry, feeling pain, not of the

whip, but of what had been done to him, and how anyone could bring themselves to deal so

much pain. Though his was the only cry that was let out in that moment, as all others who

witnessed his torment fell to their knees, as if they felt it necessary to bow for the aged man

who stood, proud of what he had brought upon the child. As he felt the scar that the whip had

given him, he knew the pain of the guard’s scars across his head; he knew what he must have

endured to bear those lines of pain.

He knew now also of the silence; the silence was not of what stirred around him, but of the

ringing in his own mind, bringing it to nothingness. It was as if the mist was engulfing it, and

giving it back as an empty body. He felt like he’d become a nothing person, and as he went

on in this strange episode, things made less and less sense, and the thirteen-year-old-strung-

together-sentences lost their syntax faster than the sixteen-year-old-editor could possibly edit

them. He got annoyed at how these thoughts and sentences were incoherent, and in that

moment he felt like giving up, or just rounding up these events to something climactic, but at

the same time he didn’t want to feel like he had wasted his time on that horrifically long

journey north, so he hoped that he could let things slide and get on with the ceremony.

Perhaps that was what happened to his sister when she fell silent, starting terrified at the

mist; maybe she had come to face the silence that he had at the oncoming of the horse. He

turned again; the aged man was pacing up and down the line of thirteen who knelt there, their

hands cupped, as if begging for their own mercy. He felt the fear in the old men and women

at the left side of the line, who had known horrific things in their lifetime and felt fear, yet

still were terrified of an old man, pacing up a line of people, their hands bound, as they faced

the tower of mist in front of them.

It seemed to the boy that the man was counting the people kneeling in the line, going back to

count again at the end of every cycle, aggravated by each outcome. He began to count again,

but when he was halfway he threw his dagger to the ground in his fury. The dagger did not

pierce the earth, but shattered the dagger from the harness of the ground.

The aged man turned, and let out a sigh. Then, in the corner of his eye he caught the sight of

the boy, who knelt at the far right of the line, holding in his cupped hands the bread, which

the human had given to him. The man stood a pace towards him, consulting his mind as if it

were some illusion that he held it. He was still not convinced, and marched over the ice as it

was compressed beneath his feet, until he came to the side of the boy, who shivered not of

cold but of fear.

As he spoke his voice was subtle, arousing fear from both the boy and his sister. His words

were articulated, with very sudden shortness of his breath and the crack of his throat. As he

spoke the mist lingered over them, overshadowing them as if it were concealing them from

the humans that stood around.

“Who are you, child?” he asked, his voice deepened, concealing his words from those who

had the chance of hearing him.

He did not answer; fear had taken over him. The mist lingered, further still, until it towered

over them, the snow beating down to the ground like a thunder of arrows to a castle. The aged

man grew impatient, leaning over the boy as he cowered in fear. He asked his question again,

this time slower and even more clear than he had spoken it before, as if it was a threat that if

he was not to answer he would succumb to the anger of the man.

“Memeira,” he said.

The wind started to blow again.

“You have food?” the human said.

Memeira could not answer. He dared not; he was scared of the anger of the human who gave

him the bread. Then he waited, as if expecting that the bread should be taken away from him

again. He stood, shivering in the cold, listening the rubbing of the human’s metal armour.

He stood tall, feeling the ground with his small feet, searching for a high patch of ground. As

he did so all the other men stood around moved away from him, giving him space, knowing

the anger he was to show for the child. Yet he exerted a deadly stillness upon the place.

Memeira could already feel the cold, hard crack of the whip against his side, though it would

seem as if the human was tormenting him, delaying his inevitable fate of pain as a

punishment.

The human took a step back, looking down on the child. It seemed like hours he stood there,

building the tension to Memeira’s punishment.

The human turned and began to walk away, his head turned to the left slightly, keeping the

child in his sight. Memeira peered at the bread that still sat in his hand. His grip loosened,

letting the partially eaten food almost slip from his hand to fall to the cold ground beneath

him. Though he could not let it fall; to him the bread was the difference between living and

dying.

He watched the human walk away, unaware of who he was or where he came from. He did

not know why the human was there, or why he was there, or any who stood in the line of

thirteen. He concentrated on his footsteps, as he walked over the frosty ground. His strides

were long, his legs curving away from his body in each step. His feet came firmly to the

ground, digging into the hard floor with every footfall. As he came to take another step he

seemed to bounce, his bare chin lifting higher to the mist above him. When he came to where

the other humans stood, and this time they did not move, except for those who stood

elsewhere to come closer around him, he reached for a pouch, strapped to his horse, in which

he brought out a piece of old parchment.

What it seemed to be was some sort of scroll, which had been worn away and torn and

folded so many times that it looked as if it had seen more days than it really had. At the ends

of the scroll were thin linings of iron, which were overwhelmed by rust and scratches. Over

the writing on other side of the scroll, which the human had recently unraveled, echoing a

noise reminiscent of the wind from the thick sides of the paper, were darkly coloured words,

in symbols that Memeira could not understand, some of which were covered with snow and

frost, that were wiped clean by the sleeve of the man who stood to the human’s left.

The words were few, though looked important by themselves, as they were in the direct

center of the page, surrounded by the yellow colour of the decayed parchment. As Memeira

looked to the other end of the line he noticed that a few old men and women were bending

over and squinting to see the page, falling back to their places in some sort of disgust or

agony at the sight of the words. He did not know why, but he feared the reason.

The humans seemed to ponder upon this for a while, as if they had never seen it before, or

that it was something that was worth seeing in the time that they had. Memeira began to drift

into his thoughts again, not forgetting the pain of the whip upon him. The coldness of the air

still hung there, shattering the minds and bodies of the thin and hungry who were stood

around him.

The wind was still whistling. The mist was still looming over him, standing like a great,

daunting wall. The humans were still stood about, many of which had forgotten their purpose

on that day. Memeira was very sad, unable to comprehend the situation that he was in. He

looked to his sister for comfort, but even though she knew what was to come, she did not

want to tell her brother, and she did not fully understand its consequences. Even though

Memeira was in the company of his sister, he felt alone inside. He began to feel empty and

without emotions. He had felt the same feeling before; though now he knew that it would

affect him more than it had in the past.

He could not stop looking at his sister now, as if he felt guilty for ignoring her fear and her

presence, though she did not feel present; he could not hear her pity at the crack of the whip

against his side, nor did he feel her comfort when the human gave him an empty threat. He

felt incredibly lonely; not in the manner of being by himself, but the loneliness that comes

when you are unwanted or uncared for.

He stared at the white floor, now turned grey by the misery that came in his eyes. He was

waiting again, like he had been for the past hours, and past months and years that he had spent

on a journey, which ultimately led to him to stand there, enduring the cold, hunger, the

threatening feel of the humans, the feeling of loneliness, emptiness, pity, fear and pain of

having a whip brought to your back, or the fear of having an old man throw at you an empty

threat, or make you feel worthless, as it is felt that you are not even allowed to eat bread in

moments of extreme hunger.

He could not think; his mind had been robbed of all its thoughts, imagination and even

worries. He had now become completely empty, being sucked in by the immense power of

the mist that was felt among everyone who stood about. He flickered his eyes between his

sister, the floor, the wall of mist and everyone who surrounded him. The piece of bread was

still in his bound hands, though to him it meant nothing anymore; it was just matter, or a

device used for the prevention of death, which meant nothing to him either.

He could no longer feel the cold, or hear the sound of the wind. He could only feel the bread

in his cupped hands. He closed his eyes, seeing nothing in his head. There was only a dark red

colour, mixed with the shadows of the men who he could see with his eyes open. He knew the

rhythm of his heart, and felt its pulse through his mind, tensing his body. He found himself in

a state of shock, realizing a possibility of what could come, though unsure whether his

thoughts served him any justice.

Then he felt a warm presence about his hands, blocking out the cold, which he could not

even feel. He felt an empty presence in his hands, which shifted about and brought his mind

to a point that it could focus on.

The presence became more vivid, letting him feel the texture of that which was holding his

hands. He could feel the grain of the bread, rubbing against his hands. He could feel the

sharpness of the rope, sliding against his wrists; though most importantly he could feel the

warmth of his sister’s hands, guiding the small piece of bread to his mouth, as he chewed on it

until he could feel the warmth no longer.

He tried to open his eyes, feeling energy return to him, though a hollow space in his

stomach. As his eyes were fully opened, nothing had changed; everyone was still stood in the

same place, the sky still looming over him. As he turned to his left he could see his sister, her

eyes red and her face pale.

He could have only hoped that all that waiting was only a dream which, once it was ended,

would feel like the shortest stretch of time that anyone could endure; though Memeira knew

the manner of dreams; that not even times of desperation and immense pain are felt in

dreams, or could ever be imagined if any were to try. In a way everything was a dream,

though. Memeira just hadn’t realized it when it was happening.

He felt his life return to his body. He knew that his sister had used her remaining strength to

guide the bread to the mouth of her brother, sacrificing all the food that they were ever to

have in such a while, letting others be filled, while she went hungry. Memeira felt grateful,

though he did not want his sister to have done that; he would rather they had shared the bread,

letting them both live the same amount of days remaining, without leaving himself in the pain

of his loneliness.

Memeira turned, looking if the guard was still present. As he did he noticed that the human

was still as he was, though now the others surrounded him, and seemed to be reciting words.

The guard was nowhere to be seen.

“How old are you, Dulinil?” Memeira asked, his words still and quiet and his voice shattered

and empty.

She was seventeen, as she said when she replied to her brother’s question, though was

unsure as she could not remember the first few years of her life. Memeira did not ask for his

own age, as he knew that if his sister was not to know her own age then she was definitely not

going to be able to know the age of her brother.

Memeira looked away from her, his energy back to the levels it was before he fell into that

state of hunger and emotional emptiness. In that moment, noise was stirring again. Memeira

turned his head, looking through the corner of his eye again, knowing that he would be seen if

he turned his head again. There was a tremendous rustle as the humans moved to their

assigned places, crumpling the already filthy snow beneath their feet. Men began to gather

possessions, while others started to move away from the crowd of people, somewhat in fear

of the wall of mist that stood before the thirteen.

Once again the guard was present, now with his bow tied firmly to his back. He had a pouch,

which was full of arrows, each painted with a very slightly different colour on the end. He

walked to the front of the crowd of human, standing on the right hand side of the main

human, who stood in the middle, his horse being escorted by the one who was standing to his

left only a couple of minutes ago.

Again there was a build-up of silence before the human began to speak again. Now, his

voice was louder, his words emitted to the skies and to the pillar of mist that stood behind the

thirteen.

They stood and listened, unable to comprehend his words, as they were in some language

that they had heard nothing like. Each word flowed into each other and there were no pauses.

Though, they seemed to drone on, as if he was trying to get them over with.

"Andún us'anãrhendrúthyr múrdiri men'ruriendar lith a'núli ní mõliruri a'naníruel aníthueli,

mædãlini márilaruelar mãl anrith," he said, his words echoing across the sky.

As he did so all stood still, except for the older people at the end of the line, who seemed to

cower at the sound of that sentence. As he finished talking the human seemed to tremble and

twitch slightly, his mouth shuddering.

He stood there for a while, before gazing back down to the scroll he held in his hand. The

cold of the wind then swept over them again, almost taking the scroll from his shaking hands.

He rolled it up swiftly, turning his back to the thirteen that he had just spoken to. He seemed

to be worried about something, being cautious in his every movement as if he had done

something wrong and did not want to repeat it. Still, there was the eerie silence that echoed

about. Though now, instead of returning, it seemed to stay, being driven on from the

seemingly distant memories of only hours before, as Memeira gazed into the mist, feeling the

silence of the cold place he stood.

He braced himself, tensing his muscles as a reaction to the sharpness of the wind, bringing

ice to his back, but also of what has to happen next. He knew the fear that the old people to

his far left knew, though could not comprehend it; it was as if he had fear without purpose.

Although to him his purpose of fear was very clear; he feared his own future, that what to

come was to be grave.

He wanted to know his sister's thoughts, though was frozen to his position from the cold. He

was completely immovable, though his eyes moved from side to side, bringing his head with

them, as if he was trying to conjure a clearer picture of what the humans were doing. He knew

that they were talking, though all that could be heard was the sound of the wind, howling

through the sky, as if it was trying to tell Memeira that he did not want to know what the

humans were thinking.

Something stirred again, making Memeira twitch, suddenly turning to know whether the

human was going to say something again. However, the human that had just spoken, the one

that had questioned him about the bread he held in his hand, was no longer in his peripheral

sight; he was covered up by the mist, leaving only the shifting sight of his dark cloak, which

moved in and out of the white wall like a boat moving in and out of waves.

There was still silence. Memeira had his eyes closed, not wanting to know what was to

happen next. There was a slight hum from the over side of the line, which was quickly

hushed. Memeira thought it to be some kind of prayer. He did not believe in prayer, though he

thought it would be wise to pray anyway. His sister, however, had her eyes open, though only

just; she was looking at her younger brother with a look of confusion on her face. She did not

take her eyes from him. She remained looking, feeling the worth of every second she had her

eyes upon him.

Suddenly the silence was broken and a cold, harsh shout went up from one of the humans

who stood close to the elderly one. The sound of his words took away the breath from the

thirteen. There seemed to be a rustle from the other side of the line, where the human stood,

his head held high, risen above those of the others, who stood with their heads bowed.

Memeira did not hear what he said, as he was not listening, and he was to shaken by the

firmness of his words that he did not have the time to concentrate.

Then his sister kicked him. She had a worried look upon her face. Memeira looked up at her,

and she raised her heard, her teeth gritted firmly together. As Memeira looked down the line

he noticed that all the others had begun to turn around, their feet pressing against the snow.

He took a deep breath and turned, witnessing those who stood in front of him.

He could see the human more clearly now. In his hand he held a long stick, though he did

not use it to help him walk; he was pointing at those at the other end of the line, telling his

first human what he should do. At the end of the stick were small pieces of bone, it seemed to

Memeira, tied to the stick by an old and decaying rope. He took little notice of it, however,

and proceeded to look around at the other humans who stood there.

The guard was now very close to the other side of the line, keeping a concentrated watch on

those who stood there. The other humans were far from the line, however, observing in a very

tight group. They were all dressed in fine robes, which concealed their armor and weaponry.

Most of them had swords, which were tucked away in the sheath which most of them had on

their belts. All their cloaks were of very fine material, and were lined with either gold or

silver, with animal fur to keep them warm.

Though none of their cloaks were as expensive as the old man's, who seemed to wear the

most expensive clothes out of any there; he had a dark cloak which, around the edges and in

very precise patterns close the center, had very small jewels, many of which were silver or

blue, which broke up the light when it hit them.

The human was pacing up and down the line again, as he was before, looking at the scroll

from time to time. He stopped after a very short moment, ignoring that he could have done

something very wrong. He walked to his first human, and pointed to the other end of the line

from Memeira, pushing him in the direction of his finger. The human made his way swiftly to

where the older men and woman stood, and unrolled his own scroll, keeping it at a distance

from the few who stood there. He began to speak, and this time Memeira was listening,

though he feared to.

"Ánaros and Lenira," he said, taking his eyes from the scroll to witness the two at the end of

the line step forward, about a meter from where he stood.

They had their heads bowed, and walked very slowly to a small patch of earth, in which no

snow fell. Both of them were shuddering, the man and woman. The human then walked closer

to them, placing his left hand upon both of their shoulders, one after another, and whispering

something to them from a distance, which they both seemed to ignore.

The human then called for the guard to come forth, who took first the woman, holding onto

his with his left hand to the cloak around her neck. It sounded as if he had hit her with

something, though Memeira was unsure, as they had moved behind the line of people, who

moved round slightly to witness what was happening. As Memeira turned to see the meaning

of the woman's pain, it seemed to him that they had moved into the mist, though he could still

see the back of the guard, who was barely visible in the thick fog.

After about ten seconds of utter silence, the guard then returned and nodded to the human.

He had a very grave look upon his face, and looked shocked somewhat. Ánaros, the man, was

then brought fourth to him. He seemed to be pacing around on the spot, his hand across his

face. His teary eyes were flickering between the mist and the patch of bare ground that he

madly paced upon.

The guard tried to take hold of the cloak around his neck, as had been done to the woman,

though the man drew his hand up, defending himself from the guard. The guard then tried

again and the man lunged at the guard with his fist, making him fall to the ground, his arms in

the air as a sign of mercy. The human then stumbled towards him, raising the stick he held in

his hand. He tensed his face, as if ready to strike. Though before he had a chance to, the man

lowered his fist, his head now bowed again. His face went turned very ghostly as he drifted

into the mist, guided by the arm of the guard, which he willingly let around his neck.

Memeira was surprised; why had the man gone from being so unwilling to let the guard

touch him, to walking swiftly into the mist? He feared less now, as confusion had become

more prominent. Yet, he still waited, watching had the human opened the scroll again to read

the next two names on the list, now with more calmness in his voice. Though before he could

end his sentence, he lifted his head. A very solemn look was on his face. His head was turned

toward the sky, his mouth open. He turned then to the part of the mist that the two people had

just walked into.

His face became pale, like the man's, his eyebrows moving upwards in shock. He stayed like

this until the guard returned, he too with the same expression on his face. The human then

shook away his confusion, returning his gaze to the scroll, which had rolled up again. He

began to speak again, repeating the two names, though now finishing them.

"Arsúnir and Hílena," his words were very quiet now, and he had to repeat them for a third

time, as the two people had not heard him.

There were two women this time. They both looked as old as the two before them, but did

not seem to bear as much wisdom, as Memeira derived from their puzzled expressions. They

walked forward slowly, taking caution in each step, occasionally stumbling on rough patches

of the ground.

They gradually made their way towards the human, who had to embrace them as they came,

in case they fell on the small mound, which lay ahead of them. The human waited, before

placing his left hand on both of them again, in order, much like he did when the first two

people came forth. He spoke again, though now he was louder, and more precise with his

words. He took his hand from the right shoulder of the woman, and stepped back, giving

space the guard, who took the Arsúnir into the mist, taking all the time that he could afford.

As he did so Hílena turned around, stepping towards the mist. She put forth her hands, as if

it was a vain attempt to bring her back. Though it was too late, and she had already vanished

in the thickness of the mist.

As the guard returned, his expression the same as when he returned last, the second woman

moved toward him, letting him take her into the mist, so that she could be with her sister, as it

seemed to Memeira, again. As she was being taken, Memeira turned to the rest of the humans

there. Now there were about seven or eight who stood there, all with their eyes fixed upon the

slowly decreasing amount of people there. It seemed to Memeira that they shared the same

confusion that he did, and the same fascination for what was occurring then. Perhaps even

they had not been told of what was to happen that day.

As he was looking he noticed the sky became very dark, the snow beginning to turn to rain.

He held his bound hands out and felt the coldness as they fell to them. The people at the end

of the line were taking their time, the human making every move he made longer, though

trying not to make it noticeable.

Then a shadow came over the heads of them, and the human came over to the human with

the scroll, telling him to move on swiftly with the ceremony, so he could get out of the rain

and avoid the night.

As the darkness drew on the human held the piece of parchment up again, showing the light

from its silver lining to the crowd. He announced the next two people, but Memeira took no

notice of their names and quickly forgot about them. He was now shivering from the

oncoming cold as the thick clouds became darker.

The guard came back for the third time, to take the next group of people who had their

shoulders under the left hand of the human. The guard seemed exhausted, as if, much like

Memeira, time appeared to be going too slowly for him. He stood there with his hands upon

his knees as he witnessed the human remove his hands from the shoulder of the second

person, which was a man, the first being a woman.

The human stepped back again, signaling the guard to make him hurry up as the human

stood under the pouring rain, which had become of the freezing snow. He guard then took the

first by the neck. The man was small, with lightly coloured hair. He was shivering so much

from the cold that the guard found it impossible to keep his hand on his neck. As the man

trembled and cried from the cold, he let out a cry, shoving the guard to one side. He then

strode freely into the mist, stumbling at every footstep.

Again, the eerie silence went on as the guard pushed his hands against the ground, picking

himself up. The stillness echoed at the disappearance of the man, and all stood there and

stared at the patch of dark mist which dispersed as the man walked through. There was now a

thin tunnel through the mist, which changed with the pattern of the wind, and grew slowly

inwards. The human then seized the woman and pushed her towards the guard who had just

got up. She was escorted far into the mist, the pale face of the guard glaring upon her. Her

body slowly faded, much like that of the man, and all who stood watching felt pity for her,

and they did not know why. The human then bowed his head to the ground, swiping his hands

across each other. He walked briskly back to his patch of ground and waited for the guard to

return, he too brushing the filth from his hands.

Memeira looked around. It was incredibly hard to see anything with the quickly spreading

darkness over his head and the impossibly thick mist. The next group of people was swift in

its departure to the mist, and Memeira did not notice them as they left. It was as if they were

forgotten from the moment that they were gone.

Suddenly his vision began to move very quickly, with everything becoming a blur. He could

still hear the clash of chain mail and the rustling on men's robes against each other, though

now his vision became a blur, not letting him even see as far as the near side of his sister. He

could hear the slight murmurs of the human and the guard, who shifted about, slowly drawing

near to him. It quickly became apparent that night was drawing on and in a while, he would

endure the experience of a night in the Lúrisil, the most northerly place in Ilãrys, where nights

span longer than any other known place in the world.

He waited there, expecting his name to be called and for him to walk into the mist, escorted

by the guard who had struck him earlier. Though it seemed forever, and even though his

vision moved swiftly and all was a blur, it seemed that he was moving slower than the night,

which was drawing on. He sensed his inevitable fate that he would have to go where the

others had gone, and he was scared because of it, though he did not know why. He thought

perhaps the others' fears had created his own. He managed to fight it, though, standing there,

almost eager to be rid of the cold, and move to what he thought could be a better place than it

was, though he doubted it.

The names kept being read out. Each name felt like a soul, about to be lost forever in the

mist. One of his only memories was hearing the names of all those who had died in a plague

which had struck a town south of where he stood, read out by the remaining few there, who

knew they, too, would become part of that list.

His sister was looking around, expecting to be saved from this impending fate. She looked

down at Memeira.

“Memeira, do you understand?” she said. It was clear she was about to cry. “I’m never going

to see you again. There isn’t the right amount of people in the line for me to be with you. I’m

so royy.”

Memeira stared at the floor. He did not know what to say. He did not say anything. He was

still waiting; it didn't matter what he did to pass the time, his fate would always be the same.

The human then came up beside him. Memeira could barely see him; he could only make

out the man's rough shape as he talked to his first human, who stood by as well. He could hear

what they were saying, but chose to take no notice of it. He heard them agreeing to send two

groups of people away at once. To Memeira, this was a good thing, as it meant he would be

with his sister when they should come to be passed on to the next frontier.

As he looked around he noticed that there was a lit torch, being held by one of the humans,

one of the few that remained there, while all the others had began to make their departure,

feeling no need to witness the final departures of the last few people who stood there. By the

time that the next pair of people were to be taken away by the guard, most of the humans had

left, leaving the human, his first human and a young man, who Memeira thought to be some

sort of slave to them, or so it would seem as over his arm he was carrying the human's

possessions, and up until then he had been following him around closely, never to leave his

sight. Now he stood in the darkness of the light, only being warmed from the light of the

torch.

Almost everyone had gone now. The third last person, a girl, who only appeared to be very

slightly older than Memeira's sister, had gone into the mist. Memeira's sister's name was read

out: "Dulinil," the name echoed through the air, much like the names of the others that had

gone into the mist and that Memeira found it completely impossible to remember, as if they

had never existed.

The human now laid his right hand to the left shoulder of his sister, letting Memeira hear

clearly what he was saying. It was as if the human was giving Dulinil reassurance, though

Memeira now could not think why, as now he found that he could not bear to wait any longer,

and it seemed to him that he was actually eager to face what was to come next, although he

did not want to know what it would be.

The human kept his hand on Dulinil's shivering shoulder for a couple of moments longer,

before taking it off and standing to his full height. Dulinil looked up at him. Tears were

overwhelming her eyes, and she was constantly looking back down to Memeira who stood

there, helpless. As the guard came forth to take Dulinil into the mist the human stood in the

way of him, subtly talking to him, with a gentle ring to his voice. It was as if he felt mercy for

Dulinil, defying the will of the human, who stood still, a grave look upon his face.

His first human looked back and held Dulinil by his ragged clothes, making sure she felt

comfortable with him holding her. They walked very slowly towards the wall of mist, which

stood behind Memeira. At once he felt disheartened and he had a terrible feeling in his

stomach, like he was going to be sick.

He wished he could have done something to stop his sister from taking those steps into the

mist, though he knew that anything he would have done would draw to a worse ending. At the

time he could not believe that it would be the time for them both to move on in separate ways.

Perhaps it was the cold that brought the numbness of his thought, or perhaps it was the shock

of the trauma that had happened over the course of the day and leading through the first hours

of darkness in the night. Again the silence was ringing on. In front of him he could see the

approaching shadow of the human and his slave, and the grim sight of the guard moving

around him.

Behind him he could hear the sound of Dulinil's soft footsteps as she went as slowly as the

human could take her towards the mist. Memeira turned; watching as she had just began to

walk away from him. The human that took her was the one that had given him the bread.

He could feel once again the pain of the guard's whip, which had been numbed by the

sharpness of the cold, which had now turned to rain, washing away the white snow to mud.

His hair was cascading down his face, blown by the strong winds against his eyes, blinding

him from the sight of the approaching men, which to Memeira felt a good thing, as it took his

mind from his oncoming fate.

The silence from so long ago was still echoing on. It was torturous; he knew he was going to

suffer in some way or another, though he was never given a sign or clue on when it was to

happen. He was breathing heavily, seeing his breath freeze as it went from his mouth, drifting

through the air like the mist behind him being swayed by the wind. The human began to talk

again, drawing Memeira's attention. His first human stopped taking Dulinil to the mist,

waiting for what his master was to say, before he was going to carry on.

"Where is the fourteenth?" he said, knowing that if there was not a fourteenth person the

ceremony would lead to ill fortune.

He looked around and the guard and the human's slave knew what should have to happen.

The expression on the human's face became grave as he looked to the two who stood there.

Memeira stood watching and feeling the grief of the two men as his own. He dared not say

anything, fearing the same anger the human displayed as he noticed the bread, held in

Memeira's bound hands. The silence was now painful; Memeira could not bear to wait any

longer and began to shudder as the human paced angrily about the patch of ground that he

stood upon and Dulinil waited like a ghost amidst the mist.

The human looked to the torch, which now was planted in the ground. Above him shapes

began to move in the sky. He could see the mist shifting with the wind, which now beat

ferociously against him, blowing his long, dark hair into Memeira's sight.

"Nánurin, come here," he said, his words striking fear into the human's slave, who walked

with a solemn look upon his face. He stood before his master, looking up into his grey eyes,

which were fixed on the child, who was no older than Dulinil. He knew that he could not

stand in place of the missing person, as he was older than Memeira, though dared not say for

fear of his master's anger. He stood beside Memeira, the wind throwing him from his course.

Everyone stood still. Nánurin left the human's possessions on a cold mound behind him as he

stood, his head bowed, next to Memeira. It was a grim moment. All who were there stood to

witness the human place his left hand to the right shoulder of the child, as he muttered some

quick words, doing away with the slave that he had kept within his sight for many years.

Memeira felt complete injustice, feeling the urge to argue with the human. Though he stood

still, as perhaps his impending fate could be avoided.

The silence was still there, as it had been so many times. The wind was now howling more

than it ever had in those northern places.

Memeira knew that the human felt no guilt for sending his own slave to be put in place of he

who had escaped his most likely death, as it felt to Memeira now. The night had now become

whole, and would stay that way for many cycles of day and night in the south. The torch in

the distance had gone out, extinguished by the wind, leaving utter darkness and solitude over

they who stood there. Memeira also knew that he was not moving to the next frontier, but

being walked to his death as a ceremony for the people of the place that those humans had

come from; a place where those fourteen deaths were to go unnoticed, used as but the tool for

the good fortune of the people of that place. Memeira's whole life had led up to that moment,

and in that moment he felt sickened by the swiftness to send someone to their death in place

of someone who had escaped their own.

Memeira did not feel a hand on his shoulder, but was dragged violently along the ground by

the force of the human, who struggled to even move him a few feet from where he had been

standing for hours. He could not see or feel anything. Everything was completely numb. He

could no longer feel the sharpness of the whip on his back, or remember the faces of the

people who walked into the mist before him.

He could not hear the sound of anyone's voices. He did not know where he was to go after

his death, or what it would lead to. In that moment he knew nothing and could feel only the

coldness of the mist which drew up around him. To Memeira the world was less than silent.

There was a sharp ringing in his ears, which bounced from the walls of the mist, returning

every time he shook it away. It was very still. Memeira could hear the notes of a song in his

head that he had heard a very long time ago, though they kept slipping away every time he

came close to remembering them.

The mist was thick, and very cold. He could feel the snow that had fallen around him being

pressed against his skin. Everything was very wet, as if the ground was becoming the sea,

stretching onwards forever. The man became like a ghost, losing all of his emotion and facial

expression.

Memeira felt empty as he managed to drag his feet through the puddles of icy water that lay

everywhere. In the distance he could see a dim light, which kept coming into his vision then

falling away, being swept away by the silhouette of a figure who stood there. Memeira felt

drawn towards it, though was pulled away by the old human, who walked towards the

thickest parts of the mist and the deepest parts of the water that was on the ground.

As Memeira went further through the mist he felt as if he was succumb by the water, as if he

was drowning in it. He could make out the rough shape of boats, but they were so many miles

away that he would never be able to reach them.

The old human was completely silent; not a sound was heard as he stepped through the

puddles of water, which had now become a sea. He could no longer remember the sight of his

sister's face; his entire vision was blocked off by the many layers of mist which was

everywhere around him. He could only see the flickering light in the distance and feel the

presence of the boats, which sailed on forever.

The old human was only a dim shadow in the dark, which moved further away from him as

he was dragged on. Time felt like it would never end for Memeira; it seemed as if he had been

walking onwards for eternity, and he would never stop or turn back. The human now seemed

to be saying something, though it seemed like an echo of the past for Memeira, and it was

only a memory of the cruelty of the human. He walked on again, though now seemed to be

gliding, as if he was a spirit. The coldness was now harsher than ever before. He could feel

only the presence of water over his skin.

Now there was a slight ring in his ears, which grew and grew, taking from him the feeling of

gliding across the water. Now it felt as if he was drowning, sucked up by the silent tumult. He

could hear the hum of the ring, being muffled by the water, becoming more of a distant cry.

He could now remember his sister, and could feel her pain slowly growing, calling out to

him. Memeira knew that they were both completely helpless. He began to try to remember the

notes of the song. They were clearer now, though disheartened him. He could see a long line

of torches, which stretched on forever. Even though the mist was all around him, it felt like he

would never be touched by it, having a path for him to follow the lights. He stayed

completely still, sick by the knowledge that his sister knew the same pain that he did. The

hum grew louder, turning into a scream that Memeira could hear more clearly than anything

else he had that day.

It was Dulinil's scream, echoing throughout the mist. Memeira knew that she was near;

perhaps they were being taken to the same place. Memeira was now frightened. The scream

went on, getting louder and louder with every second. He pictured his sister, writhing in pain.

The old human then fell to his knees, sinking into the hard ground beneath him. Memeira's

vision began to fade, the torches drifting slowly away from him. The noise was now quieter,

drifting away like his memories.

He felt empty again, as if he was missing something. He looked down at the human, and saw

his blurred shadow, which crept further away from him as it shuddered. Perhaps it was crying,

scared by the unbearable noise of the screaming. Memeira shut his eyes, and at once every

light was extinguished, leaving only the feeling of his sister's pain and the sound of her

screaming. He felt something sharp upon his skin and covered his eyes with his bound hands,

which now seemed to be disconnected from his arms.

He could now hear the faint sound of footsteps coming towards him, but could feel nothing.

He tried to open his eyes but could not. He tried to imagine that his sister was coming to save

him from the torture of the place, but knew that if anything it was to be him to save her. His

emptiness then drove him on; he knew that it was there that he should come to die, but denied

his fate. He tore his eyes open and began to walk across the floor, which had now become ice,

freezing around his feet with every footstep. He tried to move towards his sister, whom he

knew to be enduring the same pain that he had.

Memeira began to run, overcoming every slip he made over the ice. There was utter

darkness, even with his eyes open. The sound of Dulinil's pain then became very clear to him,

and Memeira managed to make his way towards it, running over the ice like a snail over salt,

finally bringing his sister into his scarred arms, so that they should rest there, enduring the

brutal cries of the guard, before making their way from that place unto the plains of the north.

Chapter Two – Mad One

There was a hum. She could feel a ring in her ears. The ring became the sound of rain. There

was a small orange dot on the horizon.

Dulinil unfolded the cloak that surrounded her head. She could feel the wind beating against

her, and could hear the sound of hooves galloping over the icy ground. She felt numb and her

vision was impaired, yet she could make out the faint sight of the open world, which moved

slowly towards her, before fading to white over the ground she just passed. The world was a

blur; the clouds only displaced dust, swept down the sides of the mountains to the floor. The

feeling of memorization became the feeling of sickness, and when things were up close they

were not as anticipated. Dulinil closed her eyes and imagined her arm moving further towards

her chest, but it remained, lifeless as it hung over the side of the horse. All the world was a

marvel to her, and everything was so beautiful, but her mind was so ugly.

Her thoughts of that day she entered the mist had dissolved into each other and she had

forgotten every feeling she had experienced. Not the cold. There was nothing in the distance,

only the vast expanses of ice, which they were already passing over. She lowered her head

again, feeling against her skin unfamiliar robes.

The clouds were already burst and there was water falling all around.

She felt sick and driven through many layers of robes there was, lodged in the top of her

chest, a broken arrow. She stared at and there was a flash and she felt her heart tear out of her

body and sink into the floor and become the ice over the ground. As the northern plains glided

past her she could only see the arrow.

She stared and couldn’t feel even the pain that it brought her. As she stared, she saw blood,

which had dried up and become the dyes that painted her clothes. There was a long line,

which poured down her front, with parts that had been wiped away. The arrow had a sharp

end, with splinters where it had broken. Around it was a dark green line, which had faded

from the water frozen over its edge.

It was raining?

As the galloping of the horse became faster, white dust came from the arrow, of the same

colour as the inside. The dust, however, did not disappear as they rode on, but stayed around

Dulinil, looming as if in a still space surrounded by light, and illuminated by yellow rays

emerging through thin curtains. And for a second, she had left her body and existed as

everything while everything existed as her.

Around her was a massive ice plain, stretching out like a canvas across the earth. It was

completely flat, with no mountains or hills to shift its posture. She turned and saw the world

fly behind her, folding over itself a million times until she couldn’t see that same patch of

grass that she had seen a second ago. Behind her was the dim sight of the mist, and a line of a

blue colour she had not seen before, held apart by a small stretch of land, which reached

north. Above her the clouds gathered, and there was not a single place that she could see the

warm colour of the sky. The sight of the sun was a distant memory. It felt like she was

completely alone, and would ride across those plains forever.

Dulinil paused. It was raining.

Dulinil could hear the sound of hooves beating against the hard ground, hitting it like a

hammer over iron. The sound seemed alone.

As Dulinil looked at the ground it seemed as if it was rotating around the horse, and curving

as its hooves stormed past. The ground was mostly formed of ice, which grew thinner the

more the horse galloped on, revealing more of the ground beneath the ice, which was grey

and grew no grass, save small patches which sprouted out from the floor of the ice plains like

fire from mountains. The grass was yellow, and dimmed from the endless cold that had

haunted those ice plains for countless years. As the ice over the ground grew thinner the horse

slowed down, its hooves sliding across the ice as they fell to the ground. The ice was

everywhere. Dulinil was in the coldest place in the world.

It was raining.

As Dulinil stared she found it difficult to keep her eyes from closing, letting her fall asleep.

Every time she tried to keep herself awake, she would fall into a trance, letting her exhaustion

take her into a dreamy state, in which the sound of the horse’s hooves was muffled and she

could see nothing but the blurry colour of grey as it shot past her vision. They were then hit

by a cold wind, sending the horse in a state of panic as it began to speed up, driving against

the force.

Dulinil began to shiver, keeping her awake. She covered herself back up with her robes,

concealing the arrow beneath her cloak, letting her forget about the pain and the suffering that

she was to endure when her senses should return. Now, they were thundering over the ice

plains, far from the mist where they would be found by the humans and sent back to their

death. Dulinil thought about what had happened on that day. But she could not remember, as

it felt like it had happened decades in the past. She could not bring herself to think about what

had happened then; how the thirteen had lined up in front of the overwhelming wall of mist,

how they had been sent by the humans in the name of some sort of ceremony, and how the

human had sacrificed his slave for the good fortune of his people. She found she could

remember it, though everything was merged together, and everything felt like it had happened

at once. However, she could remember going through the mist as clearly as if it was

happening in that instance. Though, she did not remember what happened, but the pain of

what she endured. Just remembering it felt like a torture, and thinking about what it had done

to her was impossible.

Perhaps it was for that reason that she could feel nothing; the mist had completely robbed

her of all her feelings, thoughts and emotions. She tried to feel sad and disheartened, but she

could not bring herself to do so; she felt completely empty, much like Memeira did so many

times when they lined up by the mist. Though, as she heard the muffled sound of hooves over

the ground, she felt her senses slowly coming back. Her vision seemed to be becoming more

clear, though it was only in Dulinil’s vain hope that it was so, as it was only her desire that

made her think that she was actually making a difference to her welfare. She was now

concentrating on staying awake and trying to feel the pain of the arrow and the sharpness of

the cold with every movement. Though she was still empty, and knew that she would never

be able to return to her normal state without being rid of the torturous memory of the mist and

her endurance as she suffered from the cruelty of the humans. Though as they rode on over

the ice plains Dulinil began to feel the pain of the arrow.

It was a pain that she could not describe; it was not excruciating, nor was it sharp or

piercing. It was a numb feeling, which made her feel sick in every part of her body. She could

think of nothing else but the pain of the head of the arrow, which was driven into her body,

and could not help but imagine and picture what she thought the pain should be like if she

was shot, and try to incorporate it into her existing torture, feeling that it was the way it

should be. Though, even with this feeling that she had only recently started to endure, she still

could not feel her emotions or feelings return; she still felt exhausted and empty. As she

looked up at the sky she remembered that before she entered the mist it was about to turn

night, and remembered that the night spanned countless days in those northern places. All

around her the dark began to spread and engulf the vision of those who were there. Now, she

felt the same feeling, though it was no way near as strong. Looking at the sky, she saw that

the clouds grew more grey, and lowered over the world, spreading the mist from distant

mountains further.

She tried to remember the feeling of the oncoming night, though could not relate it to what

was happening then. She heard again her thoughts, telling her that the night was coming and it

would stretch on for a long period of time, which confused her. She must have been sleeping

for many days, as it felt to her then that either dawn was coming, or it had come to nightfall

again, in which case she had been asleep for longer. Perhaps she had already been awake

through the night, though the pain was so excruciating that she dared not remember it. It

seemed unlikely, as she could not remember a moment since the incident in the mist. She

tried to speak to Memeira, who sat by the head of the horse, it body slouched over, as he rose

with every new footfall of the horse. However, every time she tried to she was afraid that

Memeira would know that she was awake and take her from the horse for rest, and they

would be exposed to the humans. It was partially that, but partially also that she was so tired

that she could not think what to say to him. They rode on further, the clouds still gathering

around them and filling every open space in the sky, leaving nothing for light to pass through.

Memeira began to think again, though struggled, taking her time with every thought, forcing

it out through her fatigue. She wondered about the time that they had spent riding over the

plains. It seemed as if she had spent hours awake already, though felt no span of time since

they made their way from the mist. She did not know how many nights had passed, or how

long the nights were to span, only that whatever amount of time she had spent in their escape,

it was long enough to absolutely ruin her. Looking back to the skies, stretching her eyes open

until her vision was clear, Dulinil began to notice that not only was night drawing on again,

but the clouds had begun to give way to rain and thunder. The horse became afraid again,

galloping onwards as if then it would escape from the raindrops, which began to fall all

around.

Ringing in her ears was a faint sound that she could only make out to be in the far distance.

It was a deep rumble, which shook in her head but made no change to the earth. As it did,

however, the sky above her began to react in the same manner; the wind began to catch up

with itself, replacing the cold air of the northern plain. While the first few drops of rain fell to

Memeira’s head he lowered his body, arching over the horses head, letting himself be

protected from the rain by the robe over his back. Though, it was no use, as the skies came

down harder upon them every time he tried to do anything about it. They found they were

riding through a field of rain and puddles, with the occasional downfall of snow. The world

was not so dreamy anymore; the cold had sharpened Dulinil’s senses, letting her feel every

movement more firmly than she had before. As she shivered she could feel the heat of the

horses body pressing against the cold of hers, and felt the movements of the horse as it shifted

between the mounds of ice on the ground. Every up and down movement of the galloping that

she could feel was emphasized, like how waves on the sea grow as the wind beats upon them.

As she moved her head upwards, she noticed that Memeira was agitated, peering to his side

every now and then, his eyes flickering between different points over the ice plains. He also

began to keep an eye on the oncoming storm above. As the rain grew heavier he began to

notice the occasional break of light, perhaps signaling the swiftly coming lightening. All of

this made him ride onwards, reaching faster speeds, turning more often, feeling his own

anxiety to escape from that place. Dulinil did not let this bother her; she thought to herself

that he was just riding on to find a shelter from the storm. Though as their journey progressed

she found herself doubting that thought; every time they reached a place where they could

shelter, or caught sight of somewhere that could be the same, they would ride on, passing the

opportunity to be safe from the rain. Her doubt carried on for a stretch of time that felt as long

as their existing journey to reach where they were. Then, as the sound of the horse galloping

began to fade from its exhaustion her doubt became her supposed knowledge.

The clearing of the rain, which had faded into the distance behind them and seemed to grow

further ahead of them, meant that Dulinil could hear more clearly the echoes that she had

ignored earlier. As she cancelled out the noise of the horse, the breathing of her brother and

the din of the rain and wind, there was another hum, which came from far away and grew,

alerting her to turn, pacing the path of broken ice that they had just ridden over. In the

distance was a yellow glow, though it was only a tiny dot compared to the details of the rest

of the plain. The light, however, stood out among all other things there, and somewhat lured

Dulinil, making her unable to take her eyes from it, keeping her fixed like an insect to the sun.

She wondered why they were riding away from it, keeping their path to the opposite direction

than where it loomed on the horizon. Then, when the hum returned, she noticed that it was

coming from a similar direction to the light, which vanished into the mist, which seemed to be

collating in the same place.

As it did Dulinil heard Memeira emit a cry of relief, which she did not understand. A sense

of mystery stirred about the thought of the light, which led Dulinil to wonder what it was, and

want to know more about it. It was like how Memeira did not know what his sister was so

transfixed by as she stared into the dense mist in front of them as they lined up. Though it was

different, because in that occasion Memeira did not want to know what was being stared at,

though felt a compulsion towards it. As the mist fell over the light, which now was so dim

that anyone could mistake it for a spec of dust, floating within their view, much like the dust

of the arrow, which by now Dulinil had completely forgotten about, unable to feel the pain, as

she was not able to comprehend it in her slow decline. The mist was collecting over the

ground now, parting and swaying to one side as the horse’s hooves raced past it. Everything

was becoming like the disappearing dot in the distance, and the sight of the snow-covered ice

plains became not in the present but in memory.

Now the ground was a mess of ice and water, splashing against the legs of the galloping

horse as it rode over the mounds of the ice plain. Perhaps they were moving further south, to

where the climate was friendlier, and where the sun shone brighter. Though to Dulinil, even

when it seemed the most unlikely, it felt as if there was some presence that moved over the

fields of water with them, or a power which drove the mist around them, and let the snow

melt to water, creating an atmosphere like that of the northern mists, where they felt as if they

were wading in water as Dulinil and Memeira were to be sent to their deaths. This led Dulinil

to more conclusions about the dim light which had once lingered on the horizon, but had now

disappeared from sight altogether. She thought it could have been the humans, who had been

somehow cursed by the power of the mist, bringing its wickedness with them as they laid

chase to the two children south across the world. Dulinil did not believe in that kind of magic,

however, and subsequently did not know why she came to think of that.

There was a very haunting atmosphere then, and Dulinil cowered under her cloak, lifting it

over her face so that she could only see the thin lines of light that shone through the shallow

patches of the cloth. There was nothing to be scared of in the manner that Dulinil thought

there to be; it was only in her mind that there was fear. It was some sort of hallucination, or

fear that she had created in imagining what was possible for her to endure. She started to feel,

although it had already begun days before, that her mind was beginning a slow descent into

its vanquish. It was concerning the early parts of the night that was spent wandering in the

mist. Dulinil knew enough about the mist to fear it, but was not wise enough to avoid it or

reject it before her journey began. She did not understand what the experience had done to

her; a trauma of such a kind had enough momentum to shatter her, which it was beginning to

do as Dulinil began to remember it. She struggled to take her mind of the thought of going

back into the mist, though found that by trying to reject the memories it would only bring

them back.

As Dulinil was thinking she realized that now Memeira was urging the horse to move on,

kicking his heels against its side until it raced over the ground. As he did so the horse let out a

whinny, and with every urge that Memeira made, crying out for it, making it ride on, the

horse would talk back, begging for its rest. Memeira refused at every stumble of the horse,

making it go further every time. Occasionally the horse would stumble, letting its hooves

come together as they slid over the wet ground.

In the distance Dulinil could see a high wall of rain and wind, which brought over the fields

a sheet of grey. It was the same far behind them as the emerging winds that they had recently

passed through disappeared into the past. It seemed almost tranquil then, with not a wind that

stirred, though still the deadly hum from the distance and the rumble of the winds as they

collected. The horse tried to alter its path back in the distance that they had come from but

Memeira forced its way further south, oddly to where the rain seemed strongest. Over where

he sought to make his journey the mists grew thicker, concealing something that emerged on

the landscape.

On the horizon, where there was a dense sheet of grey and white, which interlinked and

shifted with every blow of the wind there was a short line of, on the bottom, a very dark

colour, before fading into a shade as light as the sun. The picture shifting in and out of vision,

creating mystery and wonder for Dulinil as to what they were riding towards. The dim light

far behind them was still out of sight but it felt like its presence was still among them.

Looking between the place where the light shone and the thin grey line on the horizon Dulinil

noticed that the mist was of the same manner all around where they rode; there was a high

wall of clouds which circled around the place where they rode, slowly closing in on them

where they looked as they rode on. There was a deadly tranquility, which came and went

between periods of downfall and wind. Memeira rode on, though unwillingly, looking up at

the high wall of rain and thunder that he was slowly approaching.

He felt the cold he was going to endure even before he had entered, though remained

unnaturally calm, keeping his eyes fixed on his destination. The horse was becoming so tired

that it could not manage to keep itself going, stumbling on every step it took, taking regular

intervals of whinnying and rest. Memeira kept his anxiety from overwhelming him, trying to

overcome his fear. He slowly grew restless, returning to his state of panic, flickering his eyes

between the wall of the storm and the place where light was seen behind them. He knew that

he could not make the horse take another step, though still wanted to see if he could urge it

slowly on. Memeira managed to make the horse break into a slow trot across the plains, but

could not find the power to begin their galloping speed again.

Dulinil started to reflect on what had happened to them as they dragged themselves across

an unknown place, chased by their fear that they could not conceive. She realized that they

were in a complete state; the purpose of their life was for a ceremony of one of the northern

kingdoms, which they had escaped from, making a trail of water and mud across the ice

plains on an exhausted horse as one of them descended into their mental ruin and the other

looked frantically around, anxiously awaiting the moment they should reach the peak of the

storm. Now Dulinil could not think of anything other than what she would have thought

anyway. She could only sit on the back of the shattered horse, letting her memories flicker in

her head. She felt incredibly sick. Even her memories, that ran through her mind,

interchanging between moments of bad fortune and moments she wished she could return to,

merged as one, becoming entangled with other faded reminiscences, robbing her of her past

and, in that same way, her thoughts and emotions.

Memeira now seemed to be eager to reach the edge of the tranquil expanse of land and enter

the mist. Dulinil could not comprehend this. Perhaps this was because her mind was

somewhat damaged, or perhaps because she was in too much fear of the cold, thinking it was

hurting her more than she had already been hurt. The horse then regained a slight bit of

energy, bringing itself to undertake the occasional cancer. They were still no way near ever

escaping from what chased them. Dulinil did not even know what they were running from,

though her assumption was that it was the guards, which took her no amount of thought, only

memories of their anger as they fled from the mist. The mist behind her was far in the

distance, revealing a large expanse of open plain which they had already ridden across

through the emerging rain. At the end of the open plain was what felt like the reappearing

memory of the dim light, which no longer was there, though Dulinil kept feeling that it was

coming back, even though when she did there were no signs that it was so. She turned again,

ignoring what was behind them, and looking forward to where they were riding.

She could now feel, and every movement was emphasized, letting her feel the creak of her

bones as they rubbed against each other as she lifted her head. She could hear and make out

the sound of her heart beating, and feel the cold, short breaths of Memeira, who eagerly urged

the horse on with the intent of breaking it out into a gallop again, though knowing the folly of

his task. She could feel the arrow in her chest, but not the pain of it, only the vague area that

its sharp point had impaled her. Everything was a blur, except the back of Memeira’s body,

which fell from side to side as she tried to lift her head from her exhaustion to look back at

where they were going. It was hard to comprehend anything that was happening. Dulinil was

unable to tell that Memeira was now riding at the same speed he had when he started his

journey into the approaching rain cloud. Her balance the feeling of time had now been offset,

disturbed as Memeira took intervals between the horse’s galloping and rest, so that they could

make progress even with the fatigue of the horse.

He managed to make his way over the puddles that grew as the light rain pattered upon

them, but doubted he could do the same under the immense rainfall that beat down to the

muddy ground in the rain cloud. Dulinil sensed Memeira’s confusion as he tried to understand

why there was rain on the ice plains, which was one of the most northern places on the known

earth. He knew that there were colder places in reaches, which stretched north farther than the

known earth from its heel to the top of its head, though also knew that the ice plains were

called that name as a homage to the endless amounts of snow which fell there, and the frozen

mess of the ground, which had remained that way since mankind had walked there. Why

should it be now that the lineage should be broken, revealing heavy rain instead of mist?

Perhaps they were moving south; it seemed impossible to be so, as it would take many

months of riding at the fastest a horse can move before any change in the environment could

be felt.

Dulinil knew this confusion as she had already felt it, though was unable to come to any

ideas about how this had come about in her existing state of mind, which now was coming to

a slow decline further than it had done before. Her vision began to become impaired, and the

once grey cloud of rain that grew ever closer became darker, now beginning to reveal a

slightly red hue around its edges, replacing its silver lining, almost taking away the feeling

that the rain might end.

The hum had returned again, echoing over the ground, becoming more violent as they rode

on. It had become so prominent that Dulinil could feel it, having her senses emphasized,

reaching out through the ground, vibrating through the legs of the horses, giving her a dreary

and muffled tingle on her back, which made her feel sick by one sort of device. It felt like the

hum before they were to enter the storm, which it most probably was. Dulinil could not see,

but pictured the sight of the horse in a position that faced away from the sun, silhouetting it as

it rode into the storm cloud. In the picture she saw herself being engulfed by the storm, being

sucked in like dust into a disappearing wave. It was hard to picture this, as it was not

something that lingered in her memories, though was similar to her dreams. She felt like she

was in a dream then; the world began to move slowly, with everything except pain and

emotion emphasized. She could not feel the cold as a solid feeling, but as the emptiness that

she sensed inside her, and the difficult thought of the oncoming storm.

She could feel her heart beating heavily now, making a crescendo as Memeira raced towards

the mist. She braced herself with the only power that she had remaining. The horse was

frightened however, slowing down with every step it took closer to the tower of mist ahead of

them. Memeira urged it on, making it move faster as they approached, though in his mind

wanting to move slower as well. The storm to him was not adding something to the world, or

to him, but taking something away, decreasing its pleasure and comfort, which, to Memeira,

was believed to be the reason that it existed. He now sat at the furthest position to the front of

the horse that he could, his back arched over, making him get as low as he possibly could.

Dulinil did nothing, failing to brace herself as she had attempted to do before. Anything they

tried to do to make the experience more comfortable was folly; ultimately they would never

be able to overcome the rain.

Dulinil now found it hard to even keep her head up so that she could see; her exhaustion had

overcome her before the rain had even had a chance to strike. There was a slow build-up to

the storm, which hit them in the same manner that armies clash together. Immediately thunder

was heard, echoing across the sky like the cry of a deadly bird to its prey. The rain was

beating down hard upon them, soaking them until their robes and cloaks were as good as

ruined. The horse let out regular whinnies, kicking itself in the air as it waded through

puddles, which took up more space of the ice plains than bare earth did. Dulinil could feel the

sharp cold of every raindrop that came to her. They were now racing through sheets of falling

water, breaking through a fountain with every stride. Dulinil tried to look to the skies but

could not, perhaps due to her tiredness, but mainly due to how intense the downfall was.

Dulinil could not tell how fast they were going, though it felt like they were travelling with

the wind, breaking through countless barriers of speed.

Memeira did not seem to want to turn, moving back to the edges of the storm; he kept

himself going, riding over the damp mounds. Though Dulinil could see the rain and hail

falling all around, she could not hear a sound but the hum, which echoed on, overpowering

the din of the rain. The presence of the light in the distance had completely disappeared now,

fading even from Dulinil’s memories. Her memories were almost all gone now, with only the

dreaded ones, which seemed to not vanish even when Dulinil wanted them to. It was as if her

fair memories slipped from her mind while her ill memories stayed, leaving a mark, meaning

they would never be rid of. The hum was not a memory, however, it was something that

would stay with her through the storm, resting as a mark of her mental decline. The storm was

unlike anything that Dulinil had ever witnessed or endured before. She had heard of similar

events, though had never known that they occurred in the north, other than in the form of

snow. Everything that she had heard she never thought could ever happen to her, though now

she realized that every time she had ever thought to herself that disasters happen to others and

not to oneself, she discovered that it was the other way around; it was her that every ill

circumstance occurred.

Dulinil began her descent into sleep again, which was difficult under the immense rain. As

she was about to close her eyes the clouds gave way to thunder, as it echoed across the sky,

bringing the once seemingly endless hum to its close. The noise was immense, bringing

Dulinil from her sleepy state to a sharper mind. The horse started its cry again, tossing its

head from one side to the other furiously, wildly kicking its legs as Memeira tried to calm it.

Dulinil sensed the heaviness of Memeira’s breath and could hear him as he repeatedly drew

his breath, hyperventilating as if he had fallen to a similar state as Dulinil. Dulinil then could

hear Memeira as he attempted to hush the horse, which had now come to a complete halt,

stopped in its trails by the sudden appearance of the thunder. He was leant over the horse,

stroking its mane and whispering something, as if he expected it would make any difference.

The horse was in a state of paranoia, though managed to move on, its head pointed forward,

bracing its ears for the return of the catastrophic sound of the skies giving way to the thunder.

Every now and then there was the appearance of lightening, silent in its coming. It only

lasted a fraction of a second on every arrival, and was not as frequent as the thunder, which

rumbled endlessly, driven by the now often-coming streaks of light, which came crashing to

the ground. Though it felt more deadly than the thunder due to its suddenness, which the

thunder was only able to bring at its worst, echoing on henceforth. So it came to be that the

two were galloping through the rain over the ice plains, stumbling over the ground with no

clue of what was to come, except the points in the future that had already been decided by

Memeira.

The sound of the rain was distorted by Dulinil’s aching head, though the sound of thunder

still rumbled on, in a way that made Dulinil believe it could have been amplified by the way

she was thinking. It seemed to her that every pleasant sound was dimmed, leaving unwanted

sounds to echo in their place. It was like this with many things apart from noise, such as her

thoughts, though that was natural; Dulinil found it hard to think of any pleasant thoughts,

letting her mind trace through every bad memory and making them seem like they were more

prominent. That was only her nature; she often exaggerated her bad emotions and feelings in

the hope that people would feel pity for her. As this became clear to her, she seemed to take

less notice of the cold of the rain, and picture it as something to wonder at rather than hate. It

was no use, however; the rain, bringing her mind back to her miserable state, could only have

helped her slowly building illness. The horse’s strides were reminiscent of the thunder. Every

time the horse made a full gallop it was as if the skies called back to it in a rondo, or perhaps

an echo. The two sounds began to merge together, becoming as one as the storm gradually

grew stronger.

Dulinil gathered her energy, managing to look around once again at her surroundings. The

world was even more concealed than it had been when they rode over the open ice plains. The

mist was now closing in around them, though in a similar way that it had when it was

encountered only hours before, it swerved and wisped around the horse’s legs as it thundered

past. The sky was grey, though showed hints of a dark blue hue coming through the clouds.

However, the colour was not shining through the gaps in the swirling clouds, but blotching

the sky, like water being filled with ink. The colour began as a feeling of hope, that perhaps

the storm would clear and give way to sun, though it had now become more of a defense to

fight along side the clouds, like an extra barrier, letting the clouds stay in their place. Dulinil

knew that she was constantly having these thoughts, though took no notice of them and did

not let them sway her feelings; she knew they were just impulses, meaning nothing to anyone

else, as they were not concrete visions but illusions and her perception of what she though the

blue colour could symbolize. It was not, to her, what the light was there for or why it was

there.

For the first time Dulinil’s fear had become anxiety; through the fear of the cold affecting

her and the two being caught by the humans that chased her came the urge to escape faster

than they were already going from the ice plains and ultimately the storm. As the horse rode

on it seemed as if it would never happen.

Dulinil did not know how long they had been on the same journey south for, though it

seemed to span centuries. Every time the horse laid its hooves to the ground it was as if the

sound that it made echoed on for countless more. Dulinil found it hard to pay attention to

anything that happened now, letting go of her alertness to check whether or not the dim light

behind them had disappeared. To her it seemed useless to do anything of a similar kind; it

would only make the journey longer. Occasionally, however, Dulinil found that she hoped the

journey would stretch longer in distance, rather than time.

The air was now cold, although they had long past the snow of the north. The rain created a

sharp sensation on Dulinil’s body, which in turn created a feeling similar to the pain that

Memeira suffered as he was whipped. The air was so cold that in every breath she had to

pause to let her mouth warm again before she let it succumb to the cold once more. With

every time she breathed out the area around her mouth seemed to freeze. The sound of her

teeth coming together from the cold was emphasized by the way she tensed her body to create

more heat, drawing her hearing closer to her inside. She was beginning to not only feel the

weight of her declining mind, but also suffer from the pain that it brought to her body; she

was so horrified by the mist that now it was hard to even move to a position that brought her

more warmth.

Now it felt like the air was cooler than as it was in the mist. Perhaps it was some trick that

her mind was playing on her. That seemed most likely; she knew that they were travelling

south by the way that the snow had all disappeared. Every emotion and feeling that she had

endured in the past could still be felt, and to her did not seem to disappear. Every thought that

Dulinil conjured came, infested her mind, then lingered there, keeping to her like a fly to the

sun.

When Dulinil came to think about it, she did not even know where their road ahead was to

take them, though she could not ask Memeira, firstly because the cold had sent her to a state

of stillness, but more prominently that she was so afraid that if she made one delay to their

journey they would be caught up by the humans, who Dulinil thought to travel with the dim

light. If she was in her normal state of mind she would not have thought that, but it was

because of the decrease in consciousness that she did.

The mood of the ice plains had changed for Dulinil, who was still as shattered as before,

though had mustered enough power to create a feeling for the place they were riding. Before

there was a very dark and mysterious feel to the north with changing shapes and lights on the

horizon, and the feeling that something foul was present. Now there was a feeling of hope; the

mist had begun to clear around their path, revealing more of the ground that they rode across,

which had less frost than it had done. The rain was beginning to lift, showing faint rays of

light coming through the clouds. The thunder and lightening had long passed and the sound of

birds was reassuring as it gave Dulinil the knowledge that if feeble birds could survive in the

same level of cold then so could she.

However the cold did not seem to go away, no matter how far they travelled south; it was

the one thing that stayed with them as if it was taunting them as something which would not

leave their travel. To Dulinil it was an echo of the memory of when the thirteen were lined up

by the mist in the farthest reaches of the known north. It was one of the reasons that they had

gone south in the first place; they needed a place of warmth so that Dulinil could recover

from her decline, though it had turned into a place where her illness could grow and stay,

driven by the cold winds. Memeira, however, used this as momentum. In some ways it was

making him ride faster and be more determined; he knew that if there was no warmth now

there would certainly be no warmth if they did not ride on swiftly. Again, this didn’t make

sense to Memeira, yet it still give him the willpower to move on. However, not many things

made sense to him, and those that did he found uninteresting. Many of the things that

Memeira used to encourage him to carry on he knew not to be true, though wanted to believe

to make situations feel better than they really are.

Looming in the distance now there was a faint grey haze, which was shifting in and out of

vision. The changing mist was now clearing around where the horse was riding, revealing

things that Dulinil would not have otherwise noticed. Though it was not her that was relieved

by this, as she had not changed since her state of mind had reached its lowest point. Memeira

had found that in believing things he found did not make sense he had come to what could be

a shelter.

As Dulinil and Memeira’s journey grew further on and the rain continued to disappear, their

vision was cleared, rid of the shattered look of the sky that the falling droplets created. In

front of them was a clear line of sight, leading directly to what seemed to be, from the

distance they were from it, a mound, coming through the icy ground, which was covered with

the overhanging leaves and branches from some frosty trees. Though as the wind picked up

again the sight vanished, leaving Memeira’s curiosity to investigate it. From Dulinil’s point of

view, there was nothing but the vast expanses of the plain still to come, which seemed to

stretch on for countless miles further than the mist gave her meters of sight.

She had been rid of her emotions entirely now, and scarred by her unwanted memories of

the mist further north. She could not think at all now, nor know that they were on their

journey still. She could only feel the frequent beats of her heart and the throbbing of her head.

Her eyesight was all but ruined, leaving her with but the sight of Memeira’s blurred and faded

body and the faint vision of the mound, which meant nothing to her in her state of mind. The

cold was second nature to her now, being not a disadvantage to her wellbeing, but something

that she recognized as natural feeling. She had to rely on her sixth sense now, being

completely unable to identify any event that was going on around her. Not long ago she

managed to acknowledge the change of atmosphere as her situation began to brighten slightly.

Now her situation could not reach any lower point; her mind had reached its critical level in

its rapidly decreasing decline, reaching a point that could not be any lower. It was not the first

time in Dulinil’s life that she was afraid of death.

Dulinil could feel the change of tone in her heartbeats; she no longer bore the endless

beating of drums, but sharp hits against her chest, anxiously awaited during periods of

torturous silence. She could feel her entire body moving from place to place. Perhaps she was

rolling over in her nightmares. Perhaps the humans had found her and she was being taken

away. Perhaps she had died and Memeira had put her to rest on the ground and rode off with

her in his tracks. Every thought that came to her mind was unwanted, and she chose to let

them drift from her as she experienced her body being moved from one place to another. At

once she could feel the cold again on the underside of her body, though her chest stayed as it

was. As she could no longer feel the heat on her back she began to have memories of the cold

that she experienced in the north and as she woke up on the horse earlier that day. She was

depressed; she knew that there was nothing she could do to help herself and wanted to tell

Memeira the same thing. She was not like Memeira; she did not move on even if there was no

point. She wanted to lie there and give up. She knew that inevitably she would come to a

similar fate; only now was she delaying it.

She could picture in her head the clear image of the light that she saw on the horizon. It was

dim, though grew closer and very quickly became as clear as her memories of the mist. The

light seemed ominous, moving then completely still in the distance. It was as if Dulinil had

come to confront it at last, which she knew she would always have to do. She could do

nothing but stare in her head, watching as it came closer towards her. As she imagined this

she was completely immovable. There was a mighty tumult around her though her head was

fixed, entirely still on the light in front of her. She began to cry. At first it was only in her

dreams though it quickly spread into reality, sending her from her empty state of mind to a

state of sadness. She wanted to live but did not know why; her life up until then had never

showed her was it was like to be happy, so she wouldn’t even know. She had begun to think

like Memeira; she learned to carry on even when she felt there was no reason to.

By now Memeira had set Dulinil beneath the thick canopy of the tress where the rain was

not as heavy, though the ground was still as cold. She did not know what was happening; one

minute she could sense the warmth of Memeira and hear the sound of him moving from place

to place, then the next there was silence after a long period of the dimming sound of

Memeira’s footsteps. Those periods felt like torture, leaving Dulinil in utter solitude, alone

amidst the cold unable to feel any protection on her body except the ground which she lay

upon. She could not grasp whether her life was moving quickly or slowly, as the wind seemed

to shift between strong blows and light breezes, and Dulinil’s heart would beat strongly for a

while then give up as the cold became more present.

There was still rain, which Dulinil could feel stronger than before. She felt as if the storm

had returned. There was no thunder. Perhaps the worst of the storm had cleared, leaving only

the rain, which would soon warm by the heat of the oncoming sun. The coldness of the rain

showed that it would take a while before it should disappear. The sound of the droplets

coming the ground was still present though muffled by Dulinil’s shattered mind, slowly

turning into a sound more like a sword being sharpened. Through that noise came the sound

that alerted Memeira had returned.

It felt to Dulinil like he had only been gone for moments, though she knew in her mind that

in the state she was in that would count as hours. At first nothing seemed to happen. Dulinil

tried to open her eyes but the weight of her eyelids was too heavy for her willpower. She

managed to peer through the small gap which emerged as she eventually peeled her eyes to

just the width of the page of a book. Through the gap there was only the dim sight of the

sheets of rain. She found the power to turn her head and could see the outline of a shadow

only meters away. The shadow did not move at all, staying fixed to its original position where

it was concentrating deeply on a task. Dulinil tried to make out more of the shadow but she

could not muster enough strength to keep her eyes from shutting. She was left to imagine and

wonder what was happening to her and the shadow and what they were to do.

She hoped the shadow was the dim outline of Memeira, perhaps making a fire or desperately

trying to cook his scavenged food. There was no way she could know; her senses were empty

and her instincts made no use as even if they told her something she would not be able to act

on it. Held in her mind was the picture of Memeira. She could not concentrate on it or

imagine it in any other form than it was already in. Dulinil found it hard to conjure the

willpower to change any of her thoughts. She was left with the automatic impulses and

dreams that her mind would have given her anyway, and she could not control whether or not

they should stay in her mind or vanish to be replaced by any other thought. It was the same

for her whole mind; she could not control what thoughts should be prominent and what

should be left alone. Constantly she was being left with the memories of the mist, lingering in

her mind like they were searching for some sort of purpose there, expecting to be of use.

She could hear a quiet crackling sound in the distance. It was sharp and came suddenly

though disappeared as soon as it was present. Every once in a while a moment of heat was

mixed in with the cold of the wind. It was as if Dulinil’s mind was mocking her, giving her

moments of comfort before taking them away from her leaving her expecting the next. The

heat came once and disappeared again, being as a memory for a long period of time. Dulinil

could hear a shout, which must have come from Memeira as it was immature. Dulinil’s spirit

was lightened though she still felt as ill and wounded as she had done for the whole journey

there. There was the sound of metal coming together clearer than anything Dulinil had heard,

echoing in a clearer manner than the fall of the rain. It was as if the clutter of metal was

imitating the crackling sound, coming and going and not giving any warning of when it was

to return. Though after a tremendous din from the distance, which went as quickly as it came

the metal sound vanished, giving way to a more prominent noise. The arrival of this new

sound was long awaited for Dulinil; Memeira had made a fire.

To Dulinil, though she did not think it at the time, the fire was a sign that she would have

better fortune soon. It was almost immediate that she felt the warmth on her skin and the

increasing comfort of the position she lay in. The fire started out strong, though dwindled

from time to time as the wind began to return and the flames were swept away. Memeira had

gathered would little wood there was on that mound that wasn’t frozen in the ice. He had put

it a fair distance from the trees, though close enough that it would be protected from the rain.

Dulinil felt that she should be able to regain her energy to talk to Dulinil. She found that her

thoughts were merely created from the presence of the fire, making Dulinil think that the

warmth it gave her would give her energy. She could only lie flat on the ground waiting for

Memeira to help her. She knew that Memeira had to help himself first.

The sound of the rain seemed to die away, though the feeling still remained on Dulinil’s

body that it was still as strong as it had been before. The wind was the same, feeling as

present as it had ever been, though being only the sound of a whistle among hundreds of

trumpets. The beating of Dulinil’s heart was echoing about her head and did not seem to dim.

It was as if hundreds of drummers had begun to play, with hundreds more on every beat. It

was not like the feeling she had before, with an unbalanced amount of beats, alternating

between hard thuds and soft taps to her chest. Now her beating was accelerating. Her head felt

like it was being thrown, spinning as it went through the air. The feeling did not stop, and

once it had reached a certain level stayed there. It was now beating with the same force,

though had combined with the confusion of the feeling Dulinil had felt before.

Perhaps it wasn’t her hear beating. Thoughts raced through her head so quickly that Dulinil

did not have time to process them. She thought maybe she was experience the sound of actual

drums, representing an army. Perhaps it was the sign that she was to die, or even her head

racing through the disjointed memories of Dulinil’s life as she tried to grasp the last few

moments of being in a state that she could create memories she would want to remember. She

felt like she was overreacting; it was as if she was taking the beating of her heart and pairing

it to pictures of death. She knew she should stop those thoughts. It was as if it was the

opposite of Memeira, who would take such a sound and think of it as a sign that something

fortunate was to happen. It did not stop the pain. The drums were beating on with no sign of

when they were to stop. It was a horrible feeling, though eventually became accustom to

Dulinil; it was as if it had become what was normal.

The then felt something warm on her neck, coiling itself round like a snake around a tree. It

pressed gently to the back of Dulinil’s neck, lifting her head slowly from the cold ground. She

could feel the coldness of the wind brush against her mixed with the warmth of the hands that

lifted her. Slowly she was rising into the wind. She did not know what was going to happen.

In a way she hoped it was her body being lifted to her afterlife; she could not bear to think of

the beating of her heart and the throbbing of her head to continue. She would accept any other

fate that should do the same, though now it felt suitable for her to die, as if she was ready. She

was then embraced by something warm that had been frozen over by the frost. The thing was

shaking, moving from side to side as she was lifted.

As she came to meet the thing that lifted her she felt something sharp being driven into her.

She felt a piercing pain; it was as if something that had always been there had suddenly been

remembered, letting the pain that it had caused when it was first present loom once again. It

was as if the cold, shaking body was pressing the pain against her, driving it into her body.

Though the pain went as if it was never there, and what was vanished into her mind. The

shaking person, as Dulinil hoped it was, moved from the place where the pain was being

driven into her. He kept his hand over Dulinil’s neck, using the other one to reach for

something. There was a long silence mixed with the still-present sound of Dulinil’s heart

before new feelings were present.

Dulinil could feel sharp points press against her skin on one side. The points were in a ring

shape, almost like ribs. It seemed obvious to her why that was, though she could not bring her

thoughts any further from their present state. The feeling was shifting around her body,

coming to the place on her chest directly beneath her head. The pressure on her was then

lifted and a rush of cold poured into the empty space between her and the figure. She would

have hoped it was Memeira who was doing those things, though in her state of mind she

could not bring herself to remember who her own brother was. There was only a picture in

her mind, which came in and out of existence that she could not take or hold. She wanted to

cry, releasing her pain in one form or another. It was as if her tears were frozen as soon as

they were wrought. There was a seemingly long wait in which Dulinil had reached her lowest

point.

She had come to the point in which her entire body was in a state of chaos, with every beat of

her heard feeling like a thousand drummers and every breath of the wind feeling like a storm

thrashing against her. Her mind was absolutely shattered; her memories thrown to ruin and

merged as one. She could not bring herself to remember her own name. Her brother was a

mere painting in her head which she only remembered when it was present, which she had no

control over. She felt like she was overreacting to every feeling of misfortune that she had to

endure, though she knew that even if the pain was only in her mind it was still pain, and there

was nothing she would be able to do to prevent it. Every touch to her skin was amplified by

the never-ending cold. Her state had not changed from that which it had been only when she

reviewed it last, except now every feeling that was embraced in her mind was pictured as

being twice as bad as it was in reality. The illusion was as real as the pain. There was nothing

she could do to prevent it.

It felt as if she had a mixed mind, though, alternating between periods of emptiness and

others of grief. She decided to discard both now while the warmth from the figure returned,

pressing against her once more.

She could feel the shaking presence of a small hand on her jaw. It attempted to take a hold of

her jaw, almost prying it open. It was no use to him; Dulinil’s entire face was frozen and even

if it wasn’t she would never be able to find the willpower to open her mouth to any kind of

offering. The heat vanished again from her mouth, though returned slowly around the top of

her face. She felt it wrong to think it as heat; the hand that was trying to grasp her was cold,

though felt warm compared to the wind and rain. She could not feel the hand shaking as if

attempted to take a hold on her nose for one reason or another. As it did Dulinil felt the two

sides of her nose come together. The pressure was minimal; it was all the strength that

Memeira could muster. Dulinil knew why the figure had held her nose like that; they were

trying to force Dulinil to breath from her mouth so they could carry out what they sought to

do.

At first she held her breath, anxious about letting the stranger feed her in case there was

some kind of poison. Though the beating of her heart seemed to grow louder than it was

already beating, and eventually Dulinil gave in, letting her mouth fall open as she gasped for

air.

As she did so she began to choke, coughing up mucus as her body jerked from side to side.

Her heart had stopped beating so rapidly and had now changed to a heavy beat every couple

of seconds. Her entire body had reacted to her inability to breath and was now moving

violently, tossing with every cough. She felt something hard hit her on the back. It came

again. It struck her three times until she fell to the floor, her mouth just slightly open. The

shock was only momentary, though hit hard. She did not know why it was so violent, though

could do nothing then but lie there and regain the hope that she would live. She managed to

begin to breath again, taking deep breaths, almost imitating the wind. Her heart was now at a

steady pace. She could hear as every beat was coupled with another, reassuring her that she

would be able to heal eventually.

Soon she could feel something cold return to the back of her neck. She was lifted once again

to the position she was before, though now did not feel the pain being pressed into her body.

It was the hand of which Dulinil could not decide was warm or cold. Another was then taken

to her mouth again, which held it open as the figure attempted to feed her something. At first

she could feel an extremely cold kind of meat being forced into her mouth past her teeth. It

was salty and had a crisp and rough surface with a soft main body that molded to the shape of

her mouth. She attempted to chew by pressing her bottom teeth to the top and when she did

the meat seemed to fall apart and become almost like a liquid except for the rough surface,

which crunched as her teeth grinded it to a fine powder. It felt disgusting, but she knew she

had to eat it if she wanted to replenish her hunger and keep herself from dying.

The liquid seemed to almost choke her as she had been as it was ingested, though the food

still felt like the work of angels as Dulinil’s pains seemed to begin to vanish. Perhaps it was

only part of her mind again, though it still made her feel better about the chances of her living

or dying. She managed to take in half of the food before bending over to cough out the rest,

which she found unbearable to taste. Her head was put back down to the ground, leaving

Dulinil to think about how her state had been changed. There was silence, but it did not

resemble her solitude, but tranquility as she rested there. She could finally think and choose

which thoughts she wanted to be present, though could not take away the memories of the

mist or the pain that she had endured before. Her hearing was no longer impaired, though the

sound of the rain was still muted slightly. Perhaps that was just because she had been hearing

it for so long that it had become like silence to her. She could hear clearly the sound of the

birds again, though it was not for long as their cries dwindled when they disappeared further

south.

She tried to find the willpower to open her eyes but could not; she knew she would have to

wait another few moments before the food was digested and she could find energy from it.

She realized that the figure must have been Memeira; the food was an act of kindness as she

had found good fortune from it so far. As far as she knew there were no other people on the

ice plains that they had seen, save that of the dim light on the distance, which Dulinil

suddenly began to remember.

It was as if all of her good fortune had been taken away by the thought of the light. She

remembered their ride to get to that place and hearing the hum in the distance. When she

came to listen more carefully the hum was still present, echoing on perhaps in a memory,

though more likely it was coming closer to where they rested. Dulinil began to know the fear

she had known in the mist again. The light was greater now, and made Dulinil move

backwards, shifting her closed eyes from where it seemed to be. There was a shape imprinted

on the inner side of her eyelid. It was the silhouette of figures that stood in the now radiant

dot. Each of them held some kind of weapon, from swords to hunting spears, and each from

left to right was more advanced than the last, until at the end one figure held something that

Dulinil could not make out, and dared not to out of fear.

She was hallucinating. Though she even knew she was still afraid and did not understand

why; it was an illusion – how could it hurt her? She slowly realized that the hallucination was

an emphasis of her fears, reminding her that the future was grim. Through the crowd of

figures came a smaller man, with an arched back and a stick to help him over the ground.

Dulinil remembered the old human from the mist. She cowered in fear but the human did not

raise his sword to strike her, but stayed there staring at her. The stare went on for a few

moments before the human strode back to be replaced by a younger human, perhaps his old

servant, who took Dulinil by her arm and dragged her away.

The hallucination then stopped; Dulinil did not want to know any further than that. The hum

was still present, though echoed about another place. She was at ease now, thankful that the

illusion did not last longer than it did. She knew now what her fate should be. She knew she

would have to confront the humans, though now did not expect to die. It was as if a heavy

weight had been lifted from her. Now she had avoided the fate she expected to have. It was

replaced by a more shrouded fate. She did not know what was to happen to her in the future.

She was spared from death, though perhaps sent to a worse sentence. She did not have time to

think about it; she was at rest now, and needed it because she knew the humans would

eventually find them and bring them to a new place.

She could feel a presence looming over her as she lay on the ground, and managed to peel

her eyes open to see what it was. She was not afraid, only hopeful that it was Memeira come

to comfort her. She had another stroke of good fortune; above her, silhouetted against the sky,

was the sight of Memeira. His eyes were weary and bloodshot, his hair ragged and torn as if

he had ripped it out of his head and his teeth gritted, anxious to know whether Dulinil was

awake, conscious and healthy. He looked into her eyes and his face seemed to become

brighter at the sight of her open eyes. He began to speak. His voice was high pitched and

crackled from time to time.

“Dulinil,” he said for the second time, as the first she could not hear him, “I gave you some

food and I think you are better now. The people were chasing after us a while ago but they

have gone and I haven’t seen them for a couple of hours. You’re going to be alright.”

It was as if Memeira was trying to give her more reassurance than she needed. Memeira

doubted the good fortune of them both, but was trying to be optimistic, hoping it would

somehow sway their future to their advantage. He began to cough, trying to bring his hand to

his mouth to stop it. He couldn’t; the cold sent shivers so violent every movement of his hand

became jagged and uncontrollable. Memeira had helped Dulinil, but what he failed to

understand was that he needed to help himself now. He stopped coughing, paused for a while

and moved back to Dulinil who had closed her eyes again.

As he reached over to her Dulinil suddenly felt sick. She had an idea what Memeira was

going to do, though had forgotten everything about it. Dulinil’s headache became worse and

in a way she did not want her brother to do what she thought he was about to do. She could

feel the shaking of Memeira’s hand over her chest. He held onto her clothes and lifted the first

layer of her robes off, hiding her from the wind as he did. Memeira had turned from his joyful

state as he saw Dulinil with her open eyes to a state of despair. In his vision was the bloody

sight of the end of the arrow, which had not moved since their journey began. Memeira

reached to touch it but Dulinil managed to move away, unable to imagine him going near it.

“I know about a healer,” Memeira said. Dulinil turned towards him eager to hear what he

had to say. “He lives somewhere south from here on top of a mountain or somewhere near

one; one of the thirteen told me about him one day, but it was a long time ago and I can’t

really remember what he said. There is a secret lodge that only a few people in the whole

world know about. Maybe the people there can help you and take the arrow out of you.”

Dulinil tried to speak but was disgusted by the sight of the piercing. She wasn’t absolutely

listening to Memeira, though wanted to know whether the healer would be able to bring her

back to her normal state. As she did speak her words were blended together like she was

trying to say her sentence as one. At the end of every breath her words became quiet and her

eyes began to shut. Her voice was shaking from the cold. Memeira found there was no use in

trying to tell Dulinil anything; she wouldn’t be able to understand and even if she could there

would be no way she would be able to reply. Memeira moved back to the top of the mound

and as Dulinil moved around to look at him she noticed the outline of his body, silhouetted

against the shrouded moon as the rain fell all around him.

It had become night and in the sky colours seemed to form around the clouds, shifting

between one another and forming some form of a dance. It was as if the last remnants of the

day had survived and filled the sky with the remaining colour they had. Dulinil did not

understand it, though felt no need to; there is no point in understanding something you are

able to take for granted and still enjoy. As she watched more colours began to gather as if a

rainbow was forming in the sky. They were making streams like river currents, meandering

between points in the sky. She looked up and wandered, occasionally looking back at

Memeira who now sat with his back to a dead tree. She felt she was riding into the rain again;

there was a moment of uneasy calm before riding through the worst part of the rain.

The stillness of the place took her mind of the pain of the arrow, though it was still

prominent after Memeira reminded her of it. She wanted to speak again, telling Memeira that

she felt better than she had done but her words were just as they had been. She turned over to

the other side of the sky and could see the dim light again. She stared at it for a while, though

told herself that it was another illusion and took not notice of it. It was as if all power had

been taken away from the dot, leaving it to wield only the power that its size gave it. There

was still an element of fear, though most of what she had to fear previously was taken away

by her short hallucination. Yet there was still the hum, which reminded her of how afraid she

was before. She remembered the thought of the restless souls that moved over the plain,

summoning the mist and had hence created a new fear. Even when the thought of Memeira

had vanished in her mind she knew she was not alone.

The picture of the colours in the sky and the sight of Memeira against the moon had gone

now. She did not know if they were even real, or like illusions in her head. Finding the picture

of Memeira she began to doubt whether she could actually see it; she didn’t know if it was

actually possible as she knew there was a certain place that moonrise was to occur at, and she

never had seen the moon appear in the south and remember it. Perhaps she was wrong, but

her previous hallucination had driven her to believe that everything that happened around her

was not real; it was as if everything had been in a dream.

“When will the humans find us, Memeira?” it was as if Dulinil had discarded every thought

she had previously had; she spoke as clearly as she would have done if Memeira was

speaking in his mind. Every fear that she had come across was now present. Dulinil had taken

every optimistic thought and had replaced it with the opposite. The illusion was not what was

to happen, but what Dulinil hoped to happen.

She knew now that she was to die.

Memeira paused and stared at her as if he had just hit a point of hopelessness. He twisted his

head and began to shiver as the coldest winds passed over them. His eyes swelled up with

frozen tears and he realized that their struggle was hopeless; something that he should have

realized long ago. He fell to the ground and managed to lift his voice so that it rose above the

howling winds and the endless fall of rain. Dulinil listened, though was not convinced with

his attempt at reassuring her. It could have been a result of her state of mind that she thought

of her death above all other things, though it was still a prominent thought that she could not

manage to remove. Dulinil asked herself whether her life up until that point had been utterly

pointless, though still felt that in the end there would find some point to it all, even if it was in

the supposed couple of hours she had left to think about it.

She did not need those thoughts at that moment; she wanted to rest as she felt it would be a

suitable end. Though perhaps it was not her end; she was overreacting. She lay there listening

to the sounds of the world. The rain was no longer a sound which she did not want to hear as

it reminded her of the cold, but a sound she had come to know as being like silence. It calmed

her in some way. She could no longer hear the sound of the birds; they had moved south to

warmer places, leaving Dulinil and Memeira to suffer in their trails. The wind was stronger

than it had been before, now bringing the rain to cascade down upon them. Dulinil opened her

eyes hoping to see the beautiful sights again. She looked over at Dulinil. The moon in the

distance seemed to be far smaller than it was before and offset slightly. There was no

silhouette between them. The colours in the sky were still there, but perhaps Dulinil was still

imagining them. How could they be there? She did not believe in magic. There was no reason

to.

The hum grew louder now, echoing from the place it had moved to back to Dulinil’s

position. She could again remember all the times the glowing dot was encountered or thought

of. In her head she could see it on the distance, looming there like an ever-present reminder of

her fate. She could imagine the look on her face as she saw the dot; in her head was the

picture of her wide eyes that stared upon it mixed with the motion of the horse and the

passing of the rain and mist. The mist had cleared now, perhaps giving away their position. It

was no longer a bad thing; Dulinil wanted her death to be swift, or not have it at all, though

she knew that it would be unlikely not to die.

It was in that thought that Dulinil regained her hope; she did not know why she would have

to die. She escaped from the ceremony and now was being chased by the humans who she

assumed had come to kill her. Even with the thought that the humans would not kill her out of

having no reason to she then knew that if they took her away she would die from other means;

they had spent, at most, two days moving over the plains and knew it would take weeks more

before they reached any bare ground. She remembered the anger of the human when there

was not a fourteenth sacrifice. Dulinil began to realize what the ceremony was for, though all

of her conclusions were guesses. She knew that it was important and if there was any fate it

would lead to her being brought back to the mist to finish to ceremony and end the lives of all

fourteen victims. Every fate concerned death, and every thought reminded her of it.

Dulinil’s heart had returned to its confused state. She could hear distant cries slowly

growing closer to where they were. The tumult of the thunder had moved away for a while,

though now it was moving with the cries. With every crack of thunder the next would come

more swiftly, and with every cry of the men the next would come more violently. Dulinil felt

as if they were being surrounded by their oncoming fates and knew she had to act. She

thought about lying there and letting the humans take her, though she knew there was still a

small chance they would be able to escape. She managed to let out a cry, alerting the humans

first, then Memeira, who now was panicking and trying to find his way out. The fear of death

was prominent now and Dulinil knew that the chances were now growing higher based on the

angry cries of the swiftly coming humans.

Memeira tried to move towards the horse, though it had now broken from the harness it was

previously attached to and had galloped away, whinnying as it rode on. There was a state of

panic and Dulinil began to descend back into her paranoia. The hum had turned into a sharp

ring in her ears and the beating of her heart grew heavier, turning into the sound of drums that

signaled the next stage of her life, which was her death. She tried to run, but everything she

did was in her mind as if her entire life was a dream. She expected herself to be escaping,

though when she came to her senses she was still lying there helpless. The humans were

moving closer, bringing with them the sound of galloping and angry cries. This continued for

what seemed like hours, though in reality it was minutes.

The cries stopped. Perhaps the humans felt mercy for Dulinil and Memeira. Dulinil could

only hope. The humans had found them. She expected to die as she had done at the mist. She

knew there was no way she would be able to escape. There was the hope that Memeira would

be spared out of pity for him. There was no point in hoping anymore. Dulinil knew her fate

and had now come to accept it. Though it was as if the humans were not there. There was

only the ringing in her ears and the sound of drums, beating endlessly until Dulinil could not

bear it anymore and willingly chose to move on.

There was nothing. She could only feel the rain on the back of her head and the wind in her

hair. No sound of swords was heard. There were neither violent cries nor mourning for the

death of Dulinil. There was only stillness as her head fell to the ground for her rest.

Chapter Three – Perfect Symmetry

The wind was blowing. Memeira stood still.

“It wasn’t my fault, Dulinil.” The wind was still blowing. “But I don’t remember it. You’re

dead. What was anyone ever supposed to do?”

Memeira looked over the plains in front of him and he felt like it should be snowing and he

was shivering and he could hear a crackling sound and he looked around for a few seconds

and he stopped and everywhere shapes were moving that he had never seen and he couldn’t

understand himself. He had come from the ice plains. Where was he now?

“Please, Dulinil. I don’t want to be alone.”

He stopped. “I’ve never asked for your help before. I’m so sad and I don’t think it’s ever

going to get better. Maybe I will find someone else. I don’t want to. Please, Dulinil.”

Memeira looked over the hills and he mourned for the death of his sister and the wind

pressed into his skin. It was nothing compared to the winds on the ice plains. He could not

remember what had happened shortly before the humans came or when they did. He could

only remember what he felt and how afraid he was. It was a long time in the past. He chose

not to try to recall what happened and he stood there and the hills were moving. At least it

looked that way. Everything was changing and leaving him behind and the strangest thing for

him was that he didn’t even know how to feel. He felt cold, then he felt warm. Sometimes he

forgot that he was cold and so much was going through his mind that things like how cold he

was, he completely disremembered.

Memeira looked at the sky and he felt like there should be snow falling and he was shivering

enough that he would not be surprised. Memeira held his hand out. Maybe his shivering was

the uneasiness that ran through the cracks in his skull. Memeira began to walk and he felt

something cold and unusual underneath his feet and he looked down and he felt like his feet

were being drawn into something. Memeira looked up, then back down.

It started to rain for the first time.

Memeira stopped. He looked up at the sky again and the sun was coming through the clouds

in the distance. There was a plateau and to the right there was a ring of hills and the wind was

blowing.

There was something. Then it was gone.

Memeira paused.

He lifted his left hand up to feel the rain and tt was cold and he was shivering and he had

managed to find some clothes in the bags that the horse had on its side. Over his torn clothes

that he had been wearing for years was a light green shirt and trousers and fur. The trousers

were stained at the bottom and were cold. Among all the dryness Memeira’s feet felt wet.

He stood there for a few more second and took another step. He stopped again.

He stood by the small horse that he had stolen to ride there. It was not the same horse that he

had travelled over the ice plains with. He was at the border between two countries and the air

was now warm. In the distance there was the faint outline of a forest but the mist slowly

engulfed the picture.

The sun had not moved since he had last seen it. The light over the plateau in the distance

began to dim and Memeira stood on his toes and he opened his mouth and he breathed deeply.

The sky became a shade of red. Memeira looked at it for a moment, taking in all the shades

as they darkened on the horizon. There were little trees in the scene. It all seemed like the ice

plains that Memeira had already crossed. All the trees there were had no leaves even when

there was little mist to conceal them from the sun. Everything was dead. There was water, but

only in puddles that had expanded from the rain to form a bog. The grass was a pale hue of

green, and almost collapsed in the wind.

The water was not flowing. When the drops of rain hit the puddles there was no splash. It

was like the rain fell straight through the ground. Memeira stopped. He rubbed his face with

his right hand. He was tired, but he had to bury Dulinil. Dulinil was dead.

He moved towards the plateau.

Memeira looked back to the horse, which he had his hand placed gently upon. There was

Dulinil, covered by a rope and tied loosely to the horse’s saddle. She was completely still.

She was dead. Memeira could not fully remember what had happened. In his mind he held the

picture of the humans finding them on the mound and killing Dulinil. He did not know why

he had lived. Perhaps they spared him out of pity. He did remember waking up seemingly

moments later, though he knew that it would have been days. Dulinil was by his side and did

not move. She was like a ghost. Everything felt like a dream from then on. Memeira managed

to steal a horse from a stable with no other animals apart from that which he took. He rode

south to find the burial mounds, though in no hope of finding them.

Memeira, with one hand on the ropes around the horse’s head, and one hand on the robes

that concealed Dulinil, led the horse down the hill. He moved slowly. The sun was setting

slowly. The sky seemed red. The red was pale, and became more of a dull colour every

second Memeira looked at it.

Memeira stopped looking at the sky. He looked at the horse and saw all the imperfections in

the hair of the horse’s head. There were flies over the horse’s head. Memeira flailed his arm

over the horse to try and get rid of them. They went, then came back again. Memeira started

to walk faster. His feet were cold. He was wearing a pair of thick socks that he found in the

bag on the horse’s side. He did not know what they were made of. He felt the strands of wool,

or cotton or whatever the socks were made of, dig into his skin. His feet were cold.

Memeira got to the bottom of the hill. The hills were bigger. He stood underneath them as if

they were looming over him. Memeira mounted his horse.

As he rode on the ground became harder, changing from the marshlands that had become of

the ice plains. The air was warmer, yet still mixed with the cold he had endured before. The

sky was grey and clouds collected and moved about each other as Memeira moved more

swiftly on. The grass was a putrid mix between dark blue and green. Everywhere there were

patches of long grass between areas of bare ground. As the horse galloped on the ground

seemed to shake from its weight. The soil there was tightly held together, perhaps pressed

down by the feet of all those who had gone to the burial mounds. Every once in a while

Memeira would come across a tree. Some were but a tall pillar with bare branches and others

were massive with overshadowing leaves. The tallest were at least forty feet into the air,

creaking as the wind blew them from side to side. As Memeira went on the trees became

closer together and e saw them more often.

He thought he remembered looking over the plains and seeing only a few trees, all of which

had only a few leaves.

There was a hum.

He had only travelled for an hour yet he knew that he was close to the burial mounds. The

scenery around him didn’t seem to change, but the ground beneath him did. In the distance

was the dim sight of torches, set in two long lines. He did not want to go near them; he felt as

if they reminded him of the mist and how the endless torches stretched onwards. It would be

the last place that he would see the face of his sister. Memeira didn’t want to think of these

things. The horse began to move at a walking pace and still Memeira did not hurry it on. The

torches never seemed to become any closer to them, looming in the distance in the same place

that they always had done.

Memeira wanted it to stay this way; every moment he spent moving any slower would mean

he would have more time before he would have to leave the body of Dulinil forever. He

stopped to gather his thoughts. He suddenly realized that he was now sadder than he had ever

been in his life. He had just lost a sister and she would never come back. It was perhaps in his

age that he failed to realize he was on his own until he could find someone to help him

through his struggle. He wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for Dulinil. How could he expect to

live any longer without her? He did not cry. It was as if he did not feel it necessary for one

reason or another. There was no point to mourning for her. Anything he did would only make

his suffering worse and bring back memories from when she lived. No amount of mourning

would ever bring back the deceased. Memeira moved on from the place, leaving his thoughts

behind him.

“Dulinil,” he said. He wanted to keep calling her name. He thought the more he felt sad for

her death the higher the chances would be that some kind of higher power would feel pity for

him and bring his sister back. Memeira was a child. It was only in his imagination that he

thought these things. He even knew it to be impossible that anyone would come back to life.

He did not know why he was even trying.

He had stopped now on the horse. His mind had gone completely blank as if he was waiting

for a response from Dulinil. He was now staring into the distance. There were no burial

mounds there, and no torches either. There was nothing. He looked around and could see only

the face of his sister. It would not leave her mind. It stayed there like a haunting image that he

could not take away. Everywhere he looked it would follow his eyes. There was not the sight

of the green grass that he had noticed before, only the slowly decaying embodiment of

Dulinil. He looked at it further and as he did he noticed it soon became infested with creatures

that crawled out of decaying parts of Dulinil’s face. He looked in horror as the image slowly

disintegrated and was replaced with a new one.

This new image was not as clear, and sat in the distance in the corner of Memeira’s eye. It

was a man. The man seemed to be lifted from the ground. It was not like anything that

Memeira had seen or thought of before. The man was tall, wearing a dark cloak over his

clothes. He had chainmail on for a second, though it slowly vanished and became a cloth over

his skin. In his right hand was a sword. His left hand was nowhere to be seen. Perhaps it was

tucked beneath his clothes. Memeira couldn’t see anyway and he did not try to look. The man

looked menacing and evil but happy at the same time. Memeira imagined others being scared

by the sight of him too. He felt a strange attraction to him, as if he was some kind of deity.

Though now the face of the person transformed. He was dressed in dark clothes and had the

body of an old and evil man, though on his face resembled peace and wisdom at the same

time. He did not seem like a horrible person when Memeira looked at him more carefully.

From the first sight he would not like to approach this man. Now it felt as if there was no one

he would rather befriend.

“Hello,” Memeira said. It was like he was talking to a ghost. He did not know what to say.

His voice was quiet in case he said the wrong thing. “Who are you?”

There was no response. The man looked at him for a second, exerting his stare upon

Memeira. Memeira was frightened. His eyes had a shifting colour, going from blue to grey

and switching between every second. Memeira tried to look away and close his eyes but the

image of the man did not go away. The man began to turn away from him and Memeira went

from being frightened to wanting the figure to return so that he could speak to him. He was

lonely.

He could not speak. He tried to tell the man to come back but his words were forced back

into his mouth. There was no chance that Memeira would ever see or imagine him again. The

image was only a memory, which stayed in his mind for only moments before it disappeared

never to be fully remembered again. Memeira felt the same way he did when he found Dulinil

dead, though the feeling was not as heartbreaking. It was sad in a way he could not explain.

However hard he tried to bring back the sight of the man he was not successful. He could

only bring back the hated memories of Dulinil’s death. He tried not to do that, but could not

find the balance between wanting the image of the man to return and wanting the memory of

his sister’s death to return. He did not know what the man was there for. Perhaps he was there

to resemble Dulinil being taken away. He did not know. Memeira could only let his impaired

imagination capture him and make him wonder what various things were supposed to mean.

However, he found that a new image in his mind was found. Instead of seeking for the same

image that he had previously seen of the man he tried to envision the sight of the figure

standing over the fields ahead of him. His ordinary sight had returned to him now and

Memeira could see the person standing in the distance.

Memeira felt as if he wasn’t alone anymore. There was someone there that he could go

towards and feel comforted by. He rode closer almost as an instinct without thinking what he

was doing though as he did the figure went further and further away and eventually turned

again and disappeared in the distance.

“Why?” Memeira was now on the ground looking up to the skies with his hands held out to

his side. “Everything I seek for I cannot find and when I do it leaves me?”

He began to wail as the wind brushed his tears over the grooves in his face. The cry was not

usual. He made a sequence of shudders before letting out an enormous shriek. It was as if he

was in complete agony. He looked up and above him the clouds were moving across the sky

with the wind. He wanted to go that way but knew he could only travel as fast as his horse

could take him. The wind caught up and as he watched the speed of the clouds increased. The

speed of the wind did not move him. He was like a rock that was not swayed by nature.

However much the wind swept the grass he would still stay in the same place. It was

Memeira’s choice to where he went and the weakest forces of nature would not be able to

change that. It would only take a compelled force to affect him in his path.

He took his eyes from above and set them to the plain in front of him. As he did he noticed

in front of him the ground became increasingly steeper as the path he was following went on.

The path stretched over this hill that he could see emerging until it reached the point where

the clouds lingered. He followed it on his horse for a few moments and noticed the grass was

fading as he got higher and higher. The soil became more like rock and instead of galloping

the horse began to climb.

Contradicting what Memeira had thought only moments before the wind was now pushing

hard against the side of the horse, moving it to the edge of the rocky hill. There was a loud

whistle as the wind blew through the cracks in the rock they were moving over. When

Memeira reached the top he stopped to look over the valley ahead of him.

The hills formed in a similar shape to the one he had just climbed and spread all around a

ring in the center. The ring was smooth and flat in the middle though rose as it became the

hills around it. There was a strong contrast between the green grass that spread around the

edges of the ring and the yellow, more dried grass that accumulated in the middle. The valley

was huge and stretched into the mist in the distance. As Memeira looked that way he could

see more clearly the forest that he had only been able to see the rim of before. The forest was

the same colour as the grass around it and on the plains, only slightly darker, perhaps from the

smoke that Memeira could see rising from it in the very farthest reaches of the world he could

see.

He looked over the world for only moments before going to his supplies to find something to

eat. As he did, caught in his peripheral vision was the sight of several smooth hills. He

stopped as he was about to bring the food out and looked over at them. There were ten. Each

of them was covered with flowers and ornaments that had been left there long ago. The hills

were not steep though very stretched over enormous acres of the plain. Memeira could not see

them clearly as the wind swept the mist from the mist from the forest over them. He squinted

and stared with more concentration at them, expecting the mist would somehow move as he

did so. As he did he could not help but realize the magnificence of the view that he bore at the

time.

To his right he looked over an enormous round plain, stretching endlessly until he could see

the misty woods. Mist was pouring from the woods to the burial mounds that Memeira had

identified on his left as he went to find food. Over the burial mounds were wondrous flowers.

Memeira had never seen more than a single flower in any one place before. He had lived his

life going over the ice plains on a slow and torturous journey to the farthest place in the north.

As he looked over the sight he couldn’t think why anyone would go to such a hideous place

that were was in the north when they could live looking over the valley.

Then he saw again the pillar of smoke that rose in the distance from the forest. It was as if

there was an intrusion to the natural wonder. He could not help but look in disgust at the sight

in the distance. It was as if a picture had been painted of luscious fields, only to have a single

brush stroke destroy it in a far easier manner than it had been created. Memeira turned like the

man that he had seen in his mind and took hold of the horse. He mounted it and did not turn

back again.

It did not feel to him like he was overreacting to the sight of the smoke at all. He knew that

the fire could be extinguished in the forest for whatever reason it was created and the sight

would return to its beautiful state. However, he knew that there was a purpose for the smoke,

and that purpose would become so needed that the fire would spread over the plains to the

valley and all the trees and greenery would be burnt and used as energy to feed the hunger

that humans have for their wellbeing.

Memeira set foot on the burial mounds for the first time then. He looked over them with on

hand on Dulinil. The wind was blowing through his long hair and the mane of the horse. The

grass was being swept like the waves of the sea in the direction that the clouds moved. There

were ten hills from where Memeira stood earlier. Though now he could see but three. He

stood there and did not mourn for Dulinil. He only stood. There was nothing he could mourn

about. One moment Dulinil was his dead sister, and the next she was but a body wrapped in

his old robes. He felt no pity for Dulinil. He did not feel anything for her. Memeira could only

see the burial mounds where the body wrapped in robes would be seen for the last time and

would not come back in his memories because it was not wanted there.

There was the same silence mixed with the slight hum that Memeira could remember from

the ice plains. He was not on the ice plains. There was a warm wind that came with the mid-

afternoon that he was experiencing then. His lips were held tightly together, shuddering every

once in a while. Memeira’s head swayed from side to side as his mouth moved. He was

gritting his teeth together. It was as if he was trying to keep away the tears that he knew

weren’t going to come because he couldn’t even feel the presence of Dulinil there. It was as if

with her death came the lack of any memories than anyone would ever have of her.

Memeira was sad, but it was not because of the absence of his sister, but because of what it

would cause. He was going to be alone for months until he would ever find someone to take

care of him. There was only he and the wind. To Memeira the horse and the body of Dulinil

were not with him. They had already been passed on to leave him there. It was a feeling that

Memeira could not explain. He would have never thought that there would be no emotion if

anyone he should come to love would never be seen again.

Though it only felt like there was no emotion. Memeira realized from the trembling in his

lower lip that he would miss Dulinil forever. He knew he had to move on though. He stood

there for only moments longer to him, though in reality for hours before he moved. He only

woke up when the horse began to become restless. It was starving. Memeira had been so

caught up in the death of Dulinil that he had completely disregarded the welfare of the

animal.

Memeira moved from place to place and as he did was not even slightly conscious of his

doings. His face was kept in a fixed position. He did not move his eyes at all. They stayed in

one position and he had no intention of moving them from the one place. He was concerned

about only one thing. He wanted to bury Dulinil and forget about her.

“I need to move on,” he said. He had so much conviction in the way he spoke that he could

have forgotten that he was under the age of ten. He knew he was talking to himself. If there

was any point when he was utterly conscious it was now. He spoke again and in his mind was

speaking the words that would create the turning point for his life. “Maybe they will tell this

in a story, one day.”

Memeira stood over the grave. He did not say anything. He was tired of talking to himself.

The stone was small and round at the top. It was dug deep into the ground. Memeira carved

the name “Dulinil” into the stone. He looked at the lines on his left hand. He had once been

told that the lines on your right hand represented how your life was destined to go, and the

lines on your left hand represented how your life was going, based on the decisions that

everyone makes through life.

There was a hum.

There was silence.

Memeira looked at the stone. He picked up another stone, and slowly carved out the lines on

his left hand onto the rock, making sure that he perfected every detail.

Chapter Four – Knot

Dulinil could barely see and there were pieces of dust over her eyes and she had just woken

up from an endless sleep yet was still exhausted. She wanted to wake up feeling fresh and

reborn. All around the room that she was in were grey hazy pictures of her memories. Her

memories were slipping away from her now; she found it hard to recall how she had moved

from the ice plains and couldn’t come to think of what had happened when she was on them.

She was sweating for once. She looked over and could see faintly a fire beside her. There was

a figure crouching near to it giving it fuel so that it would last the duration of Dulinil’s sleep.

She tried to get up and talk to the man but she fell back into her bed for another minute of rest

every time.

The figure kept stopping to look over at Dulinil, though went back to whatever he was doing

shortly afterwards. He did not know whether he should leave Dulinil alone or wake her up.

He didn’t want to wake her up in case she was scared.

As Dulinil watched the man she noticed every once in a while he would resume his place in

front of a window at the very highest point of the room. Dulinil couldn’t see what he was

looking at though assumed that it was the ice plains.

Had she caused some kind of confusion while going over the plains? She wondered whether

the man was looking out for others who were looking for the children. Perhaps there was

something else moving on the plains that they had not seen that others were searching for in

their watchtowers. She did not know and did not have the energy to come to any conclusions

to why the man was watching over the land.

She closed her eyes again and turned in her bed. As the rustling of her sheets became

prominent the man was alerted and came swiftly to her bedside. Dulinil could hear the

oncoming sound of his footsteps. As he leant over the bed she could feel the warmth of his

body looming at a reasonable distance from her.

Dulinil opened both of her eyes and turned to look at the man.

“Are you awake?”

Dulinil immediately trusted the man without having any knowledge of him whatsoever. She

knew that even if she didn’t trust anyone she would still have to keep them close in the hope

that they might help her in one form or another. She turned and looked at the man, though

could only see the silhouette of a small and weak figure, standing over her with his arms held

tightly to both sides of the wood at the end of the bed.

At first Dulinil jumped at the sight of the dark, overshadowing figure, then nodded her head

as soon as she recognized his build. The man seemed to light up with joy at the sight of

Dulinil’s nod, immediately going round to her side and kneeling in front of her. He paused for

a moment and tried to gather his words though found it hard under the enormous pressure to

talk to Dulinil and keep a watch over the land as well. He kept peering back at the window at

every slight sound he heard in fear that a threat was moving over the plains.

“If you want I can bring some food or water. Or if you want you can rest for longer.”

“Not now. I need to breath.”

The man hurried to attend to Dulinil’s need by pulling the covers from her. At once a rush of

cold air poured over her side. She was immediately refreshed though remembered again the

cold of the mist. As she tried to sit up every bone in her body creaked and rubbed together.

She managed to get herself into an uncomfortable position with her arm pressed against the

wood board of the bed behind her. Dulinil pushed the covers with her other trembling hand

and tried to move to the side of the bed.

As her other hand was taken away from the board she fell over back into the bed sheets. The

figure rushed to help her back up and put her back into position.

“Wait longer,” he said as his arms came away from her as she settled back in the bed. “I

don’t think you are ready to begin walking again. Wait longer. Maybe we can just talk from

the bed.”

There was nothing to talk about. Dulinil had never been more confused in her life. She felt

as if she had endured the pain of death though at the same time felt as alive as she had always

done. She looked around to check that she was not dreaming. In the past Dulinil had been a

lucid dreamer, and was therefore uncertain whether she was fully conscious. The cool air

running over her upper body was as vivid as the clear picture of the man sat in front of her.

She was not dreaming.

“What is your name?”

“Harúsyr Atheric.”

The wind battered against the side of the tower.

“I am from Ilãrys.”

Dulinil turned away from him in fear. She was not in her proper state of mind and found it

hard to think as she should have been.

“Ilãrys,” Dulinil said. “The people that killed me were from there.”

Harúsyr gave Dulinil an odd look. He scanned her face to check that there was any colour

and she wasn’t ill. Every pigment of colour had returned since her sleep. The man was even

more confused than Dulinil was, and frightened at the same time.

“You are alive. No one killed you. No one from Ilãrys will ever harm you. You are alive and

no one killed you.”

Dulinil wasn’t listening. She had suddenly become very tired. As she looked around the

room she noticed there was a slight tint of red. The room was made of grey bricks, which

were not properly held together, but built up the wall in a disorganized mess. Dulinil felt that

if a single piece from the wall was taken out the whole structure would collapse.

There was a long echo that Dulinil barely heard but was louder than thunder to Harúsyr; his

job was to look and listen for any signs of anyone moving over the ice plains and if anything

was detected he was to report it back to his master. He moved quickly to the chair beside the

window and knelt on it, leaning towards the northern ice plains.

Nothing stirred. The mist stayed as still as it had always done. There were no signs of

anyone there. The state of the plains returned to how it should have been: empty and silent.

The man returned to Dulinil who had closed her eyes now, unable to keep them open for

longer than a few minutes. She could not see the man approaching, but felt his warmth as he

drew close to her. There was a strong wind, which funneled from the window through the

tower to her bed. Dulinil tensed her muscles, trying to keep the heat that she had generated in

her sleep.

Warmth returned. It was not because of Dulinil’s attempt to bring it back. Harúsyr had put

more logs onto the fire, keeping its flame up so that the heat might last a little longer. The

walls served no purpose in keeping out the cold from the ice plains. They were there as

protection and to give height so that the watchmen could see further over the land.

“Why do you have two names?” Dulinil asked. The heat from the fire had given her the little

strength required to look at the man as he attended to the fire and ask the question. At the time

she did not realize how odd the question must have sounded to the man. She wanted to know

the answer. “I’ve never heard of anyone with two names before.”

The man rose to come close to her so that she would hear clearly.

“All the men from Ilãrys have two names – except the slaves, who we do not count as

people of Ilãrys.”

“Why not?” Dulinil interrupted him before he began his next sentence.

“Slaves are the way they are for a reason. They are not counted as our equals, so they

shouldn’t be given equal authority. It is a sign of authority to have two names.”

Dulinil was confused, though she wouldn’t be had she not have suffered from the cold of the

ice plains the week before. She felt like something had been taken away from her before she

asked her next question. It felt like she had fallen from her existing high authority and

become like the slaves that Harúsyr spoke of.

“I have one name,” she said. Dulinil was about to continue but stopped before she could as

she saw the facial expression of the man in front of her.

Dulinil noticed that the watchman was about to say something to contradict her but could

not gather his thoughts or words to tell her that she wasn’t a slave. There was no way he could

have persuaded her to think she wasn’t. He sat again realizing that he was caring for someone

who should have been below him in authority. To Dulinil he seemed to be bothered by the

thought though did not take action to reverse what he had said to make him feel that way.

Harúsyr was going to change the topic but he couldn’t think of anything but the thought that

anyone without two names should not be treated as equals. He went back to the fire, even

though it was burning strongly already.

Harúsyr went to find more wood from the pile that sat in the corner of the room. He returned

and placed the logs on the top of the already high stack. They rolled off to the pile of ashes

below them, before being picked up and placed in another position. He knew that it was

obvious that he was trying to divert from the question, though had hope that Dulinil was too

tired to care.

“You’re not from Ilãrys,” he said, conjuring an excuse to make Dulinil feel better about

herself, “so if you didn’t have two names it wouldn’t make any difference; the system of

naming is only prominent where I come from.”

Harúsyr was talking more firmly now; he had time to gather his words and could come up

with a more structured response to Dulinil’s questions. He had stopped putting more logs onto

the fire. It would burn for hours more at the rate it was going. He just sat there on the floor,

meters away from the chair that was positioned in front of the window. He was too tired to

move, much like Dulinil was. He was staring at a position on the cold floor of the tower.

There were a few pieces of wood that had split from the bed. Harúsyr moved over to sweep

them up with his hands when a sudden howl of wind came through the window and swept the

fire to one side.

Dulinil went back into her bed sheets, feebly pulling them over herself as she tried to gather

more heat from the cold winds that blew through the room. The tower from the position that

Dulinil was consisted only of the high round walls that kept it aloft, the window to her left

and the fire that burned in the corner. In a few places there were chests and pieces of

equipment that had been discarded. All the watchmen needed to do was sit there by the

window and report back to their leader when something caught their attention over the ice

plains.

She was not looking, but Dulinil could hear the man moving from place at every slight

sound. The man was trained to detect the tiniest movements over from outside the window,

and when he was not watching, be able to hear any cries or the howls of animals. His duty

was lonely. Dulinil had not seen any other people in the tower. Harúsyr lived there. He didn’t

even have to leave to collect food. Passing riders were instructed to bring him food to keep

him going so that the surrounding area would be safe.

Perhaps his solitude over the vast expanse of empty land was the reason that he found it hard

to communicate to Dulinil; he had previously had no connection with others. Perhaps he was

even born in the tower, and raised to expect each day would be the same as the last. Dulinil

felt his life was sad, and in some ways unnecessary; it was clear that nothing except her had

been over the ice plains for the past months, or even years.

She wanted to ask Harúsyr about his job, but knew that if she wanted to have a longer-

running conversation she would need to rest for more time.

In some ways Dulinil longed for a life of rest, like Harúsyr had endured for perhaps his

entire life. Though in other ways she thought highly of a life of what she had heard so many

times being called “adventure.” In the world she lived in she did not think of adventure in the

way that most people would have done in others. She had already learned going over the ice

plains about how cruel the naturally conjured elements of the world could be to you. She was

only in the prime of her life, however, and expected that it she was to carry on living as she

was then she would eventually find the true feeling of living like the adventurers she had

heard in stories had lived. She need only wait for that moment to come. Until she would

become strong enough to venture out, in most cases on her own, she would have to share the

experience of living with others, which she might not want to do.

Dulinil imagined the open world and all the expanses of land that she would be able to

explore once she was independent and had recovered from the illness the mist had given her.

She wanted to say to Harúsyr that she wanted to leave the tower. She did not want to become

like him: spending his life serving other people whom he called his masters. Dulinil wanted to

be her own master. Though at the same time she knew that whatever she said for the next

couple of hours would only make the wait longer before she could start living in the manner

she desired.

Her rest was swift, or so it seemed by her dreams, which echoed her current thoughts about

living her life adventuring. They were not as she would have thought, however. What became

of Dulinil’s travels turned into situations that she would rather not have been in. Instead of

being completely involved with what she wanted to do, she became caught up in matters that

were not her business. She became part of things that people for centuries had tried to ignore

but knew were always there. From her dreams of travel came the echoes of thoughts that she

did not want. Newly christened nightmares infested her mind, making her think of what

would come of filling the time before her death. Dulinil began to realize that by escaping to a

new life would also bring the horrors that come of it.

She did not know what she was thinking. As she awoke from her seemingly short sleep she

couldn’t even remember what had happened. It was as if she could only remember the events

that she had seen while they happened. Every opinion that she had devoted time to in her

dream was lost and Dulinil didn’t even have the willpower to reminisce the thoughts that the

dream had come from.

She did not remember dreaming. It seemed like such a short stretch of time. Perhaps it was

only a glimpse that she had seen while lost in mere daydreams. Dulinil did not try to

remember what had happened in what seemed like a few seconds. She had gathered her

energy again and was ready to begin talking to Harúsyr again.

“Are you the only one here?” she asked, coming back to her previous thoughts.

Harúsyr turned and looked at her. He had a look of regret in his eyes in one form or another.

It appeared like he did not want to reply to Dulinil. Harúsyr bit his lip and raised his jaw to

tense the skin around his neck. His fingers were twitching as if he had never wanted the

question to be asked. It was certain he did not want to answer it. Perhaps it would bring back

ill thoughts of the years he had spent without human company.

“I am alone, apart from you,” he said quietly; “I’m not alone now. You’re here.”

“Don’t you want to do something?” Dulinil did not hesitate in asking her next question

Harúsyr turned to her. “What do you mean,” the look of regret returned to him.

“Don’t you wish that you had not chosen to live this kind of life now?”

Harúsyr turned back. He was trying to conceal the look on his face, as if he was ashamed of

it in some way. He replied to Dulinil’s question, but was barely loud enough for himself to

hear his own words.

“I did not choose this life,” he said, louder this time. “The people of Ilãrys chose it for me.

In a way I am a slave to them. I don’t get any kind of reward, but I was given this tower that I

have made my home. People give me food when they come by, but sometimes I have to leave

to find some, sometimes skipping days of my duty so I don’t starve.”

Dulinil felt sorry for the man, though knew that her situation was worse. She was as hungry

as he was, except she had endured the cold of the ice plains for weeks without shelter. She

had experienced what she remembered as death, but could not understand, as she knew that

then she was alive. She looked at Harúsyr to see the look on his face. He was again looking at

the floor, though did not have any point of focus. His eyes were moving around in their place,

open wide but shuddering every moment.

Dulinil did not know what he was thinking. Harúsyr had thought of the statement years

before he said it. In some ways his mind was twisted into thinking how bad his life had been

from his solitude and the slightest things that had gone wrong.

Looking round Dulinil could see light pouring through the window where Harúsyr had been

looking out. The beams of the sun emerging from the left of the room made the torches on the

opposing side seem small and dim in comparison. In that way Dulinil found it hard to

compare them. The light was mixed with the wind which funneled through the room of the

tower and swayed the flight of the ashes and smoke from the torches and the fire beside her.

In one corner Dulinil saw one torch almost go out, before the force of the wind decreased

and it returned to its previous state. As it became still again and burning as vigorously as it

had done Dulinil in a way forgot about how it was swayed by the wind; all she could see was

the torch in its ordinary state. She imagined a rough point in her life emerging and compared

it to the torch in the way that once it was over it was forgotten, and when thought of again,

thought of as irrelevant as the torch still existed. Dulinil often compared small things to

events that could possibly occur in her life, but hadn’t for a long time due to her decline.

Perhaps the renaissance of little things like the thought of the torch and her life was a sign that

she was becoming mentally healthier, and returning to the state she was.

Once she had become the same as she was before she entered the mist perhaps it would be

like the torch returning to its original state. Perhaps after her recovery she would forget about

the grim thought of the arrow.

Then she remembered.

Dulinil up until that point had completely dismissed the thought of her wound. How could

she have forgotten? She dared not remove her first layer of clothes to see it again. The urge

was too strong. Dulinil knew it but still tried to fight it.

Memories of the pain came pouring back into her head as if they had been kept back by a

behind a wall that had just been broken. Dulinil could no longer see Harúsyr. Her thoughts

had captured her in such a way that she had lost her sense of concentration. She had forgotten

about the torches. All she could concentrate on now was the memory of the arrow piercing

her.

She took her robes from her chest in her mind, but in a way could not bring herself to bring

the thought to reality. Every ill vision that she had of her past pain was now prominent.

Pictures of the arrow that she had seen as she rode over the ice plains were tied together and

pulled into one. She could not escape the sight of the arrow. Dulinil knew that eventually her

temptation would reach her and she would have to show herself the point at which she had

been struck. She needed to see if she was wounded in any way.

Her left and came up. It was shaking. Dulinil tried to fight the shaking and fear of the

possible horrible sight that she could see. Her imagination was too much for her. Now it was

as if the world was moving ten times as slow as it should. Dulinil saw her fingers as they

twitched and the bottom of her hand. It was shaking so violently that she knew she would

have to lie back down and rest before it would be possible for her to uncover the wound.

Dulinil wanted to but the need to see the wound was prominent at the same time.

Her second urge was stronger. She was not able to fight it now. She didn’t need to; she just

needed to have one look at the wound and call Harúsyr if it was bad.

It was worse than she could have possibly imagined.

Dulinil only looked at it for a matter of moments before turning in her bed ready to be sick.

She held the bed covers, gritting her teeth in some vain attempt to rid the image from her

head. It was locked there. She could not unsee the blood.

Parts of Dulinil’s head were now telling her to look again and see if it was really as bad as

she had pictured it. Other parts told her to not take a second look in case she would actually

be sick. Another she would only be able to hear properly if she should take another look.

Dulinil returned to her previous position and took the robes off her for a second time. What

she saw was the same as she had on the ice plains. In front of her was the broken arrow. There

were splinters at the end, as there were when she had first seen the arrow. Now there was

blood around the edges of were the arrow had pierced her. There was not only blood, though.

Mixed with the dried red colour, which now appeared as grey, was a yellow kind of liquid,

which spread around the corners of where the blood ended. The colour started there, before

spreading to the origins of the piercing, stretching up from the skin like grass from the

ground.

The yellowness crept up the sides of the arrow, growing around the hole that it was lodged

in. There were scars and cuts everywhere, positioned unevenly around the area that the arrow

had struck. Around the cuts, which were presumably from the splinters, were patches where

the yellow colour had turned to a putrid darker hue of Dulinil’s skin colour.

She did not want to look at the wound any longer, but felt a need to; it was part of her now.

She would have to live with the pain for perhaps countless months to come. She did not know

how longer it would take to heal given the circumstances that she was in: trapped on the ice

plains.

Then there came another thought. She did not want to accept it though in some disgusting

way it felt like the right thing to do. She couldn’t help it. Dulinil felt like it was some kind of

sin if she left the arrow as it was; something had to be done about it. There was no need to

wait.

Dulinil consulted her decision to do what she was about to do again. She did not know

whether it was the right thing to do, even though she had just thought that it would be. Her

mind flickered from thinking that it was the correct thing to do to thinking otherwise. There

was no way no that she could stop it though. It would take an enormous effort to stop herself

from doing what she really felt was necessary. She did not have enough energy to do so, and

it would take hours longer to gain that energy.

She took a hold of the arrow with her left hand. She was sitting on her left hand, trying to

spread the pain from the arrow and make herself believe that the pain was not as bad in

comparison. The right of her body was numb now. Everything she saw went red, tainted with

the colour of her blood.

Dulinil had a firm hold of the round part of the arrow. Her hands were splintered yet she still

held as hard as she could. It felt heavy in her grasp. It seemed like it was fixed into her skin

and would not move no matter how hard she should try. It was part of Dulinil now.

She then acted, forcing her hand up and driving the arrow out of her body. As soon as the tip

moved inside her body she felt an enormous relief but also pain as the spikes of the

arrowhead tore the inside of her skin. Crying in pain Dulinil held the arrow out in front of her.

It was stained red. On both ends of the metal that made up the head were pieces that had been

ripped from her body. She could not bear look at it in a similar way that she couldn’t when

she looked at it lodged in her body.

There was a clang as the arrow hit the floor of the tower. The head was pressed into the

stone first before the wood fell to the ground beside it, moving the balance until it stayed

there, unable to be swayed by gravity. Dulinil looked at it there, sitting meters from her bed.

She did not blink. Her mouth was open, letting her jaw drop. It was gone. The arrow was no

longer in her body. In a way she felt like she didn’t need to worry about it anymore, though in

others she felt as if there was a new thing to worry about, perhaps more so than the thought of

the arrow in her body.

Dulinil immediately regretted pulling it from her body when she turned her head down to

look at the scar that had been left behind as a result. There was a faint, blurry picture before

her, making out the signs of blood, mixed with the dislodged pieces from her body. She did

not see the sight for long before she fell back onto her bed, her left hand still positioned as if

it was held onto the arrow as she pulled it from herself.

She felt no pain. It was a sensation that Dulinil could not understand. She had just pulled an

arrow from her chest, which in turn pulled pieces from her body that were now strewn across

the bed and painted over the floor. Perhaps she had torn a part of herself that was able to feel

pain. No one knew how the human body worked that she had ever known. To her all that she

could see was the mess that had become of her. Dulinil could hear the sound of footsteps

coming closer and closer, louder and louder. She stopped to hear the footsteps more closely,

but could only hear the sound of her beating heart, which pounded like a drum.

Dulinil began to cry. She had realized that by pulling that arrow from her she had just come

to months of pain, incomparable to the lesser pain she would have endured had she left the

wound as it was.

Dulinil could see Harúsyr. He was sitting in the corner of the room as he had done

previously. For one reason or another he seemed to have taken little notice of Dulinil in her

agony. He was sitting slouched over the chair resting on his hand. His elbow was on the

windowsill and his eyes were nearly closed.

Dulinil was confused. She was crying. Harúsyr didn’t take any notice of her. Was there

something wrong with her? Was Harúsyr asleep? The pain had vanished as if it was never

there somehow, but she still had her hand in the same position, wrapped around the air as if

there was an arrow in its place.

“Harúsyr,” Dulinil whimpered. She paused and waited for him to grab her attention, “will I

be alright?”

Harúsyr did not know what to say. The look on his face showed his confusion. He looked at

Dulinil in a sort of angry manner, as if he was being mocked by what she had said. He shook

his head and went back to the window, ignoring what Dulinil had said, though he felt guilty

for it and wanted to return to Dulinil to talk to her and give her reassurance.

“The blood on the floor,” Dulinil spoke firmly now, “can’t you see it?”

Harúsyr turned again and looked around. His bottom lip jutted out as if to say he had no idea

what Dulinil spoke of. He looked at her, and looked back at the floor every once in a while,

muttering words to himself. He did not understand Dulinil. Harúsyr stood up as if to inspect

the room more closely. Perhaps he had missed something.

As he traced around the room looking for clues that Dulinil might have been talking about

Dulinil thought to herself too, and in some ways bore the same confusion that Harúsyr did;

she had torn out her own bowls yet did not feel the pain that came from it. She was alone and

was crying yet the guard was not there and when he was he came out of nowhere, appearing

by the window like a ghost. She was hallucinating and had known it for a while but did not

want to acknowledge it. Dulinil wanted to think she was fine to make herself feel better.

There was no use in that thought now.

How could anything that she had previously seen be real? She remembered dying but was

now alive in a tower with a man that seemed as real as she did. Perhaps her death was a

dream that she was waking up from now. Perhaps she was already dead. All these thoughts

horrified her; they were discarded, but kept coming back into Dulinil’s head like a cut that

could not be healed.

Dulinil looked up at Harúsyr, looking him in the eyes as if she was expecting some form of

sympathy. None was given at first. Harúsyr looked back and treated the situation like a joke

that Dulinil was playing. He soon realized that there was no joke that could be played with

that kind of look in Dulinil’s eyes. Some things that anyone would find hard to accept have to

be forgotten and replaced with genuine thoughts of sympathy. In this case Harúsyr had

forgotten the joke; there was no more joking anymore. Dulinil was hallucinating. He knew it

himself now. He had to act.

“The blood has gone,” he said, trying to find the right words to bring Dulinil out of her state,

“you don’t need to worry about it anymore. I have cleaned it with water and swept it away

with a broom. The person who the blood came from is not here anymore. I told him to go

away. You don’t need to worry about him anymore.”

“The blood came from me,” Dulinil said, opening up her robe to reveal the scar the arrow

had made on her.

Harúsyr looked at it and took no notice. He stared for a couple of seconds, unaware what he

was supposed to be concentrating on before looking back at Dulinil in confusion. He mouth

was open. He had both his eyebrows raised. He was waiting for Dulinil to say something, or

give him a hint at what he was supposed to be looking at.

To Dulinil the sight was still the same. She did not need to look at the wound to remember

the horror of the sight. The picture was still in her mind even if it had never entered

Harúsyr’s. She had a look of horror on her face by the way that Harúsyr had not reacted or did

not seem to want to do anything about her pain. She sat there in fear of what her mind was

doing to her.

“Can’t you see my pain?” she said, almost shouting at Harúsyr. Her eyes were full of tears.

“Dulinil,” he said in response, coming closer to her on her bed. “I need to look out of that

window for a reason. For a long time I have been looking for peasants trying to make their

way from one of the northern tribes to Ilãrys. Now I have a new duty.”

He paused and took a deep breath.

“The air over the ice plains only very recently has changed along a path south,” he held his

words back. “There is something moving over the ice plains that none of the people of Ilãrys

can describe. It cannot be stopped. It is only a presence. There is no physical form or shape.

No one knows where it has come from. It isn’t any kind of being that knows its doings or

path, but a power which is being controlled by something or someone.”

Dulinil looked out of the window as if she expected to see the thing, yet in some way she did

not want to. She imagined the presence that she had felt moving over the ice plains some time

ago. Perhaps that thought might answer her questions. Perhaps the presence had something to

do with the way she thought and acted.

“What does it do?” Dulinil asked, yet unwillingly as in a way she did not want to know the

answer. She needed to in order to know why her thoughts and memories had been as they

were.

“Few people know of it,” Harúsyr said in reply. “It has been hauting the people of Ilãrys for

months now without people knowing of it. Only the highest humans and I have been told. The

common people are never to know; it would create more fear than awareness.”

“What does it do?” Dulinil asked again. “What is it?”

“It changes people,” Harúsyr said, “as far as I know. In a way it changes your memories. In

another it uses your memories to create another being out of you.”

Dulinil looked at him. As Harúsyr said the sentence about memories she began to listen

more carefully. She knew she had been affected. Perhaps she had never died at all. Perhaps

the presence that she had felt moving over the ice plains hours before she felt her death made

her think that she had died. Perhaps it made her think of all the ill thoughts that came into her

mind. Yet she knew that there was something other than a presence that was moving over the

ice plains. She did not believe in the supernatural. Dulinil’s entire life almost up until that

point had consisted of one logical event followed by another. It was only when she was facing

the mist that she had seen what could be if only she believed in the supernatural.

“You’re wrong,” she said, as if defying everything that Harúsyr had previously said and

going against all the statements of Ilãrys about what they called a presence.

Harúsyr looked at her. He had a look of shock on his face. He had been stated wrong by a

child. Yet he still wanted to hear what Dulinil had to say on the same topic. She had been so

firm in her denial of what the highest humans of the known world had found that there must

have been something on her mind that contradicted what she was saying.

He waited for her to respond, but Dulinil was still gathering her thoughts and words before

she could speak. Harúsyr moved closer to her, leaning nearer, anxiously awaiting her

response.

Dulinil did not want to say it; in a way if she did it would contradict her own statement by

creating more fear. She knew her own thoughts and knew what the presence was for, though

did not know how to piece the words together and use them to convince Harúsyr that her

thoughts were mature enough to contradict what the humans of Ilãrys had said before her. She

feared to say it, in case in a way she was standing up to those above her that she would

eventually have to face.

“There isn’t a presence,” Dulinil was sure of her words now. “For whatever reason fear is

being created. Perhaps to weaken Ilãrys before some kind of war.”

Harúsyr shook his head. He was looking absent-mindedly at the stone floor again. He let his

eyes wonder as he concentrated on his words. He had not had a conversation before Dulinil

had appeared for countless years.

“There has never been a war with Ilãrys before,” Harúsyr said. He was afraid. “There would

be no reason to have one. The lands surrounding Ilãrys have never seen war. Why now should

it come that someone should decide to wage one? Yet, if they did, there would be no way to

defend. Ilãrys’ army is weak; it has no need for one. The last serious threat to Emãrule was

long before any could live to remember it. It was perhaps even before the world was filled

with people; before any could have ever found the power to find an army and march against

it.”

Dulinil understood Harúsyr and realized how much his country meant to him. She knew that

it was unlikely that anyone would ever want to march against Ilãrys but also knew that in the

presence there was some form of danger and threat to Emãrule, which Dulinil thought to be

the high city of Ilãrys.

“You said the presence changed your thoughts?” Dulinil said. “Perhaps that is just a piece of

information that has been planted and that people want to make you believe. Perhaps there is

no power that changes your memories; by creating the fear of such a thing perhaps you are

forced to believe that you are somehow changed and that everything you see isn’t real.”

“No,” Harúsyr was sure Dulinil was wrong. “We have seen it. Where it crosses your path

will it begin the ruin of your consciousness. It moves like a ghost, sweeping over the land like

dust swept over the floor.”

“Perhaps that is part of it, though,” Dulinil said, convinced that she could persuade Harúsyr

that there was noting that anyone should come to fear. “Perhaps once you are told that it

moves like dust then anything you see that vaguely resembles the same picture you are forced

to believe is the presence that the humans fear.”

Harúsyr looked at her any believed her statement for a few moments. Then more thoughts

poured into his head. He felt angry in a way now. He wanted Dulinil to be wrong but did not

know why. He felt like the presence could not go unnoticed if there was the slightest chance

that it could be real.

“Listen,” his voice was calmer now, “I know that you have seen this thing when you

travelled south over the ice plains. Did you not just hallucinate now? Had you ever heard of

such a thing before you saw it? There is no game that is played with your mind. The presence

that you felt moving with you is as real as the words that I speak now. There is no point in

denying that however large or small the threat it is, it is still a threat and no one knows to

what scale this threat could grow to.”

He paused. Dulinil could not argue against him; in a way he was right. No one was certain

what the thing they spoke of was capable of doing to the people of Ilãrys, and in that way

more care should be taken than there would have been, had the presence been identified.

Dulinil looked at Harúsyr, taking a deep breath. There was something that had been

bothering him. Dulinil could see it in his eyes. Something lingered. Every couple of seconds

Harúsyr’s eyes would flicker between looking directly at Dulinil and at the window that

looked over the ice plains. Harúsyr had been trained to hear the slightest noises; Dulinil knew

that.

Harúsyr stood up and began to frantically look around the room. He almost fell as he walked

towards the window. He was trembling for one reason or another. His hands shook as he

reached for his chair. When he did reach he became so frustrated that he threw it away.

“What is it?” Dulinil cried. She was out of her bed now and walking.

She managed to stumble over to where Harúsyr was standing by the window, leaning out

over the northern plains. It had suddenly become very cold, yet there was now wind, only a

lack of heat. The sun had gone behind the clouds again. That was no different to how the ice

plains always were, though. There was never enough light to see further than the edges of the

mist, which now, as Dulinil looked out over the frozen ground was starting to shift and turn

into different shapes.

Her legs ached on the short walk to the window. Dulinil kept herself up by pressing her arms

against the stone of the window’s rim. Every bone in her body creaked as they rubbed

together. It was the first time in weeks that she had moved. After a few minutes she managed

to stand straight, exerting equal weight to both legs before falling.

Harúsyr did not take any notice of her fall. He was still stood looking over the ice plains.

When Dulinil found the strength to stand again and look out she found she could see nothing

but the open plain. She could not see the thunder or lightening that she had seen when she

rode over the plains before, yet there was still a slight showing of rain that pattered over the

ice on the ground.

There was not the same amount of ice that Dulinil knew when travelling there. Otherwise

the landscape was the same. The land ahead was bare except for a few patches of grass that

came from the thin layer of snow underneath them. Above Dulinil clouds formed and rain

came down in a spiral, creating a spinning pattern from the force of the wind against the

droplets. The clouds were white, though showing slight signs of becoming grey.

Dulinil looked over to Harúsyr who was to her right now. It looked as if he was in some kind

of pain. He kept touching his ears and pressing his hands against them. Dulinil thought there

was something wrong with his ears. He was frantically turning now, moving from side to

side, tossing his head and flicking his wrists as if he was trying to escape from his pain.

Dulinil saw him as with every moment his pain became more vivid. She tried to comfort him

and help but every time she did he would try to fight her off. He kept calling out “no.” Dulinil

did not know what to do. She began to panic suddenly. She was in shock now as Harúsyr was

and tried to cover her own ears so she wouldn’t keep hearing the “no.” Every time he did call

the word it would become quieter, until he was left kneeling and staring at the floor as he

always did.

“What was that noise?” he said. The fear had passed. He had returned to his normal state.

Dulinil looked at him. He did not move. He blinked once and turned to head to look at

Dulinil who did not answer out of confusion.

“There was a hum,” he said again.

Dulinil looked at him. She remembered the hum from when she went over the ice plains.

Her mouth was open. She looked at the reflection of a flickering torch in his brown eyes she

felt the wind return. She did not know what to say. Dulinil felt that if she told him that she

had heard the same noise before she had begun to hallucinate perhaps it would create more

fear. She felt it was the right thing to do, but needed to have a minute to collect her words and

piece them together so there was no confusion.

She remembered how when she saw the dot of light on the horizon she heard the hum for the

first time, and how it returned when the humans found her. Was it the same noise she had

heard? Perhaps the humans were near. But how could it have been their presence that created

the noise? She thought for a second longer. She then realized that after the presence had

moved with her it was passed to the humans that could be seen in the distance. After that

every time the humans came near she would begin the process of her false dreams again.

When the humans finally found, perhaps the presence had found her as well. When it came

near to her perhaps she begun to process again, dreaming when she thought she had come to

her death. Every hum she had heard was a sign that the presence was near. Why hadn’t she

heard it when Harúsyr had?

She knew she would have to tell him in order to know. Before she had fully gathered her

words she began to speak, stumbling during her first sentence, but starting again.

“I have heard the same noise that you have,” she said for the second time, “when I was

going over the ice plains. I heard it when I thought I saw the presence.”

Harúsyr looked at her again, changing from his state of looking at the floor.

“You did not hear it now?” he said.

“No.”

Harúsyr thought for a second. The questions that had been lingering in his mind for so long

were now being answered.

“What happened after you heard it?” he questioned her further. He needed to know the

answers to the questions in order to be rid of the reoccurring thoughts.

“I can’t remember,” Dulinil said, realizing that the events on the ice plains had merged into

one.

“How many times did you hear it?”

Dulinil thought for a moment.

“A lot of times, but I only took notice of it twice.”

“What happened the second time?” the questions continued.

Dulinil paused. She was more confused than she ever had been. She hadn’t thought about

what she was going to say before she said it. It was as if everything that had been happening

cancelled this one thought out of her head. She tried to answer once, but stopped again,

unable to continue. She looked around the room; Dulinil needed to know that everything she

was seeing was real and not part of the false dreams conjured by the presence that Harúsyr

talked about so much.

“I died,” she said.

Harúsyr looked at her in a way that made her feel like she had just committed the worst sin

she possibly could. She was alive now. How could this have ever been? He needed answers to

every ill thought that had crossed his head in the past months. He knew he needed to return to

Emãrule. He had not been there for years. There were people there who knew more than any

did in the world, and documents there that could possibly answer his questions.

“We need to leave,” he said to Dulinil, speaking firmly and looking at her directly in her

eyes. “There are questions that cannot go unanswered. I need to know about this presence,

why it’s here, what it is for, what it does, how one can stop it and above all I need to warn

someone about the threat that I will undoubtedly find from it.”

Dulinil understood Harúsyr, and knew that it was urgent that they were to go to the place he

had named as soon as they could. Yet, she knew she was not ready; she was nearly back to

her ordinary mind but knew it would take weeks longer before she would be able to move

properly again. She could not deny Harúsyr’s decision to leave. She knew his urge to go, and

knew that it was right that after all the time he had spent in the watchtower. She did not

understand fully why the presence, or what they had been describing up until that point, was

so much of a threat, even though she had already endured the suffering that it had brought her

and seen it begin to threaten the mind of Harúsyr.

“Take the clothes in the chest,” he said as he opened a trapdoor revealing a ladder, which he

was to use to get downstairs. “I will gather necessary supplies and find a map to lead us to

Emãrule. Once we get there I will first seek for Aelenthir. He is wise, and will know what to

do.”

It had all happened so suddenly. One minute a mystery had turned into a threat and Dulinil

was looking for clothes that would serve her on the cold journey to a city that she had not

known before that day, going with a man that she hardly knew.

She moved towards the chest, but was distracted by the window and the ice plains. She went

over to the window and looked out over the ice plains again. The mist was still now and the

rain had calmed. She wondered about the rain. There was snow on the ground yet when she

was riding south there was a storm. Something had changed since she began her journey

south that she could not explain at that moment. She wanted to ask Harúsyr but needed to find

the proper moment. She knew that now he needed to gather his thoughts before she would be

able to give him anymore.

She looked over the ice plains and saw how endless they seemed. She squinted her eyes and

peered into the mist. Ahead of her was a large opening where the mist was not as thick. She

could see the ground in patches, but this was further south from where she had been before.

The ground was mostly covered in snow. The mist made a circle around the window, but it

stretched far and Dulinil could see a long distance from the tower. The mist shifted as if some

creature was moving it.

She turned from the window, knowing that there was nothing on the ice plains that she

would have to worry about. As she turned again to get the clothes from the chest something

caught her eye and sent her turning again to look what it was.

In the distance the mist was swept upwards. It was not from the wind. The part of the mist

seemed to dance and spin, mixed with a gray haze, which emerged in the center of the

spiraling cloud. Dulinil only looked at it for a brief time before calling to Harúsyr, who had

now come back from the lower floor. He came over, dropping the heaps of food and other

supplies that he was carrying and rushed to the window. Dulinil turned back to the ice plains

to point to the area of the dancing mist.

“There’s nothing there,” Harúsyr said bluntly.

Dulinil looked again and Harúsyr was right. Ahead of her the mist had returned to its normal

state. The spiral of the mist was forgotten. Dulinil did not say anything. She only stared and

wondered, before turning back again.

“It’s dangerous to go alone. Here, take this.” Harúsyr opened the chest and threw Dulinil a

pile of clothes.

She picked up each piece one by one. She was given some discoloured dusty robes that were

torn all over. She put them over the clothes she was already wearing for warmth. She didn’t

care that she looked like she had just come from a fight. No one did. People accepted the

clothes you wore for the reason you wore them.

Finally she put on a fine coat made from the fur of animals. The button at the front had come

off so it did not fit around her yet she still wore it worrying that the journey there would be as

cold as the journey south was. The coat looked valuable to her, but she still did not reject to

wearing it, hopeful that it would server her well.

Dulinil made her way down the ladder to the bottom floor. It was the same as the floor

above except for the lack of ornaments. She waited there for some time before Harúsyr

returned with a horse.

The horse looked exhausted and starved. It was small with thin legs and patches of hair

missing. Occasionally it would give a weak neigh or a whinny before returning to its state

with its head bowed to the ground searching for patches of edible grass. Dulinil felt pity for it

but knew that it would have to serve them or they would never reach their destination.

Harúsyr offered the horse a rotting apple, which it immediately saw and lunged to. The horse

took it in its mouth and devoured it within a mater of seconds.

Harúsyr looked at Dulinil with a serious manner. Something had happened to the horse that

Harúsyr obviously did not want to talk about from the look on his face. Dulinil looked back at

it though. She tried to stroke its thin mane. As she did the horse shook its head, fighting her

hand off. The second time she tried she managed to reach the mane. Stroking it shakily from

the impact of the cold.

The horse was shivering. Dulinil did not know it had been waiting out there in the cold. She

assumed that Harúsyr tied it to a post somewhere nearby. The horse had a rope tied loosely

around the middle of its left that Harúsyr presumably used to keep it somewhere. As Dulinil

continued stroking the horse Harúsyr spoke.

“This is Athoruc,” he looked at the horse. “He is old but he can canter as well as we can

have good banter, so he should get us to Emãrule.”

“How long will it take to get there?” Dulinil asked. She could only hope that it would be a

matter of days.

“I don’t know,” was the response. ‘It could take weeks; I haven’t been there for years so I

wouldn’t be able to remember.”

It was snowing now. The rain had passed. Above her she could see the sun come through the

clouds, coming into vision and disappearing again as quickly as it cam. As it did Dulinil

remembered going into the raincloud with Memeira.

Memeira.

She suddenly remembered. How could she have forgotten? For the whole time that had

passed she completely forgot about Memeira. She felt guilty in a way, though also began to

panic. Where was he? Was he alive? Would she ever see him again? Dulinil put her face into

her hand before looking back up at Harúsyr.

She had questions to ask in the same way that he did. Her questions were not as important to

a group of people, but to herself. She felt that it was equally important, though. Memeira had

been a part of her life. She felt like that part of her life had been taken away, much like how

she ripped the arrow from her.

The arrow was no longer there. She did not have the time to look given her current

circumstances. She imagined her pain, but it was never there. There was only her imagination

that controlled how she felt that pain in her mind. There was no wound. Was she even shot by

the arrow in the first place? She originally thought the arrow to be the reason for the slow

decline or her mind. She now knew that it was due to the power that the presence brought,

driven by the cold.

“Where did you find me?” she said anxiously. She was shaking. She needed an answer, but

knew she would have to wait before Harúsyr should come to answer truthfully.

Dulinil looked back up at the sky. The rain was no longer prominent. Every droplet that was

falling had now turned to snow. At the same time in a way she felt that she had completed her

recovery to her normal self. So many thoughts Dulinil previously had were now questioned.

Was there ever any rain? How could there have been? Many things that didn’t make sense

now did. She had stopped hallucinating, and knew for future reference when the presence

would be near. She knew that from then on she would have to look for anything that didn’t

make sense, or what was not supposed to be there. The rain in conditions that were far too

cold for rain to exist was a sign that she was hallucinating. It made sense now. She knew that

her false dreams had passed at the sight of the snow above her.

“You came to me,” Harúsyr suddenly spoke amidst her thoughts. “You came to me lost. You

collapsed on the ice plains in front of my tower. I rushed to find you and carry you in so I

could look after you.”

“I was alone?”

“There were no others with you,” he said, his words like poison to Dulinil.

Dulinil had to look up at the sky again to know if she really was dreaming. No matter how

hard she looked there was not a single droplet of water. There was only snow. Dulinil knew,

and could not take herself away from the fact that Memeira was lost; and so was she.

Chapter Five – Isephor

Memeira looked at him in the distance. He was the same man he had seen in his head while

going to the burial mounds. He remembered, though his memories was scattered and had

merged together. It has hard to recollect anything else that had happened but seeing the image

of the man in his mind. It was only a few hours ago that he had buried Dulinil, yet everything

that had happened seemed to him like it never had.

He looked over. The man was coming towards him now, moving slowly over the grass. His

hair was blowing in the wind. His dark cloak covered the chainmail that he was wearing. For

some reason he looked like he had just been in a storm. Memeira had not seen rain since he

had left the ice plains. It was warmer in the part of the world he was in, though still cold

enough to affect you. The land that most of the events in the world he lived in was cold all

over. It was in the very northeast of the stretch of the earth. To Memeira, he was in the center,

however.

Memeira looked over; the wind swept the grass. There was water, but it was from the snow

of the winter that had just passed. Memeira looked around, searching for his horse. It had

gone, perhaps trying to flee from his master. Memeira had kept it for months, riding it

wherever he went. The man in the distance had a horse, kept back as he walked over. The

horse was not tied to anything, yet still perfectly still, occasionally chewing on the pieces of

grass.

Memeira decided to walk over, now. He was strangely drawn to the man in a similar manner

that he had when he saw him in his mind.

He was in the middle of two tall hills, which grew either side of him. The hills were a dark

green colour. They were tall where Memeira walked, but became the same height as the fields

where the man stood.

The light of the sun came through the clouds behind the man. He became a shadow.

Memeira could only see his outline and the ink that filled it.

There were two hills. He was in the middle. The man was just a silhouette. The sun was

behind him. The wind was blowing. The man did not move. The wind was circling around

him. There was no dust in the wind, or anything that Memeira could use to see where the

wind was travelling. He still knew where the wind was going as if there was something there

that he just couldn’t see.

The clouds towered over the silhouette, making the shadow of the man in the distance seem

like nothing. The clouds curled and changed with the wind. The wind did not change. It

looked like the man was getting sucked into the cloud. He did not move. Memeira was still

walking towards him.

Moving faster now Memeira could see him more clearly. He was still far in the distance. He

stopped to examine him. Memeira needed to know if he should be trusted. He had a relatively

pale face and dark hair. He had short hair and a beard, which circled his mouth and chin,

though grew no further than the bottom of his face. His mouth was open. Even though his hair

was short Memeira could almost hear the sound of it growing from his head. Even though the

sky had turned it grey, it was okay.

Memeira could not see his eyes. In a way they blended to the colour of his face around the

edges. The pupils of his eyes were dark brown to Memeira from where he stood, showing

hints of other shifting and changing colours.

The man walked quickly. He was wearing light brown boots that pressed against the earth

with every step. His legs were long.

The man came forward. The clouds moved with the wind and the sun was gone again.

Memeira stopped. He took a step back. Memeira stopped again.

Memeira felt an itch on his foot.

The man walked further. He slowed down. Memeira did not move. The wind was blowing.

The clouds moved again and the man was silhouetted. Memeira looked up. The man had his

hands out in front of him. He pulled down his sleeve. The man wrapped the sleeves of his

long clothes around his hands. He pushed his head into his shoulders. The man stopped.

Memeira took a step backwards.

Memeira stood up straight. He moved slightly to his left to where the ground was slightly

higher.

It started to rain again.

“Hello.”

He paused.

Memeira looked at the man’s face; it was pretty weird.

“Yo.”

Memeira looked at him. Isephor did not look back. His head was turned to the right now. His

facial expression changed.

“I saw you in my head before you started talking to me,” Memeira said. Isephor looked back

at him now. His expression did not change. He bent over slightly to talk to Memeira again.

“There are rumours spreading,” he replied. Isephor was quieter now, “each leading to

another. Something is twisting our visions, but that would only be the start of something

greater. It will come to pass, and the fear will go away. Born of it will come a new fear. Think

clearly now, many of the things you may have seen in the past months you may not have seen

at all.”

Memeira was shivering. He looked at Isephor. Memeira’s jaw was wide open. He turned to

his right now, letting Isephor speak directly into his ear.

“Don’t be afraid,” he said, “not of me, at least. Do not be afraid of the fear that grows. If you

are afraid then that person, or that thing, that is toying with us, and I do think it to be a person,

he will only become stronger before he comes properly. I think the false dreams are only to

create fear, making the world weak before he fulfills his true desire.”

Memeira was afraid. He knew he shouldn’t be. He had heard Isephor and understood.

Perhaps Isephor shouldn’t have said that; he had only created fear in Memeira now that would

not go away.

Memeira blinked and as he did he saw Isephor looking up to the top of the hill on his left.

Memeira looked too. Over the green grass and the smooth edges of the cliff was the red glow

of the setting sun. Memeira looked at it for a while. The sun’s rays stretched over the hills and

shadowed the valley that they stood in. The darkness came over Isephor’s face but he was not

sad because of it. There was still the setting sun to look at and feel happy about.

In Memeira’s heart he knew that Isephor was afraid too, even though he had just told

Memeira that it was in the plan something or someone that all should be afraid who should

come to be affected in the future.

The grass swayed in the wind, brushed by the currents that the valley created. Behind

Memeira the red light of the sunset hit the side of the hill. He watched as it moved over to the

peak of the grassy hill and spread out over the burial mounds beyond there.

When the light was gone Memeira looked over at his sister’s grave, which was now far to

his left. It was behind him now. As he looked he saw the darkness that spread over it,

shrouding the place from his sight. The place that Dulinil was buried was a small patch of the

plain surrounded by a circling hill. The hill was high, and let little light through as it reached

above the stretch of the sun, which had nearly disappeared behind the hill. The circling hill

was connected to the hills that stood to the left and right of him, though was still relatively

small in comparison to those that he had seen when he stood on the edge of the cliff looking

over the world.

It was only a faint memory now, the sight at the top of the tallest hill there. He could still see

the cliff that he supposedly stood on in the distance, but it swiftly became shrouded with the

mist that spread from the forest far from it. Was it mist? Perhaps the wind had swept the

smoke that emerged in the trees all the way to where he stood. What could be creating that

much smoke that it should cover an entire plain? Memeira did not want to think. Up until then

he had lived a life without machines or weapons used for war. That was soon about to change

and Isephor knew it.

Memeira carried on surveying his surroundings. Isephor had walked a fair distance away.

Memeira did not follow him. Even though the picture that was in some form still kept in his

mind had drawn him he did not feel any kind of attraction to the man. Memeira looked at

him. He was standing with his back turned. He was still looking at the sunset, now standing

near to the top of the hill so he could see it more clearly.

Memeira watched as his cloak swayed with the strongly blowing winds, and how his short

hair stayed still even with the power of nature that was present. Memeira saw him. Now he

knew there was no similarity between him and the picture he had seen, though the picture was

faint and fading and he had just begun to lose memory of it.

He knew about everything that had happened now, and understood it more clearly. Yet,

Memeira was still to young to link past occurrences to the way that Isephor had talked about

people’s false dreams, including his and how he had to be sure whether Memeira was real. He

needed to know more, and so did Isephor. Memeira wanted to ask him but knew that he was

deep in thought and needed space to think. In some ways Memeira knew why; it was because

of the dreams, but in others he didn’t.

Memeira had only just met Isephor. There was no way he would ever be able to know

properly what he was thinking for perhaps months to come, if he ever was to decide to stay

with him for that long.

Should he be trusted? Memeira thought so, and even if he didn’t would have no choice to go

with him or not. Should Memeira lie to him? Memeira thought there would be no point. He

would find the truth eventually anyway. Memeira wasn’t wise enough to tell the difference

between the people you should trust and those you shouldn’t, but would have trusted Isephor

even if he was as old and had lived a similar life.

Memeira turned. As he looked at Isephor he somehow knew his facial expression before

seeing him. The picture in his mind became more vivid. He could see his face, looking over

the hill at the plain ahead of him, his mouth closed and his eyes scanning around.

He started to walk over to him. Memeira’s footsteps were quiet; he was hungry. As he

walked he stumbled. His foot had sunk into the ground somehow. He looked down at it and

saw the ground and how hard it looked to him. How could his foot have been engulfed? He

was panicking. There was a slight ring in his ears, but Memeira took no notice of it,

preoccupied by how his feet were sinking into the ground.

Now there was a rattle, however. Memeira was alerted, looking around to see what the

sound was. He looked over at Isephor. Isephor looked up, seeing into the sky. He then looked

back at the sunset, brushing his hand against his face as if he was wiping sweat from his

forehead. Memeira saw as Isephor took his cloak and wrapped it tightly around himself.

Memeira did not understand; it was warm where he was standing, and Isephor stood beneath

the most direct rays of the sun. How could he be cold? He guessed there it was the wind that

cooled him from the warm weather.

Memeira carried on walking towards him. He needed questions to be answered. With every

footstep now he could hear the same sound that he would have if he was walking over a wet

field in the rain. Memeira was panicking again. He walked slowly. He had no idea where to

place his feet. Ahead of him he could see only the dry plain and the grass that grew from it.

Isephor turned and walked towards him. He could hear Memeira’s breathing as it became

faster and faster. As he looked at him he did not seem confused at all, nor did he wonder

whether Memeira was fine or not. He simply assumed that Memeira was in some kind of

distress and needed to take him somewhere that he could rest.

He came up to him, standing moderately close now. He looked at him for a second. Memeira

noticed that Isephor’s feet sunk into the ground as well. In some ways he was relieved, though

in others he was frightened that he was not the only one that this was happening to, and also

afraid at how Isephor did not show the slightest signs of distress when he saw his feet move

closer into the ground.

It was not as if the ground stayed still and his feet became part of it. The ground shifted and

crumbled to give way to his weight, pulling his feet under and trying to keep them there as he

attempted to pull them back out.

Isephor was about to speak, but stopped, changing the look on his face to a more annoyed

expression. He put his arm out again, but it was not to check if Memeira was still real. As he

hand came out from his loose sleeves he watched and felt something that Memeira could not

feel. He spun on the spot and Memeira watched as his feet went back into the ground again,

but did not react as he had done previously.

Isephor looked back at him. For some reason he was shouting when he spoke.

“The rain has picked up again,” Memeira could barely understand him. It sounded as if he

was struggling to force out his words. “It’s not as bad as before but I believe we should get to

some shelter; if we go further south over the hills and across the plain to my left then we

should make our way the forests and woods of Daelgor, if my memory serves me correctly. I

want to ask you some questions, and hope you have some for me. Perhaps they would occupy

our time well or give us company.”

Memeira stared up at him. He was not cold now; he was warmer than he had been for a

significant amount of time. He opened his mouth as if to speak but did not want to after he

thought about it; he felt that if he said anything he would either show himself to be stupid, or

show Isephor to be a fool. What was he supposed to do?

He decided to go with Isephor to find shelter. He needed to, and felt like if he said anything

it would have to be relevant and sophisticated in order to find the respect of the man.

Memeira felt as if he was in the presence of a very wise and dignified human, and therefore

felt the urge to treat him in that manner. He did not know why he felt this way; it just seemed

like the right way to think to him. As he looked at Isephor he saw the age in his face. His face

was not one that one would see after many years of life, but one after many years of

knowledge and understanding of the world.

Memeira knew that Isephor could see the world and understand it. There were few people in

Enduri that lived for longer than one hundred years. Memeira found him fascinating. He had

spent his life travelling north and thrown every year away as he ventured back south, undoing

everything that he spent his life living towards. He did know that the number of years that any

should live is not counted by the food you eat or the family you come from, but by your

understanding for the world, and how much you can see before you give up.

He walked to Isephor, taking care in his step. Isephor now stood only a couple feet away

from him, though it felt like it would take hours before Memeira would be able to reach

Isephor as he felt again the sensation of his feet sinking into the earth.

As he walked Memeira could hear the sound of the wind. Though it was loud, all around

him Memeira could see only the motionless grass and the hills that should immovable around

him. There was no doubt that he was dreaming. Or perhaps he wasn’t.

Maybe Isephor was the one who thought it was raining, and Memeira had received his

thoughts and made them his own, feeling himself to be sinking into the ground as if it was

waterlogged or ruined by the rain. As he thought this Memeira began to become more and

more scared. How could anyone be sure of anything?

“Is this what he is trying to do to us?” Memeira cried out to Isephor, who was now pacing

ahead trying to find shelter from the invisible rain.

Isephor looked at Memeira and shouted as if there was already the presence of an

overwhelming noise.

“He?” Isephor called to Memeira, his words echoing through the hills. “Who are you to

make that judgment?”

Memeira looked at him, leaning over to his right as some undetectable weight pulled him

further to the ground. Isephor looked back. It seemed to Memeira that he was angry. How

could he be?

“Think before you say anything else,” Isephor said again. Memeira was still.

Why was Isephor suddenly treated Memeira as if he was naïve in some way? Memeira tried

to walk faster towards him, running over the wet ground that seemed to be dry in his eyes. As

he did Isephor picked up his own pace too.

Memeira began to run. Even though he cried out Isephor remained with his back turned

moving steadily on. Memeira did not realize or understand who Isephor was, and in a way

then nor did Isephor. The sound of the wind echoed around the air. There was a strong gust,

which swayed the grass but left Memeira stood there, unable to comprehend how the wind

had blown the grass but not his long hair or cloak.

He needed to find his way out of his dreams; he was overwhelmed. How could he be sure

that Isephor really was angry in some way? He needed to wait. But he couldn’t. There were

answers Memeira needed.

“Where is my sister?” Memeira shouted out, almost forcing his words until he fell to the ruin

of his tears.

Dulinil.

Isephor turned his back for the first time since Memeira had tried to follow him. The look on

his face was not angry or the look of a man who felt himself superior to others in any manner.

He was surprised above all other things. There was a look of shock that discarded all the

thoughts that Memeira had about the anger and bitterness of Isephor that had suddenly come.

“If I am so naïve, then where is my sister?” Memeira spoke quietly this time. His words

showed subtle signs of aggression, concealed beneath his trembling bottom lip.

Dulinil. The name whistled in the wind for a second time.

It was like a dream when he remembered burying Dulinil. How could he ever have done?

His memories were scattered in the same wind that bore the name in the air. It was as if

Dulinil was only a name now, though, fed through the mind of Memeira as if he was a puppet

for her prolonged existence. Memeira could not bear hear the name again, but it was as if

everything he looked at reminded him. Sitting on the grass Memeira could see the pale face of

Dulinil looking back at him in despair. She stood beside Isephor and flew with the wind that

Memeira could not even see.

But it was in dreams.

Memeira knew. He could never be sure of Dulinil’s death. As far as he knew, every path that

he could have taken up to that point could have been an echo of the false memories that

haunted him.

Isephor tried to give him comfort. There was no way he could have seen Memeira to safety

without harming his emotions in some way. It was the first time he had ever heard of

Memeira’s sister, and he did not even know her name. It was like how Memeira was seeing

her then: but a memory, and a name that resembled no physical form.

Memeira walked up to Isephor again. It felt as if none of his thoughts ever existed. Isephor

stood still now, looking back at Memeira in confusion. He watched as the child trudged over

the icy floor that he could see. With every step Memeira trembled and stumbled. He walked

as if he was old and had traveled thousands of miles to get to where he stood.

“Come quickly now,” said Isephor finally. “Discard your thoughts; they only bring about the

work that the unknown enemy seeks to bring about.”

Memeira came faster. He realized there was no change in Isephor’s expression now. He

stood there as he had done, leaning against the bare sound of the wind that Memeira could not

even feel. If he could not feel the wind, how could he see Isephor leaning against it? Isephor

looked into his eyes, and Memeira turned his head slightly to avoid the awkward glance. As

he did Isephor sought for his eyes again. He needed to see something in him. He was

concerned about his sister, perhaps. How had she disappeared? Where had she gone? If

Memeira was this small and delicate child whom needed the utmost protection, then why had

it been abandoned and what cause would it have been for the protection to disappear?

There were so many questions. There were too many in Isephor’s mind, which time could

not mend, and would need to be answered in due course.

Memeira fell into Isephor arms. There was a sudden cold that had passed over him, which

grew until he was driven to fall down and come to ruin. Isephor looked at Memeira and saw a

boy who walked over icy ground, bearing only thin robes and little protection on his feet.

Memeira’s false thoughts were not only giving him fear, but killing him that way. Isephor

caught him and brought him to the ground. He took off the top layer of his robes and placed it

over Memeira without pulling it tightly over him.

“Why has it become so cold?” Memeira cried out with his chattering teeth.

Isephor looked around.

“The cold has infested this place for as long as I can remember,” Isephor said in response.

“It was warm,” Memeira looked around confused, “there is yellow grass and sunny hills

everywhere.”

“Do not be fooled by the treachery of these false thoughts,” Isephor’s voice was grave. His

words sounded as if they had enormous gaps between them. “You know of this thoughts, and

yet you still believe in them? How are you to look around and see such a warm place when

you came to me over the icy and freezing ground?”

Memeira looked around again. As Isephor said that the world seemed to become as it was as

Memeira had seen it over the ice plains. The sky turned to an icy grey colour, and all around

the grass faded from the dark green that it maintained before to a grim blue, which spread like

a plague over the rest of the fields. The hills were covered with ice and the blue sky that

loomed before was filled with mist and the clouds that rose from the forest in the distance.

“See things, Memeira,” Isephor said. “Do not be afraid to realize that your perception of the

world is wrong. Fall to your ruin of mind and false thoughts will infest your, bending the

colours of light that you see now.”

The more he spoke the more the landscape changed. Memeira was on the ground now and

began to hear and feel more things; there was the feeling of the wind against him now,

brushing against his cloak that was placed lazily over him. Rain began to fall from the sky,

scattered by the now strong wind all around the valley he lay in. The wind pushed the rain in

circles as it spiraled around the sky.

Isephor’s face changed again, but not in the manner of his emotions; the colour in his cheeks

vanished and was replaced by the grim sight of the sky reflecting from his dry skin. His hair

began to soak with water and his clothes started to blow with the wind, following the rain and

the sweep of the grass that came before it. All this happened as he was speaking. His words

became quiet against the enormous sound of the world that felt as if it was even louder by the

way that it came so suddenly. However, in some ways there was no sound at all.

It was as if a weight had been lifted from Memeira’s shoulders and now he had the

flexibility of his body to see the world properly. Even though the sounds of the cold place

echoed all around there was the lack of a certain noise. It was as if the world held to itself a

deadly silence, which spread through the ground and rose to the ears of those who were not

eager to defend themselves.

“You know, Memeira,” Isephor voice began to fade when Memeira looked at the new world,

but was as clear as a cloudless sky when he concentrated on the sound; “you need only realize

that what you perceive is wrong in order to find what you should really be seeing. Do not lose

concentration. Look around you when your mind begins to wander. Look for things that are

out of place, then see in your head what should really be there.”

Memeira did, and even though he was already rid of his false thoughts, the world that he saw

in his mind was the sight that he had seen of the more luscious grass that spread over the

plains and fields before. He had the vague memory of the sight of the world from the height

of the hill that he rode his horse over to reach. His horse had since gone, though could now be

seen standing over a similar hill. Memeira did not move towards it; he managed to move

himself to find a more comfortable position, but could not find the energy to move to find it.

He had been suffering from the cold for the whole time that he had been there, letting the

wind slowly take his life away. He did not realize it, but every painful feeling that he had

ignored in his ignorance of the world was felt when the cold returned to his normal perception

of the plains.

“Isephor,” Memeira said. His voice was hoarse now and he had to find his words before

forcing them out, as he knew that his energy was limited for even simple things like speech.

“Where are we?”

“We are on the borders of Daelgór. A couple days ride south of here you would find the

border that separates Ilãrys from Daelgór. It is warmer the further south you go from here,

though there is no control or way of telling the temperature through the different corners of

the world. The climate of a single place is not governed by the positioning of stars here, but

by the flux of-”

Isephor stopped.

“The flux of what?” Memeira asked. He was eager to know. Isephor was biting his lip and

looking around. He did not know the answer, but was too proud of himself to admit it.

Memeira knew this all to well but did not want to offend him, as he knew that he would have

to bear the utmost trust if he wanted to travel with him and be safe in his presence.

“I’m sorry,” Isephor said, biting him lip again as he paused; “it seems as if I don’t know as

much as I thought I had done it the past. Perhaps there are things that are not in our right to

know. Perhaps it’s a question that will never be answer because humans were never supposed

to know the answer.”

Memeira ignored him. He respected Isephor for the way that he admitted he did not know

the answer to the question even though Memeira thought he couldn’t. He needed to know

where he had in the world. For one reason or another Memeira had the urge to find out

whether Dulinil was alive, and needed to have possibilities for where she could be, and how

he would be able to find her, or if he was able to find her.

He got up and stood against the wind that was beating against him and casting him astray.

He wobbled as he rose before standing tall and immovable. Memeira looked over across the

plains. What was a land built up of hills had become the endless plains he had seen when he

was further north so long ago. His long hair traveled with the streams of wind that channeled

around his body. Isephor stood behind him and began to walk away as Memeira stayed there,

amazed at the sight that he beheld. The words echoed in his mind that what he had seen of the

warm place he had spent so long traveling to have changed to the freezing place that stretched

onwards forever. Would he ever find his way from the cold?

“Where are the burial mounds?” said Memeira as he turned to catch up with Isephor.

“You stand over them now,” said Isephor. “They stretch onwards for days over the plains

north and south of here. It will take a week before you can stand on the ground and not stand

over the corpses of thousands of dead.”

“We are in Ilãrys?” Isephor nodded. “Surely the burial mounds are further south from here in

Daelgór: the place that you mentioned before?”

Isephor looked at him and his eyes closed slightly. He was still shivering from the cold

winds that loomed over the place. He looked down at Memeira who stood heads lower than

him.

“Millions have lived and died in Daelgór,” Isephor said. He was quiet. His words were

articulated. There was not a word that he said out of place, as if he was trying not to find the

words he would use to offend anyone. “The ground that the men down south walk on his

haunted by the people that live before them. We do not bury our dead in Daelgór; they are

taken here. These are the burial mounds.”

Memeira looked at Isephor with his mouth open.

“What happened to the men of Daelgór?” said Memeira.

Isephor and Memeira continued to talk as they traveled to a shelter. Isephor looked up to

where he was walking again. He did not respond to Memeira for about ten seconds, in which

a look of fear and doubt crossed his face and was seen in the mind of Memeira as well. The

freezing air had lost its feeling; there was new feeling. In some way it was guilt that infested

Isephor’s mind, in others it was the feeling of sadness and longing for the old Daelgór that

worried him.

“Nobody knows what happened to the men of Daelgór,” Isephor said. He was less clear in

the way he composed his words. “Some say there was a plague. Others say there was a secret

conflict between them and some other great power. Again, maybe it is a question that had

been locked away with time that men will never come to answer properly.”

“What has become of Daelgór now?” more questions swarmed Memeira’s head.

“It was once a great place, parallel in strength to the great cities of Ilãrys, which too has

fallen to a degree of ruin, though not in the same way that Daelgór has,” Isephor paused. It

looked like tears were swelling up in Isephor’s eyes, yet it was just the cold that gave them a

red colour around the edges. “I watched at the high castle of Daelgór came to the ashes that it

was constructed of. I have not been there since. What came of Daelgór was a scattered land of

men who had no single purpose in their lives, nor had any one king or group of people that

they could look up to. It remains that way today. The little men remaining there have

managed to rebuild their cities and towns, though they stay as scattered and insignificant as

they were after the ruin.”

“What was the name of their high city?” Memeira asked.

Isephor looked at him and another look came to his face. His mind was filled with mixed

emotions, all of which Memeira could not comprehend. The wind whistled as they walked

onwards. There was a sense of fear and doubt for what Isephor was about to say that struck

Memeira. Even though the wind brought about such an overwhelming noise, it felt like

silence ringing in Memeira’s ears.

“I don’t remember,” Isephor finally said, his words clearer than the wind.

He didn’t want to remember. The memory had been lost out of the will to change it to stop

him from falling to despair; that was the worst kind of response. Memeira knew why he could

not remember the name of the city: because every time he had in the past every unwanted

thought from the place would come back to haunt him. No one should keep the memory of

the city to live through those ill thoughts.

Ahead of the two lay a long, winding road that led up a hill. There were dead trees covered

with snow on either side of the path. Isephor looked at them and wondered.

“There is rain,” he said, pointing his head upwards.

Memeira looked at him. Of course there was rain. How could he have not noticed until then?

“Yet there is snow all around us, which stays untouched by the water,” Isephor spoke again.

Memeira realized why he was so interested by the rain.

Memeira looked around him. He had already seen how the rain fell yet snow covered the

ground, though he had not once questioned Isephor about it. It was as if he had become

accustomed to it. Where the rain fell to the ground the snow thickened, creating layer upon

layer of ice, which froze with time.

“Surely if it was cold enough for the snow to still exist, then it would rain. And even if it

wasn’t and the rain still came down, then surely the snow would wash away somehow.”

Memeira and Isephor kept walking, looking around as they went. There was no trickery in

this, and there were no false thoughts conjured by either of them; what they saw was what the

earth had wrought and what they could see in their rightful eyes, though not understand.

Grey clouds gathered above. Memeira could see Isephor deep in thought, unable to realize

the greyness of the sky that swirled above their heads. Memeira wanted to warn him, but at

the same time had no intent of diverting him from his line of thought. He carried on walking,

gradually maintaining his pace as he went, hoping that Isephor would want to catch up to him.

Isephor did not notice either; there was something that he was thinking of.

“Memeira,” he cried out.

Memeira stopped and waited for Isephor to come. He was far behind, looming in the mist as

the rain and ice circled around him and shot past his face. There was but a blur in the

distance, shrouded by the debris of the world. The wind rushed past Isephor’s face. Memeira

could see the shadow of his hair blowing with his cloak and the wind.

Memeira ignored his cry, continuing to stare at the silhouette before him. He watched and

looked at what he had already seen before. To him, it looked like Isephor was holding

something. The shape of him changed and the Isephor that Memeira had seen before emerged

from the mist. He came up a small hill, appearing in front of Memeira eager to talk to him.

“There are things I have already guessed,” he said. His words were no clearer than the sound

of the wind. Nor did they stand out among the silence or echo after he said them; there was

only the bare sound of his voice that Memeira heard and understood.

There was a long pause.

“There are things, though, that cannot be guessed an understood fully. I need to go north,

and I hope you can come with me.”

Memeira looked at him and nodded, in a way failing to realize the severity of his gaze, yet

understanding his desperation. The wind was still as strong as it had been. The rain had turned

colder now, still not snow though, and came down in sheets more than he had seen previously

that day.

“I think I know why so many uncontrollable things have been happening,” he said. “I can

only guess, but everything movement of every human will build up to something that we will

not be able to hold back. It will be months before you know as I know it, though when you do

you will see the vision in my mind and be appalled.”

Memeira was still looking in Isephor’s direction, though his gaze had weakened and his eyes

began to move astray. Isephor had stopped now. He looked over Memeira, staring into the

distance of the place behind him that stretched on forever.

Where was the path for them to follow? There was none. Memeira had only the old and dark

figure to stumble idly towards while Isephor had no one to follow. He was alone in his

wanderings more than any other on the earth. If he had already gone so far from the road how

was he to find his way back again? As far as he knew he couldn’t. There were only answers

he could seek for to reason how the world had gone so far astray from the path it originally

chose.

The clouds were still now yet the wind blew as hard as it could. Memeira did not have the

time for the mockery of dreams. He needed the answers as Isephor did before he would be

driven to insanity at the recurrence of the false thoughts.

“Fear will spread,” Isephor spoke finally, now moving forward over the frozen ground. The

rain had now turned to snowfall. “The thoughts are only fear, and made to create doubt. Once

the false thoughts have spread over the world, perhaps like a disease, then how could anyone

trust their own mind. They would see the one who haunted them and know him only to be a

part of their imagination, and see ones they should come to love and see them only as a

thought. They will become scared and in the same way become weak and exposed to the

power that will come swiftly.”

“Who are you to say it will be a power,” Memeira said in response, lifting his voice over the

wind.

“I am only guessing,” said Isephor, “which is why we need to travel north to find the proper

answer to my question.”

They continued walking and stumbling over the uneven ground until Memeira caught sight

of a shelter in the distance; a hollow area concealed under a high-lifted rock that was

suspended ten feet from the ground. The place was surrounded by dead trees and at first felt

unwelcoming, though it was the only way they were to find their energy again so Isephor

could decide what was to be done next.

The clouds parted around the shelter, letting in weak rays of light and shining over what bare

rock lay there. The mist swirled around the place yet did not enter the middle of the shelter as

the wind brewed a storm over the plains.

The place was reminiscent of the ice plains, though bore a more subtle approach to the

darkness of the northern place. What had become of the warm weather was now the sheer

cold that was once seen by Memeira. It was as if he had been taken from what seemed like

paradise back to where he came from without the memories of his travel back again.

As Memeira watched he saw dust curving from the ground to the sky, making a circle of ice

around them, perhaps a personification of nature that they should not be able to escape until

the ice should go.

Isephor watched the stars and Memeira followed in his doings. The night had fallen upon

them expectantly and the warmth there once was vanished until they could not even

remember how it felt to bear some degree of heat against their bodies. Memeira looked in

amazement at the sky while he saw Isephor see it as if it was everyday that he saw such a

sight.

“There will come a time that there should be so many torches held high that the stars will

become overwhelmed by it and none shall ever be able to see them again,” he said, directing

his words to Memeira.

Memeira wondered whether he thought for a long time before he said his sentences; it felt

like every word he said could not be more in place than they were. He listened to Isephor and

felt as if he was listening to perfection in Isephor’s articulation. He did not stumble, and knew

precisely what to say.

“Where are the stars now?” said Memeira, watching as the few clusters of disorganized stars

wafted across the night sky. He could see the red of the dying sun moving behind the mist

ahead of him, then looked back to the sky where he could see more lights emerging.

“We live between worlds,” Isephor replied without hesitation. “Our world changes between

being in existence and fading out of it. The stars are only seen when the world is pulled close

to them; almost close enough to feel that you might be able to reach them. You never will.

The stars will linger above you and stay there without motion and we will see them and never

be able to find them truly.”

Memeira was not listening. He was too bewildered by the absence of the night sky. He could

see the darkness that spread all around, but it felt wrong with the lack of the lights that it

should bear. Then he thought about what Isephor had just said, recollecting his words as he

found them scattered about his mind. He thought about the world that he lived in an pictured

himself as a dot across a huge map that spanned acres of the wall that it was hung upon. But

at the same time when he pictured the world he thought also of the entirety of it. Even when

he could picture the vast world in his head in its fullness he could still sense his insignificance

contrasting against it.

Isephor and Memeira talked to each other about the stars and the world they lived in, and

every once in a while Memeira would lose the hope of his companionship with Isephor. He

did not know if he should trust Isephor, but felt that if he did not there would be no other way

to find his way to safety.

He had trusted him up to that point, though, and did not know why. Perhaps he was to young

to be careful. Perhaps there was no other choice. Both seemed likely faced with the situation

he was in.

“It all feels like I’m in a dream,” Memeira said to Isephor, looking to him with his innocent

eyes.

“You are,” Isephor said to him as reassurance.

Memeira shook his head.

“Nothing feels right even though I know that it shouldn’t.”

The wind stirred as if it was concealing their conversation.

“Where is my sister?” the wind now picked up speed and cast the snow around them, letting

it spiral until their shelter was completely invisible against the sight of the tumult.

“I feel like I am only a piece of some kind of game that someone is controlling. I feel like I

have travelled thousands of miles over months but still I’m on the ice plains. I even saw the

warmth fade from the air and the ice spread over the ground. How is that even supposed to

happen? It’s like everything is just part of another child’s dreams.”

“Perhaps everything is,” said Isephor in response as the world became silent and the wind

began to become quieter.

“Who is a live man to say that is life is not subject to the dreams that it lingers in?” he said

as Memeira listened intently. “After all, everything you see is not how others see it; it is only

your interpretation of the world that it is formed. It is the basis of your dreams, and in that

way you are never really living, only seeing what you would have envisioned in certain

circumstances.”

Memeira looked at him in some form of despair, as if his entire life was just reduced to

nothing.

“Don’t speak like that,” he said to Isephor. “There’s no point in thinking these kinds of

things.”

They both sat there staring at the ground. Isephor moved about. He wasn’t thinking

anymore; merely doing what he would have done anyway. He reached for a pocket in his

cloak from which he took a handful of various items.

In his hand there was some kind of scroll, though it looked like it had been torn. Half of it

was missing and the sides were scorched and looked as if they were burned.

“It that for spells?” Memeira asked innocently.

Isephor did not look at him this time; he merely stared at the ground that was covered with

snow, concealing Isephor from ever seeing what lied beneath it.

Memeira thought of his sister when he asked that, feeling as if some kind of connection was

made between them. There wasn’t, though; his sister was dead.

“No,” said Isephor, “it’s not for spells.”

Memeira saw how his facial expression did not change. He found it strange when he

remembered how he had changed so much before, but perhaps it was only in his false dreams

that he thought that way.

“Can you show me a spell,” Memeira said.

Isephor maintained the same expression for a few moments before peeling his eyes from the

ground and looking back at Memeira.

“No,” he said.

“Why not?” asked Memeira. Isephor’s gaze was momentary; he was staring back at the

ground where he swept the snow with his hand.

“There are no spells,” he said. He stopped for a moment, before carrying on sweeping his

hand over the freezing ground.

Memeira was confused. He had lived his entire life believing in sorcery and those who

conjured it. It was as if every dream he had of ever meeting anyone that could perform magic

had disappeared.

“I just thought you were a sorcerer.”

“No,” Isephor said again.

They sat there together and it felt to Memeira like some kind of force was moving towards

them. He took no notice of the fear he had. They were now both staring at the ground.

Moving their position to warm the ground beneath them and move further into the heart of the

shelter. He did not feel anything. The cold had numbed his senses, but Memeira was too

distraught with the idea that there was no real sorcery to be dealt with in the world, only

stories that people had told him and he had forgotten about.

He looked to his right and in the corner of his eye there was a hole in the hollow part of the

hill that they were resting under then. Memeira moved towards it and peered in. He could see

a thin gap that stretched the whole way through the hill, pulled apart by the roots of the trees

that were above them and that came through the bottom of the hill and carved the opening.

From the hole poured streams of light, coming from outside and moving through the

opening to the ground were Memeira was. It was the only light there apart from ever coming

and going stars above his head, of which he could see few. In the light he could see pieces of

dust, floating before his face.

They made him wonder, and he came up with a metaphor for many of the things that had

happened in his life without even knowing, remembering or even understanding what a

metaphor was; though nor did Isephor.

The dust had been there all the time, but it was only when the last remnants of light from the

darkening sky came through the smallest gap that light would ever be able to find its way

through that he would be able to see that dust that had been there without him even knowing.

He did not know what it would mean to him then, and there was no way of foreseeing it, even

among those who should seek to find it.

“Sorcery doesn’t exist,” Isephor said bluntly to no one except the ground that he was still

staring at.

Memeira attention moved from the dust that just vanished as the last light from the setting

sun disappeared on the horizon.

“Nothing but lies,” he spoke again. “People will go looking and find nothing, then look

again until they should find an even worse fate than if they had never searched for it at all.”

Memeira gave Isephor a puzzled look, which he caught in his peripheral vision and took

notice of.

“I once thought of myself as some kind of sorcerer,” Isephor said, answering to Memeira’s

look. “I found this scroll and had no idea of what it meant, yet I kept it in the hope that I

would find some kind of reward from it.”

In his hands Isephor took the parchment and tore it in two, then two again until it was

nothing but the dust that made up the light pouring through the gap in the wall. He moved his

head up and watched as the paper went with the wind and spiraled until it became dust,

unable to ever be held above the snow that made up the ground.

Yet in his hand he still held one piece left from the parchment. On it was some kind of

symbol. Isephor compared it to his hand in some hope that it was match the lines that built it

up. What he found was the wreck of his mind, unable to see any comparison. He threw that

piece, too, into the wind, and would not see it again for as long as his memory carried him.

“If spells don’t exist,” Memeira then said in shock, “and magic and sorcery is something

only in stories; then what controls these false thoughts? And how did I see the world change

into this when it was so hot before? And how do I know if my sister’s dead if I can’t even

remember her face?”

Isephor turned to him for the first time. His mouth was dropped lower than it usually sat. He

looked into Memeira’s eyes. Every time he was reminded of Memeira’s sister he would forget

minutes afterwards as every one of his memories had more need to be kept.

“What do you call her?” he said, quietly now.

Memeira did not answer. Every memory he had of his sister was in a mess, tossed about in

his mind and scattered in his conscience as if he did not need them. He was trying to forget;

there was no memory he could keep that gave him pain. He sat there still and there was the

same image in his mind of the two sat there with the wind blowing snow past them with the

shelter that they sat under, with both of them holding their knees in their arms and staring at

the ground.

Though now there was a different feeling from Isephor; as if now he was obliged to listen,

feeling some kind of need or doubt for what he was going to say.

“You already know,” Memeira said, looking away. A song was going through his head. He

put more effort into trying to remember the words to that song than remembering the name of

his sister and composing it so that Isephor would listen.

Isephor continued to look at him. He leaned closer to Memeira.

“The world is filled with false memories,” he said.

“What is her name?”

“If the world is filled with false memories then I can’t remember.”

What was her name? The words of Isephor echoed about in Memeira’s head. He did not

answer. He stayed there looking at the ray of light holding dust that he couldn’t even see

anymore. The dust had gone. He could not remember it without the presence of the light.

Isephor asked the question again, this time more forceful. The wind rushed past their shelter,

scattering the snow like dust being swept over wood.

The world was intense, but at the same time beautiful in the way that it was so pleasant to

look at that Isephor could not stop looking back to. There was nothing that Memeira found

pleasant in any way then.

When the wind became so loud and violent that the sound of thunder echoed in the air and

the snapping of the branches of trees was heard above Memeira, he spoke.

“How can I even be sure that she even existed?” he said.

They both paused and even when Isephor searched for what felt like hours he could not find

any words of comfort or hope that he could give to Memeira.

“Surely it must be better to know that the one you cared for above all others never really

died, but was there to comfort you, then disappeared when another came?” Isephor found a

string of words, and said them before consulting them, but regretted saying anything for the

anxiety that Memeira would find offense.

There was silence.

Even against the raging of the wind there was not a sound heard from either Memeira or

Isephor. Memeira was distraught, sent into some form of agony from the feeling of the words

as Isephor said them. He did not think that way. He thought of the opposite, that it would be

better to have felt compassion for someone who really existed, and was not there solely for

the purpose of comfort, only to be replaced by another when the time came.

He did not speak still after minutes, which felt like hours again. There was nothing to say.

There was the slight feeling of sympathy for himself that Memeira felt. In a way he knew that

Isephor was trying to encourage him and tell him that he should not mourn over the death of

his sister, but in another way he knew that the dead memory would come back to haunt him,

and every word that Isephor said about the death of his sister would echo in his mind forever

after that.

“You came after I buried my sister,” Memeira said. “If what you say is right then I think that

one day you will die, too, and you will become some kind of person to care for me that never

even existed.”

Isephor understood him. Though he knew that Memeira’s words were wrong.

“I exist,” he said. “I can see myself and tell you now that I exist. When you doubted where

you even stood I made you understand and I know your fear when you saw the world change

before your eyes and trembled when the cold that has haunted me for centuries rushed back to

your senses. I exist.”

“Show me her then,” Memeira said. He still was staring at the absence of the light.

“How can I ever show her to you if you cannot say whether she exists and don’t even know

her name?”

Memeira paused for a second as Isephor stumbled on the next sentence he was going to say,

before stopping and bringing his freezing hand to his face.

The tumult of the world echoed on from the cold night. It was pitch black outside of the

shelter. Memeira, in his frustration, had not even noticed Isephor place a lamp in the corner of

the room-like place that they settled in. Suddenly warmth came as Memeira looked at it, as if

it was only the sight that made him feel comfort, and there was no actual heat that he felt.

The silence that he remembered from the mist was there again.

“Do you know where I came from?” Memeira asked Isephor.

Isephor said nothing; he only looked at Memeira with a different expression on his face that

Memeira could not explain, but reacted to because he had not seen it in Isephor before.

“I spent all the time I can remember going north, and then I was lined up. There were

thirteen of us. There were others though, but they treated us like we were under them,”

Isephor’s expression turned to horror, yet Memeira still continued. “Twelve were killed, one

of them someone who was never supposed to be, then I escaped.”

Isephor continued to stare at Memeira. His eyes widened. Then his head shook. To Memeira

it felt as if Isephor was crying in some way; his hand was brought up to his face, covering his

eyes. He could not be sure.

Memeira wanted to continue, but he had upset Isephor he felt more than he had upset

Memeira by commenting on the death of his sister, saying she never really existed. He looked

at him for a moment, and heard the sound of the wind. The thunder was only a passing thing,

or perhaps only in his imagination that he had heard it. It had gone now; there was only the

snow that fell all around where they were.

Memeira saw the night sky. The stars were not there, yet they had been when Memeira

looked moments ago. They had disappeared, and when they did Memeira forgot what it felt

like to have them present.

“What have I done?” cried Isephor, and now Memeira was sure of it.

Memeira looked at him and felt more pain than he even had when he was whipped. He felt

guilty in a way, though unable to comprehend the pain that Isephor felt then. He was

distraught; locked in a sensation of complete agony. What had he done? The question was

held in his mind and would not be let go by him. Why had this fate been drawn to him?

Again, questions echoed on; he could not be rid of them.

Looking at Isephor, Memeira felt again the agony that haunted him too. He began to panic as

well, feeling the same pain that Isephor did when he heard Memeira talk.

“She came with me,” Memeira was barely able to say it.

Memeira’s tears were like oceans, even compared to the tumult of the falling snow.

“What have I done?” Isephor said again, almost screaming as his words were spewed from

his tongue.

He said it again, though now showing signs of hope. Isephor stood and looked out over the

plains, holding the lamp high in his right hand. He scanned the world, wiping the tears from

his eyes. Isephor was not the kind of person that Memeira would imagine to cry until now.

He walked about for only moments, looking back now and then at Memeira who was still

sitting beneath the rugged hill that hung over him.

“I don’t know what to do,” Isephor said.

Memeira stood up now, barely able to stumble forward a few yards in Isephor’s direction.

He was wearing all the clothes he had and many of Isephor’s, leaving Isephor wearing only a

few layers of torn cloaks and robes, concealing the chainmail that was beneath it, of which

Isephor seemed to find no difficulty in carrying, even when Memeira understood the

enormous weight that it brought.

“We need to leave,” Isephor said. “I cannot prolong this any longer.”

Memeira stood behind him. He was still now, feeling the wind and air push against his loose

and tattered clothes that Isephor had given him. He looked around yet Isephor did not turn. He

had to shout for Memeira to hear him; the wind felt so much stronger out of the bare comfort

of the shelter they were just in. Yet it still felt silent to Memeira, though he did not know why.

He then was afraid. He was afraid of the hum that would return and bring his second

destruction, yet it never did. Though, he was still afraid. He knew he would have to wait for

longer before he would know truly if it did come.

So he stayed in waiting, watching as Isephor in front of him paced about, surveying the road

ahead of them. Perhaps he was looking for the road north, though Memeira did not know how

that would be possible, as there was no other way of telling than maps and the passing of

warm and cold weather. So he just stayed there and watched, and Isephor moved about,

watching his lamp every once in a while.

The light then vanished.

Though it was not from the same fear of the false thoughts that it did so; it was but the wind

funneling through the gaps in the glass that the flame was kept in.

Memeira stood there still, and Isephor was immovable as well. They both were completely

silent. Memeira could not tell what Isephor was thinking. He could only hear the sound of his

cloak beating his side agains the wind. Memeira shook the snow from him, shivering as he

did so.

It was as if tension was building up in some way. Memeira could not wait to hear what

Isephor had to say, yet he still kept his patience, holding back his ambition feeling that there

was an equal possibility that Isephor would bring to him more grave news than he would have

anticipated.

There was still the feeling of silence, but it was not as feared and look at and disgusted as

Memeira had remembered when he lined up by the mist.

“You asked me how the false thoughts could still exist even when sorcery is but part of

many tales told along similar lines,” Isephor said.

He knew that Memeira would not answer. There was a long pause, filled with silence mixed

with repeating gusts of wind. Whenever Memeira thought of silence, he did not think it of the

lack of all noise, but the repetition of the same noise, becoming as if the world was silent.

Memeira waited for Isephor to speak again, but it felt like some time before he did. He

anticipated it, but was also anxious to what he would have to say.

He spoke again, now with more severity in his tone of voice, expressing his thoughts about

the world as if they were best not shared, but he still felt some compulsion to do so.

“I feel like we have come to a time when no one can be sure of anything,” he spoke for a

moment, and Memeira understood it. “I said that sorcery is a thing of myth, yet who am I to

say so? Perhaps not even I can be sure that I am thinking.”

Memeira looked at the sky. He was not really concentration on what Isephor had to say. He

could not see the clouds. The clouds had become part of the mist; they were merged as one.

As he looked back at Isephor in his head he saw him to be some kind of wise sorcerer, but

knew that it wasn’t the truth. Against the mist and the wind that was beating against him it

felt to Memeira as if he was also part of some epic tale, where the hero was set against all the

great things of the world, like the raging storm that he could feel.

Isephor was only a man who could not even be sure of his own thoughts. In that way he was

reduced to the same as Memeira. Memeira saw in him some great power or the potential to do

more than he was, but when he thought about it who was a man who stood higher than

everyone else that hadn’t been put there by themselves? Everyone should come to equality

when stripped of everything they had given themselves. Everyone is of the same structure and

being. No one is given any authority over others save that which they gave themselves.

“Sorcery does not exist; though the world does not take itself only as far as fairy tales,

Memeira.”

As Isephor said his name Memeira began to concentrate. He looked over and Isephor was

now seen as diminished as Memeira had imagined him to be.

“We need to go somewhere,” Isephor said.

Isephor had now turned around. Memeira looked into his eyes.

“It doesn’t matter where we go. But we must go north; we must find the road that leads to

the northernmost ice plains and try and find the castle of Emãrule. I know people there who

would be able to help us. I need to tell everyone of the threat that exists, and I need answers

for the questions of doubt, ideas, thoughts and suchlike.”

“You don’t have to go north to find those answers,” Memeira said, leaning into Isephor’s

field of vision. “You don’t have to go back to where the world is colder, and everything is

scarier.”

Isephor was about to speak but held back for a moment. Memeira shook the snow from his

feet and breathed into his hands to warm himself up. He could not go any longer in the cold.

“I have yet another purpose,” Isephor said, “and it will soon become clear. Please don’t ask

me why we have to go again; I’m afraid that to find the truth would –”

Isephor paused again. Memeira was now shivering more than before.

“Don’t ask me why we have to go,” Isephor stopped there.

Memeira could now see the stars. They had just come into his sight. As he watched them a

few seemed to dim slightly, but there was one that remained as it was and did not falter from

its position. Memeira never knew why he picked up on these small and somewhat

insignificant details.

Before Memeira, Isephor raised himself even when the wind pushed him down. He stood tall

and had courage for what he was about to say. His rest had been too long and he felt as if it

was time that he would find the strength to move over the spreading ice plain again. He was

about to speak.

“We can’t go north,” Memeira said.

Isephor looked at him as if all his courage had failed.

“You keep talking about how everything you see could not be right. Maybe then my sister

would be still alive.”

They both looked at each other and at first there was no reaction. Memeira then began to cry

as if the thought he had was hopeless and that he shouldn’t even have asked it; he should have

saved the tears for when he needed them as momentum. He fell onto the snow and didn’t care

that he was freezing and covered only by Isephor’s tattered and stolen robes. Isephor saw him

and did not know how to react. He came over and was completely stil.

Isephor bent down to Memeira and placed his hand on his shoulder. His breath felt like fire

contrasted to the cold that spread over the world.

Memeira felt comforted, and for a moment the cold seemed to vanish; but it was only the

passing comfort of the feeling that someone was caring for him. Time passed as if they were

stuck in that freezing position forever, but once it was done and Isephor came lower to face

Memeira’s eyes that Memeira forgot everything that had happened, save the memory of his

sister, and was completely immersed in the moment.

Something stirred in the mist. A figure stepped forward from the darkness and for a second

Memeira saw it as the face of his sister. But it was disfigured, skewed and stretched; it was

not the sister that he knew as his own.

Then everything that he had seen vanished and he was only left with the scrambled memory

of how he felt she was supposed to be.

“Dulinil.”

The name echoed through the air and Isephor took it in and kept it in his memory so that

even if it became but a string of letters the memory of the girl would still live on in some

form.

“Do not grieve for her.”

Memeira felt nothing.

“Do not go looking for her.”

There was only the wind with Memeira.

“Do not wish for her to return because she never will.”

Memeira heard only silence.

“Do not think she never was, because the memories will haunt you.”

For a moment, Dulinil was separated from Memeira forever.

“You will only find grief if you go south again,” Isephor said. “You will only find sadness if

you go looking for happiness in the same place. We will go north, though do not discard the

memory of your sister, only keep it where you will find it again only once, and not find such

despair from it; only joy.”

Chapter Six – It Was Going to Fall Down Anyway

Dulinil looked out over the world and witnessed the falling snow and the ruin that the skies

brought. The wind was hitting hard against their trail, yet the horse that Harúsyr took control

of still galloped onwards the same as it was since the start of their journey.

Onwards were the faint mirages of mountains, soaring higher than she was ever willing to

climb. Yet on the long stretch to them there was an empty plain, covered with ice and snow.

The mist came from her left, shrouding the plains in that direction. Above her everything was

grey and dull, though in the distant sky Dulinil could make out the faint workings of the sun’s

rays stretching through the clouds. She had not seen the sun for as long as she could

remember her journey there.

It was warmer that day. Before they had faced storms of snow and witnessed entire trees

freeze up. On the day of their departure the weather changed and soon they faced a frenzy of

cold. Dulinil always wondered how something so unwanted and in a way painful could be so

beautiful as she had seen on the first day since she left the tower. Then again the beauty only

did last as long as it took for the warmth to return and the white covering of the ground to turn

into the grey that constructed the sky.

Harúsyr kept saying on the journey that it never used to be that cold, yet he could never be

sure of any of his memories; as he knew full well. Dulinil found it hard to believe; the north

felt so cold, but she saw rain and not snow. How could it have been? She was led to believe

that the farther north you go the colder it gets. Perhaps that was wrong.

She questioned Harúsyr about her doubt but when she did a look of anger came across him.

She saw him as he turned away and gritted his teeth when the question struck. Dulinil thought

it to be a strange thing; someone so wise and knowledgeable from watching over the world

for so long would surely know about such things as the course of the weather.

“I don’t know,” he said to her. “I am too confused. Everything is confusing now. The world

is changing faster than it ever has before – somehow. I can’t even remember if it was warm

yesterday and recognize the cold that comes today. It is as if the world is somewhat unreal.

It’s like some kind of badly written story where the world is twisted until no one can really

believe in it.”

Dulinil was only reminiscing. She could not really remember what Harúsyr had said exactly,

in a similar way that he could not remember the weather from the day before. She was

looking forward to the future now, to see what would be beheld at Emãrule, the castle that

they were set to go to. She did not remember their purpose, but from the speed of their flight

there it felt as if the purpose was unneeded on her behalf; it would only take the whim and

courage of Harúsyr to carry them along the road on the way to the castle.

“When you were looking,” Dulinil said, and this was not in any memory, “did you ever see

anything?”

There was only the sound of the wind and the sensation of the galloping horse.

“No,” Harúsyr replied. “Or not that I can remember now at least; only ever have I seen faint

signs of shadows moving in the mist. There has never been more than one person at a time

crossing, though even when they do I stop them and beg for food or some kind of gift from

them – I don’t know; anything they could spare to help me.”

Harúsyr had still not come over his fear of talking; Dulinil knew it from the imprecision of

his articulation and by the way that he took so long to gather his words.

“Why do you look?”

Harúsyr was shivering. His breath could be seen wavering in the air from the unsteady

tongue that bore the words.

There was the same sound again, but with a longer gap between speaking. In a way it felt

awkward to have asked a question and not have an immediate response. Should you ask the

question again? Perhaps they are thinking because the question in some form offended them.

“I have to.”

Dulinil looked at him. Harúsyr was facing away, directing the course to Emãrule, yet from

the sudden stillness that Dulinil beheld he felt obliged to talk again, but was careful not to

strike some form of fear into Dulinil; he knew how precious she was and how dangerous it

would be for his welfare and the feeling that he wasn’t alone if he disgusted her in any way.

“There are people who live somewhere up in the north,” he said at last. “They are not a

threat – or at least we are not advised to regard them as a threat in Ilãrys – but they are not to

be allowed on that same road that we are going along now. They are in some way –

unwanted. I can’t explain how; it is not in my business to discuss these peoples’ rights with

anyone. ”

Dulinil was confused, and Harúsyr had frightened her in some subliminal way, yet she

wanted to know more about these people; who they were, why they were unwanted, why it

was so important to not let them come to Ilãrys. Harúsyr turned to her and gave her grave

looks because he knew that she had become curious from the way that she was silent.

The path that they were following grew thinner beneath the horse’s feet. The grass was thin

over the plain, though grew tall enough around the path that it could tie itself around it and

hide it beneath its roots.

In the mist ahead there was a shadow, that shifted around as Harúsyr desperately tried to

find the path again as it became more hidden from his sight. It disappeared as the mist

thickened from the cold, but Dulinil kept searching for it again.

From what she could remember the shape resembled a megalithic structure of some kind;

built into the mountains that became clearer as time went on throughout the journey. The

mountains spread from as far as Dulinil could see to her left and as far to her right as she

could ever imagine travelling.

The sheer size of them overwhelmed her. She was exhausted from the pursuit of their

soaring peaks. Every mountaintop she could find she had to twist her head and drive it to

move across the grand scale of the horizon, even when it felt as if they were thousands of

hours away from them.

The mountains curved and grew in the center of the line that formed them. To Dulinil’s left

the mountains felt like molehills, stretching but a few needles thick from the ground, and

vanishing into the mist that spread from beyond the path. To her right, there was an endless

line of overpowering rocks, constructing themselves against the sky and moving onwards to

where she felt would be the end of the land, but which faded into the mist and built itself to be

millions of times larger than she could ever imagine it to be.

It was inconceivable; it was as if Dulinil had entered a dream, drifting over a world where

the sublime ruled over all other things. She would never be able to see a more vast thing than

what she had witnessed as the mountains came into view.

Then the shadow became clear to her.

What Dulinil had seen before moving in the shadiness of the sky and the horizon was now

coming into vision. It towered above her. The mist collated around the mountains and spread

from there, gliding to the ground. Constructed between the shadows of the colossal mountains

ahead of her was the silhouette of a tall spire, stretching into the sky. The image was not

clear, though; it was merely set in the wall of mist that tumbled down from the mountains.

She could not really define the view that she bore without stumbling on her own thoughts.

There was a seemingly endless plain, which then became like the mist and stretched up into

an even longer line of mountains than she had imagined before. The mist wrapped round the

mountains, showing but a few peaks that soared higher than the rest. The air was moist, partly

from the falling snow, though also due to the mist that rose from the water ahead. Dulinil had

heard from Harúsyr that the castle was set over some kind of lake, as his people described it.

No one ever really knew, because there have seldom been people who have dared to venture

beyond the castle to the other side of the gap between the mountains.

There was not the mist with the sky in contrast; Dulinil knew this. The mist was the sky,

only lowered from the cold. Dulinil knew that the mist was only the clouds, just closer to the

ground. There was no real sky when the mist was about. She knew that the mist stretched

however many meters above the ground, then beyond there was sky. It was as if everyone

beneath the mist was living underneath utopia, trapped under a God’s cloth. Dulinil didn’t

believe in any kind God; there was no reason to when the world was filled with so much pain.

She saw before they entered the mist ahead of them, spreading from the lake underneath the

castle that it would only fill the area of the plains close to the mountains, that everything

seemed to shift and the world was uncertain of itself.

Then she heard the hum again.

The sound was only brief. Could she be confusing herself between different memories? Her

thoughts were colliding. She was imagining a mix between times when the mist was lifted as

clouds and when it stayed on the ground as fog.

The sound went but when Dulinil looked back at the world she had already forgotten it was

there. It was like it had come and gone so that the world would change to the advantage of

whatever wretched thing forced this upon the world and everyone would forget and have no

fear, only to save it up for later.

It felt wrong calling what she could see mist, in a way. Dulinil didn’t really know what it

was. Should it be called fog? Is fog the same as mist? Then again she thought to herself

whether she really needed to know the answer. There were greater things to worry about.

In the distance there was a sudden beam of light that fell to the earth. It was the first time

that a gap had ever been formed through the clouds. Dulinil marveled at it, contrasting to her

marvel at the tumult of the snow and wind combined. Though the two forces were too strong

an the wind pushed the clouds together again and the world below the sun and sky was

trapped again.

But there was a new sight to behold. Ahead of Dulinil the mist began to part in front of the

mountains and there was a glimpse of what looked like a strong and courageous hill, sloping

– as it seemed – steeper than mountains should be able to climb. The vision was swift to

come, and vanished in the same way.

“Is that it?” Dulinil said, hastening her speech as the sight disappeared.

Harúsyr did not answer, he merely looked and marveled at the sight that he beheld. He had

not seen the castle for so long, but it would not take only a few moments to have missed the

sight of the tower that the sensation of wonder would come again.

“Behold the view and keep it,” Harúsyr said, still stretching his eyes against the shadow that

ever lingered there. “You will remember this sight even when millions of years have passed.”

Dulinil remembered moving through the storm over the northernmost parts of the world. The

memory was dim, but when she compared it to the feeling of the horse breaking through the

mist she could remember it more clearly.

Harúsyr rode on, speeding up when the prospect of breaking through the barrier that

concealed the castle and seeing Emãrule again came into his mind. He tried to urge the horse

on, but was too overwhelmed by memories of seeing the great bastion and by the fear that he

would fall into some state of disbelief from the high walls of the place that he could not make

himself move any faster than he already was.

The mist was only a few hundred meters away, and Dulinil could feel the sensation of the

galloping of the horse and the steady thud of her heart. The world seemed to move slowly, as

if Dulinil was savouring the few moments before the time would come to move through the

mist and at last witness what she had spent countless days moving towards.

The mist was close, yet it felt so far away. Dulinil could see her own breath flow like a

stream from her mouth then get wisped away by the waterfall that was the speed of the horse.

Everything was tantalizing her. She could feel the cold and the disparity of the mist before

they had even met it. The mist was close now. It felt like it was taking too long for the horse

to travel only a couple hundred meters but at the same time it felt right for everything to take

so long because she knew her own anxiety and could not keep it back; she needed to be

shown the shadows come through the mist.

Then she braced herself.

At last the horse broke into the wall of mist that concealed the castle from them, followed by

a period of doubt and silence as they rode on through nothing but the white that constructed

the scene. Dulinil looked around, and moved her eyes higher to see at last the high towers that

she expected. There was nothing.

Then something stirred from onwards. There was a creak, coming again and again. The

sound was piercing. She tried to cover her ears but that did nothing. Perhaps she was just

hearing it in her head.

Dulinil had her eyes closed now; she did not want to see if some ill fate had come again. But

she needed to open them again to see the tower for just a moment. The creak stopped with a

huge tumble of rocks and Dulinil opened her eyes to witness stones role by them. She looked

up and there it was.

It was only a shadow coming through the mist but it was good enough for Dulinil to imagine

the rest.

Two unimaginably huge mountains, two towers, and a bridge that constructed the walkway

between them stood high above Dulinil, reaching their arms across the sky. That was how she

made out the faint image to be, at least.

“Prepare yourself for the sight,” Harúsyr said. “If there is anything to marvel at it is the great

towers that will come before you when we exit this mist.”

Dulinil braced herself and closed her eyes, even when she did not want to. She felt she

needed to so that she could hold herself back from the thought of such colossal towers.

A frenzy of sounds came. It felt as if Dulinil had been pulled from a vacuum. The sound of

the wind came rushing back as if it had never left and Dulinil forgot the silence that had come

before her. But it was not as she expected.

She saw the sight she was going to see, but knew it only as two leaning towers, bent over the

huge mountains and tied by the moss that came with its age. The stone was grey and falling

apart, and every road that was built to climb to the top of the mountains where the towers

stood were derelict and forgotten.

It was only a small opening in the mist to the open air. Dulinil thought perhaps that was only

a small part of the tower, and the greater picture was yet to come. Harúsyr was still, and could

only concentrate on the image that he had seen.

Then they came through the mist for a second time, and in front of them was the sight of two

immense hills set over a body of water. On the top of the two mountains were the constructs

of ice and mist, but it was only when Dulinil looked and looked again that she could find the

sight of the towers; they stood and looked down over the world, but the world did not look

back at the petty sight of them, or the insignificance that they beheld.

The mountains were encased in mist. As Dulinil looked back she saw what mist they had

departed from, and it seemed minute against the rings that bound the mountains in mystery.

There was an opening into the sky at the top of her view, but the sky only held grey and white

clouds too. Dulinil longed to see the towers and the mountains when the weather would be

warmer, knowing them without the mist that shrouded them. She imagined the clear sight

from a distance of the great soaring peaks and set upon them the tiny structures, carved from

the tops of the hills.

It was not as she expected, but she stayed true to what Harúsyr had said. Perhaps it was the

greatest image she would ever see; Dulinil just expected too much of it from the course that

her imagination had taken her. Yet when she looked to Harúsyr it felt as if he bore the same

confusion and doubt that she did.

The mountains were set at some distance, and it would take as long as it felt to enter the mist

than it would to reach the towers. Even though the mountains were as far as Dulinil’s vision

could take her, the peaks were still colossal and the mountains that stretched to their left and

right and carried on behind them seemed just as huge. Dulinil felt like she was in some kind

of tent that curved over her and reached over the castle ahead like a hand covering it. The

ground was clear and was not covered by mist. Dulinil wasn’t even aware that such a sight

was possible from the accepted laws of nature, but she did accept it because she knew of the

false thoughts, dreams and memories that Harúsyr kept talking about.

Perhaps Dulinil was only seeing what she knew in her mind from the greatest thing she had

witnessed before, but everything was so doubtful.

She did not know how the mist worked, or the way that the wind was supposed to move. She

had never known and felt no need to know why the stars stayed as they were, yet flickered

and disappeared expectantly every now and then. She did not know why in the night it

became dark, and when she could see the sun it was light. She had no need for any kind of

knowledge. The only settling thought that she could conjure was that in which she was happy,

and didn’t care about why the waves on the sea broke against the shore. The world was too

complicated for even the most certain people to really know how everything worked. She

took the tent of mist for granted, and never though of why it was acting as it did again.

“I don’t understand,” Harúsyr said. “It is not as I remembered it.”

“It’s not as I expected it.”

Harúsyr turned to her. Dulinil saw the expression on his face and knew the doubt that he

knew.

“Where are the great bastions that held the bridge up?”

Dulinil heard what Harúsyr said and looked into the distance. She saw what he meant; in the

very thickest part of the mist there was the faint sight of a line, which drew itself between the

mountains and held the path from the two towers.

“Where is the heavy bridge that held the temples together?” he said as if in a wolf’s cry.

“Where are the battlements that formed the castles? Where are the massive stairs that build

the way up to the towers? Where is the rushing water from the lake below? Where has all the

water gone? It has frozen and become part of the flat plains in front of the towers.”

Dulinil was still staring at the bridge. She imagined what Harúsyr was talking about, and in

her mind saw a stone platform going from one mountain to the other. What she saw was a

rope bridge, held on either side of the castle by stones.

“Where are the beams going from the lake all the way to the underside of the bridge?”

She now could see columns of stone, reaching from the depths of the now-frozen lake

thousands of meters into the air to where the bridge lifted itself. As Dulinil looked at the line

she could see now there was some red dot that placed itself on the left tower.

Dulinil could hear the steady beat of the gallop. The wind was rushing past her. Ahead of

her was a huge flat plain that stretched onwards to the mountain before constructing a slope

that guided itself up the mountain, forming the craggy rocks that made it. The plain was bare,

and the ground was covered with ice with a few patches of land where grass broke through.

As she looked it felt like the plain stretched onwards forever and she would never reach the

mountains; it felt as if they were falling away.

“What is that?” Dulinil cried out to Harúsyr.

What was once a dot on the mountain now covered the entirety of the left tower, shrouding it

not with the grey and was seen in the mist, but the red that was seen in fire.

“Dulinil I am sorry for ever bringing you here.”

The course to Emãrule was now a swift journey. The horse was thundering over the plain yet

Dulinil still had her eyes fixed on the tower on the left. She looked at it as if it had more

wonder than the sight of the two towers in situ, standing side by side.

“What is that covering the left tower?” Dulinil asked again.

“Dulinil - ”

“Harúsyr turn back,” she cried, leaning over the horse, speaking almost directly into the

watchman’s ear.

“I can’t now.”

“Harúsyr, turn back now.”

The horse came to a steady halt, and Harúsyr dismounted to witness what he never though

he would ever come to witness. In front of him in the still far distance was the panorama of

the colossal mountains. On them were set the two towers that men made their homes in. But

around the mountains was not only mist, but also a fire that consumed them.

Harúsyr drove his feet into the ground, widening the gap between his legs. There was a hum

in his left ear. One hand was gripping the sword in his sheath; the other was on his ear, trying

to drain out the noise that haunted him. In the heights he could see the fire spread over the

whole of the left tower, and move across the path that lead to the bridge.

“I am so sorry, Dulinil.”

The words echoed on.

There was another creak. It was slow and the sound drove itself into the consciousness of

Harúsyr. It pierced him. Stones rolled from the heights of the mountains and crashed to the

lake. Parts of the bricks that made the left tower fell and crumbled to the ground. There were

screams and cries from those whose souls stretched and clawed onto the crumbling tower.

Whatever foe was there, it was a fight worthy enough for the soldiers that they might want to

stay and fight, even if it dragged them to their grave.

“What treachery is here?”

The fire slowly consumed the thatch roof of the towers over the hills.

“What kind of evil has come so far as to devour the tower that built up the only hope that we

should survive?”

Men threw themselves down from the mountain to their icy pits in the water below the

bridge.

“What cowardice should be let ensue when the world should come to such ruin as this?”

There was another creak, and then a scream that pierced the sky and came greater than any

other that Harúsyr had heard before. Yet it was not the cry of Dulinil.

Dulinil was still. How could she do anything else but watch as the world fell to ruin? She

knew now why this was a sight that she would remember even if she lived until the sun

burned out. How could she ever forget?

Harúsyr fell to his knees at the most wretched sight he could ever have imagined. He let his

mind wander into grief as he saw the very tower that bore him for so many years fall to ruin.

It crahsed and tumbled down the craggy and cursed mountain to the lake below it, where it

should rest with the forgotten majesty of the old Ilãrys, and burn where not even the coldest

waters of the world would be able to put it out. It would be in the same place that Harúsyr

would leave his hope.

“What ruinous sight have I ever seen that I would want to live longer than my hope that the

world will be mended?”

Chapter Seven – The Shadows Creep Over (I’m No Longer a Tree)

It was cold.

Isephor leaned his head to the right and let his eyes become free of his mind. His heart

stopped beating for a moment. He knew about how Memeira had seen rain even in the coldest

places of the world. Perhaps it was not rain though. Such cold had driven him to near insanity

that it would not have been warm enough for snow not to exist. Perhaps the rain was a sign

that the haunting presence had returned.

Though there were greater things on Isephor’s mind that he had not told Memeira. It seemed

to him such a strange thing that there would be worse things than doubt and uncertainty. He

did not tell Memeira when they were resting under the shelter for the fear that Memeira would

cower at the thought that the world was worse than he already believed it to be.

Isephor scrambled to find the pocket that he had left the parchment in; he knew its

significance. His old robes had been ruined from the snowstorms that he had to take from the

dead. He now bore dusty green robes, stained with the stench of death.

He took of a piece of paper that had been torn and beaten by their journey there. On it were

letters written in plain Narulin. They were notes from the talks he had with a man that was

well known across the north. He spoke to him about a matter that he did not want to think

about. It concerned death. Even with such a matter of grave importance, Isephor still felt the

need to help Memeira and take the road to Ilãrys instead of worrying about dying and what

comes next.

He was about to read the notes, in the hopes that in some way he would prioritize, finding a

better use of his time than to alert the world to the fear of false thoughts. There were echoes

of memories that he did not want to bear.

Isephor was more scared then than he had ever been in his life. He was afraid of death, even

when there was no danger of dying on his part. He was afraid that what he had put down on

the notes was also in the hands of people who had no right to know of them, and even if they

did it would lead the world to ruin. If they did, it was his fault. One of the reasons he needed

to return to Ilãrys was to revisit the Holbae, and know if his mistake was reality. But it was

not his intention to ever go back there; if there was some kind of threat and it was in his doing

that it was real, then he would have no business in it anymore, even if it was his duty to

reverse it.

His mind was full of too many things he needn’t think about. In some way it wasn’t his fault

though.

“Memeira,” he cried.

There was no answer. Isephor stood very still so that he could hear even the slightest noise.

“Memeira,” he cried again.

He remained motionless. Then he turned as he heard that his cry was not the only one.

There was a sound from off in the distance. Isephor moved towards it, sprinting at first, then

moved slower and with caution. His feet moved over the ice like clouds pressing against the

white sky. He walked onwards. Ahead of Isephor were a few slopes, stretching upwards to his

left and right. He could not see further than a few feet in front of him. What he could see he

could only make out to be the hills forming some kind of passage for him to wander through

to find Memeira.

“Memeira,” he cried again.

“Yes.”

Surely it was Memeira’s voice, but it was hoarse and full of despair. Isephor moved slower,

even with the urge to go faster to see the cause of Memeira’s distress. He looked around the

side of the hill, or cliff as it felt like as he stood around it, to where he thought he would see

Memeira.

Ahead of him the mist was thinner.

There was a bowl that opened up around the hills. In the bowl scattered manically over the

ground were stones that extended from the floor. He had been there before; he was in the

burial mounds of the south.

Isephor made his way around the labyrinth of graves and tortured ground but his walk

seemed to move on forever.

“Memeira you should not have come here,” he said.

There was silence for a moment.

Isephor stopped because the sound of the wind had diminished somewhat to reveal the sound

of Memeira’s high-pitched cry. He knew that cry.

Memeira was weeping.

It was still snowing. Isephor couldn’t see the hills anymore; there was only the ice over the

ground, stretching on to where the mist concealed it, and in its spectrum there was only the

flatness of the ice plains.

As Isephor went towards the sound of Memeira weeping the graves he walked past never

became scarcer at all; it was as if they went on forever and filled every part of the earth that

there was space to fill. He was cold, but kept walking because he knew that there was no

discomfort he could feel that wasn’t twice as unbearable for Memeira to endure. Isephor

wasn’t thinking about anything. In a way he was uneasy by the sound of Memeira, though

still grateful that he could find him now.

Isephor came to some kind of border between the bowl of hills that he was in and the greater

plain beyond it. He came up to it and at first could not see what was ahead with the mist that

shrouded it, but as he rested his feet on the rim of the slope that lead down onto the main

fields he could only stop to marvel at the world in front of him.

Stretching to where even his horse could not bear to ride him to was the sight of thousands

of graves, lined up in some places, but scattered as if the dead meant nothing in others. What

injustice could have brought this? It does not take time to kill as many as this; it takes

mercilessness, and that was how the destruction here had been brought about.

Isephor stood there. The wind was beating against him. The only sounds were the sound of

the wind and the sound of his cloak that flapped when the snow came against it. He was

freezing, but more so by the sight of such a vile thing as this, not by the cold.

“Memeira,” he called out again.

There was no answer.

“Memeira.”

-

Isephor stepped down from the mantelpiece that beheld him and crossed over the plain.

There was a strange odour that he had never smelt before, though perhaps it was only in

Isephor’s mind that he knew such a stench.

What had happened here? It was not only the sight of all the graves that were strewn over

the world but the image of the dead ground, that not even ice could cover from the sin that it

had made in bearing so many deceased, and long decayed bodies. Isephor had never even

seen as many people alive as were graves in the ground here. What had happened before?

Isephor had lived too long to remember when the world was full; everyone had moved

further south to from the ice plains to avoid some kind of oncoming threat to their existence

that as of yet not been named. How could people be afraid of something they were not even

sure existed? Perhaps it was the doubt that struck fear into them.

Isephor stopped and took a deep breath then listened.

“Memeira?”

The sound of his solitary voice made him anxious.

Isephor looked around. Ahead of him was an entire field of plain grass that was surrounded

by high hills making a bowl. He could hear the sound of crying.

For some reason there was a warm wind that brushed past him when he heard the sound.

Inside the bowl of hills Isephor felt somewhat comforted, and no longer at a threat from the

cold. Isephor rolled up his sleeves and held his hands firmly together as if he was holding

onto something.

However there was something quite disconcerting about the place; as he walked the sound of

crying got louder until Isephor could not resist to move closer and find Memeira finally. His

steps were heavy, and his feet were hard to pull from the ground as if he was wading in

something but could not see it.

Everything felt out of place there. How had the hills bowled around like that? Isephor knew

about the lines that hills and mountains made over the earth. It was seldom that the ground

should form itself around such an irregular shape than what he had seen before. Isephor could

not tell if it was cold or hot. He felt warm, but is hands were frozen. Even though they were

frozen, though, he still kept them out from his sleeves, as if he was accepting the pain that

would come with it; but he did not know why.

Isephor took another step before stopping.

He knew this place.

It was like something out of a dream that he remembered it, but it was still there: crisp in his

mind the image of a boy who cradled a girl who was not there.

It was Memeira, and he was not dreaming.

There was a ring, but it was not of the false dreams that he knew usually came after. It was

the ring that silence brought. The winds calmed and the warm air came back. Isephor

imagined he was standing in the warm place that he knew Memeira had thought he was

standing in before; somewhere south, where everything was only slightly warmer, but felt so

many thousands of times so.

In his mind the grass was yellow, turned that way by the sun. He was there, a child like

Memeira, and they had come there to remedy in their despair.

“You shouldn’t cry for her,” Isephor said.

Memeira looked at him. There was still the ring of silence. Memeira could see the wind

blowing Isephor’s hair, but he could not hear it or feel it against him.

“Life is only a passing thing, and it is only for the living that its end is grieved for; she is

happy, and that should make you happy.”

Memeira’s arms were out in front of him as if he was holding something, though nothing

was there. His arms were warm like something had rested in them; but it had gone while he

watched it.

Memeira had his eyes closed. His head was shuddering. His arms stayed completely still.

“Please don’t be sad.”

Nothing changed. There was still the emptiness of the scene and the voice of Isephor, alone

in the silence.

Memeira tried to stand up, but his weak arm collapsed under what little weight he had.

Isephor helped him, and he managed to bring him to his feet, pressing them firmly into the

snow where he would stay and feel the little comfort Isephor had to give him.

When Memeira stood Isephor could see what he was sitting in front; there was a stone that

rose from the ground. On it there was an inscription. The inscription was one word that was

carved into the stone, but it was too worn out to see; the stone looked as if it had been there

for many hundreds of years, alone in the middle of the ring of hills that didn’t seem as big

anymore.

Isephor brushed his right hand over the stone to clear the snow from it. He could see more

clearly the letters but still could not make them out completely. The stone was at a slant,

leaning with the direction that the snow fell. It was cracked and mossy, and had almost been

claimed by time. Isephor knew he was the last person to ever see the stone before it would be

taken by the world, and the name of the person who was on that stone was lost where no one

could ever find it, and the people who did remember that name would someday succumb to

the same fate.

The name would be lost.

“I know the same despair that you do, Memeira.”

Isephor’s reality faded, though not into false perception. In front of him was the mossy,

overrun, damaged and forgotten stone. He could repair it. He could let the name live for so

many hundreds of years longer. But what would that help? The name was bound to vanish

from the world one day. There was no need to prolong it.

But Isephor stayed there and stared at it. He did not know the name, but it didn’t matter yet.

He could just keep the image in his mind and remember it when he needed something that

didn’t look beautiful but was.

Then Isephor began to make a melody out of the words that had turned to the same fate that

the name had; they were forgotten, but not by those who had lived so long as to remember

them.

“Æthãrythúr, æthãrythúr, élur ætha mórithú. Æthirarendar, Æthirarendar, Iána Elbareth.

Nina énathûr Æthérar Æthérar, æru elæthúli a’mórithú.”

Memeira listened as Isephor sang. His words were swept by the wind and by the end he

came to no more than murmuring. Isephor looked at the ground and closed his eyes. “Dulinil,” Memeira said, and the name became clear on the stone, as if it had never worn

out.

“That was her name?”

Memeira stayed as he was; he was staring at the grave, as if the name had always been there

for him. He did not move. His eyes were fixed onto the engraving. Isephor could see it too; it

the words did not move or shuffle as he expected them to, feeling as if it was just some

mirage as he imagined Dulinil to be buried there. It was real, though Memeira did not think of

it that way.

The wind was blowing harder. The world was more real than it was now, as if their

imagination now had less of an impact on it and reality had taken over. Who knew what had

more of an impact anyway? Maybe reality was the thoughts that ran through peoples’ minds.

“Are you sad?” Isephor asked.

The wind brushed Isephor’s hair against his face. He pushed it away.

“I don’t think anything will ever make be better.”

Memeira was crying, but he tried to keep it to himself. He was cold,

“You have not forsaken her. You did everything in your power to help her while you could.”

“I came so soon, though.”

Isephor thought about it. Perhaps it did come so soon. Perhaps Dulinil was gone before

Memeira even had the chance to think about her and remember her before she left. Did

Dulinil die as part of Memeira’s imagination? Was Dulinil only made as grief for the death of

a real person?

“We need not think about dreams now,” Isephor said. “If we don’t we only have reality, and

that is the most comforting thing. There is no trickery; you think you see what you are seeing,

and that is fine.”

Isephor stood taller and looked around where he stood. He could see the sides of the bowl of

hills, but could only see as far as the mist let him. Ahead of him he didn’t know what was

beheld. Perhaps that was part of the symbolism of the mist; you never know what lies beyond

until you get there.

Above him there were birds. Isephor did not know what type of birds they were, but what

did it even matter then? He watched them as they drifted further and further away from him.

They weren’t in a hurry, even though they still had the same fate of death that he did. Isephor

couldn’t imagine being a bird; without the worries or doubts that people had at the same time.

There was only the feeling of wind going past their feathers and the sight of all the humans

below.

To Isephor, the birds meant nothing, but he imagined it would be the same to the birds; from

the sky Isephor would only be another pebble strewn over the ground, and he would be seen

for a second before being whisked away behind them. Was that an encouraging thought?

The wind was hitting hard now, even though there was little sound of it. He could feel it

brush through his long hair. It didn’t bother him; he rarely went where the wind did not blow.

It was the same for Memeira; Memeira seldom left the outside. He had spent all his years in

the cold, yet it took him mere months to travel back south.

“Look,” Memeira said.

He was pointing at the stone. His finger was trembling. It took a few moments before

Isephor returned to thinking about Memeira. He looked at Memeira who was not changing his

stare. With his other hand Memeira brushed away more of the snow on the stone. His hand

was shaking, partly from the cold, but also because of his fear.

In one movement all the snow was separated from the stone to reveal another inscription. It

was written in different letters to Dulinil’s name. Now, the letters were less elegant, as if they

had been driven into the stone with the arm of a giant. Memeira leaned in closer. His hand

went over his face in despair at the writing in the stone. He went in front of the letters, trying

not to let Isephor see them, as if he was somehow ashamed by what was on the stone.

Isephor did not move him aside; he knew that Memeira needed to have a moment to himself

as he looked at the letters and took them in.

“Please do not feel this way,” Isephor said.

The wind suddenly got very strong. Isephor watched as the snow was swept around the ring

of hills. The mist was blown by the wind too. As it did Isephor saw the other side of the

plateau. The ground sloped up there, becoming part of another system of hills. The end of the

burial mounds was not as far as Isephor had imagined them to be. He looked back, and in the

other direction he could see the hundreds of graves over the misty plain. But here, there was

but one grave, and it was Dulinil’s. It was covered in the ruin that time had left it with, and

would only be able to withstand the torture that perhaps a year would bring it.

“Look,” Memeira said.

He did not want to move his hand though. He felt comfortable with it there as it covered the

engraving with beneath Dulinil’s name.

Isephor knelt beside him to see. He smiled at Memeira even when he did not mean it in any

way. Then Memeira lifted his hand to reveal the engraving that Isephor had longed to see for

just a couple of moments. There was a date, but Isephor couldn’t read it. He had knowledge

of almost every alphabet there was in the world that had been recorded, but he had not seen

these letters before.

The letters were crude, and constructed only of lines that were driven inches into the stone in

the hopes that they would last. The stone was crumbling around the places where these letters

had been engraved. Isephor brushed his fingers against the letters and the stone began to flake

and brush off with the stroke of his finger.

“What are these letters?” Isephor said, though did not expect that Memeira would know if he

didn’t.

“I was told about them once by one of the Ilãrys soldiers when I was being taken north. The

first people used them a long time ago.”

Memeira could not talk properly. Isephor looked at Memeira before turning his head back to

the stone to look at the letters again.

“The first people?”

Memeira nodded. Isephor was confused. He stood up and looked around. He was trying to

search for any irregularities in the scenery. Everything was how he expected it. The white

thick mist had covered the end of the bowl of hills again. It was as if the plateau had stretched

further away from him again.

“These letters were forgotten? But the stone was not?” Isephor said.

Memeira nodded.

“What do the letter say?”

Memeira looked at them again for a couple of moments, trying to decipher them. His head

went from left to right, then left to right again in order to try to make sense of what was on the

stone. He had little knowledge of the alphabet, but was still able to make a faint impression of

the symbols.

“A date,” he said.

Then the weight of his sister’s death came back down upon him and crushed his head into

his hand. He could not talk anymore. Isephor knelt again and put his hand on Memeira’s

shoulder.

“What do they say, Memeira?” Isephor said, almost aggressively.

Memeira fought Isephor back with the force of his arm. Isephor moved back, but continued

to look at Memeira, expecting an answer.

“You won’t want to know; I think I’ve made a grave mistake, and I know that it’s worse

than I thought it was.”

Isephor kept looking at Memeira. He began to cry with him. Had he done what he thought

no one would ever come to do? Isephor collapsed. How had this happened? It was as if

everything he had been fighting against had just doubled in strength and he was left as the

peasant who had to stand up to the king, even when every odd was against him.

“Please, Memeira,” he said, “tell me about your sister.”

Memeira shook his head this time. He did want to tell him, but he knew that if he did he

would be comforted. For some reason he did not want comfort; he wanted to be safe from the

cold. He wanted a shelter that wasn’t made of fallen trees and leaves for once in his life. He

wanted the hair out of his eyes. He wanted his clothes to be dried. He did not want to

remember the dead that he loved.

Isephor understood him, but he needed to know about Dulinil. He needed to know where

they had both come from, where they were going, and where they had been since the false

thoughts entered the world.

“I just don’t remember,” Memeira said. He was staring at the letters beneath Dulinil’s name

on the grave.

“What do the letters say?”

Memeira looked into Isephor’s eyes. Isephor eyebrows were raised in the middle. He was

more than eager to hear Memeira for once.

“They are numbers,” Memeira started to cry again. “There are only four of them.”

“And this?” Isephor brushed off more of the snow to reveal another symbol directly beneath

the numbers in the center of the stone. It was a kind of cross that had been decorated with

stars and emblems of various family crests and the symbols of forgotten lineages. Isephor

stared at it.

Isephor shook his hand, letting his sleeve roll down his arm until he could see his wrist. He

shook his hand again and the snow fell off, dripping as water down through his clothes. He

didn’t care about the cold compared to how much doubt he had at the sight of one of the

emblems in front of him on the stone.

He lifted his hand in front of his face. He read the lines on his right hand. They stretched all

around his hand from left to right, and curving around the bones of his thumb, before fading

around the side. The lines formed a kind of curved triangle that pointed to where Memeira

was crying in the snow.

Isephor brought his hand up to the stone in front of him, which was steadily falling to the

ground and crumbling. He pressed it against the cold stone, forcing it into the cracks that had

formed on the stone. He looked at the decoration on the symbol. On the top right of the

symbol beneath Dulinil’s name was the same formation of the lines on his hand. They were

skewed and twisted by time, but cut into the rock in the same careless manner that they were

strewn over Isephor’s hand.

Isephor had never had a family, but he knew that many used the lines on their hands to

create the crest of their lineage. But how were the lines on his own hand written on this stone?

“The numbers make up the date of the first era of the four houses that made it up,” Memeira

said. “They are the first houses of Irãthyn.”

Isephor began to cry more than he ever had in his life. Memeira watched the man before him

descended into tears. He had gone from being the most inspirational and wisest person he had

ever seen to being a senile old man. The sight was maddening. Memeira continued to cry.

“Nothing makes any sense anymore,” Isephor picked up a handful of ice from the ground

and threw it against the grave, which cracked and fell to the ground. “I don’t even know what

the year is anymore.”

“A dream?”

Isephor put his hand against his face and started to cry more.

“When did Dulinil die?”

Memeira knew it was only a couple months ago that Dulinil had disappeared, though it felt

to him like it had been years since he had last spoken to her. She had gone before he even

acknowledged her presence. It didn’t matter now, though. He had to accept that she had

disappeared roughly two months ago, forget about it and never even count the weeks since he

stopped thinking about her; he needed to move on.

“It has been about two months, but it doesn’t matter. Please stop asking me questions. I just

want to leave.”

“Memeira,” Isephor stood up, “this is a grave. This is your sister’s grave and it has been here

for many more hundreds of years than anyone could ever count, yet it still has your sister’s

name on it.”

Memeira did not change his expression. He was crying less and less with every few minutes

that passed.

“This is no illusion now. How could anyone call this an illusion? This grave will last only a

few minutes now before this name will be forgotten forever, even by you, but when I saw you

for the first time, when I looked into your mind, I saw you there and you were crying about

the body you had just buried. That was only a week ago.”

Memeira began to tremble. He looked around. He listened hard, but there was no hum this

time; there was no ring either. This was reality, and there was nothing he could imagine to

make it the other way round.

“Tell me about Dulinil,” Isephor said. “Tell me where you came from to get here.”

Memeira started to cry even harder now.

“Memeira, tell me. Even if I will never see you in the same way that I do now, I need you to

tell me all about yourself.”

Memeira looked around. He had changed his view of the stone since he had first seen it, but

somehow he had not noticed how quickly everything was changing around him. He could not

remember how everything looked before. Perhaps there was the same warmth that he had felt

when he went south for the first time, before Isephor told him to come from his dream and

realize that there was snow and the cold had just been kept away.

He saw how the jagged hills around him began to smooth over with a layer of snow and

even out. There was nothing that he had ever seen to compare to it. Yet, it seemed as if

everything he was seeing was an act of his mind somehow, and that everything was not really

happening, but was just as he had hoped; that one day that rough edges of his mind would

smooth over by something he could either describe to be chilling or cooling. He did not ask

Isephor about how fast he saw everything change. As the scenery changed so did his mind.

He was more at ease since he had seen the beauty of the world beyond what he had felt was

his life.

“Dulinil and I were taken along a road that went north.”

Isephor rose and moved closer to Memeira to hear what he had to say. Memeira suddenly

realized how important it was that he told Isephor all about what happened, even if he had

made a grave mistake.

“We went up that same road for months. Sometimes we would stop, and the humans, as they

told us to call them, would read something out while he had our backs turned to them. We

couldn’t talk or move. My hands had rope tied around them almost all of the time. They did

not answer when we asked what was happening, and when we spoke they hurt us. It was

always my sister and the older ones who got hurt. I was only ever hurt once by one of the

guards.”

“Where did the guard hurt you?” Isephor said. He had his dark cloak surrounding Memeira

so that the wind would not distract him or make him feel uneasy. It was so cold.

“At the end of our journey. The humans stopped the horses and carriages again and told us

all to get out and line up so that the oldest people would stand at the left, their backs turned to

the humans, and the youngest people would stand at the far right. All our backs were turned

to them. It was so cold.”

“What did they do to you?”

Memeira stopped. He gathered his thoughts for a moment.

“I began to speak to my sister. The guard came up to me and hit me with a whip. Or maybe

he hit me with the sharp end of his bow. I can’t even remember. It was so cold.”

“What happened? What did they do to you?” Isephor said again.

“We stood there for about an hour maybe. We couldn’t move. Over and over again I could

hear the humans talking about something. I heard them talking about the inside thing or

something. I didn’t take any notice of it then, but I can’t remember what it is that was so

important about it.”

Isephor knelt in front of Memeira. He looked into his eyes.

“Memeira, what did the humans say about this inside thing?”

“I can’t remember. To be honest, I don’t really think they did say anything about it; it just

came up in my head. I don’t know why.”

Isephor gave Memeira a strange look before turning to his left to watch the hills.

“Continue,” he said.

“Another man came, he was old and was wearing clothes made from animals. I didn’t see

him a lot because I was facing away. He spoke to me once, though. But I can’t remember

what he said. Then the two oldest people were taken by the guard and brought into the mist,

and they didn’t come out.”

Isephor began to cry. Memeira could not comprehend it.

“And what happened when everyone had gone into the mist but you and your sister?”

“Nothing,” Memeira said.

“Memeira,” Isephor cried, “please, what happened?”

Memeira took a deep breath before speaking again.

“There was no one left. My sister went with someone else into the mist but I was left by

myself. There was no one else to go with. I think there were thirteen people, so those two

were left by the mist and the old human told his son, I think, to go into the mist with me.”

Memeira stopped. He looked at Isephor who had been reduced to nothing. He was sitting at

the other side of the stone. His head was in his hand and he was shaking. Not from the cold,

but from what Memeira had just said. He looked at Memeira, and smiled for a second, before

launching his head back into his hands to cry again.

“I am so sorry, Memeira,” Isephor said. “I don’t think it was your fault.”

Memeira was shocked, in a way. Or at least, he did not know what to feel. Was he happy

that the blame was not on him, or was he angry that his fault had been passed on to someone

who seemed so innocent?

“When were you taken north?” Isephor said in the breaks that he took between his agony.

“When did the humans line you up in front of the mist? What was the date?”

“I don’t know the date, but it was about four months ago.”

Isephor stopped crying for a second. He looked at Memeira. Tears were covering his face.

He looked down slowly to the snow. There was no emotion in his eyes; it was like he was just

a wandering soul in disguise. He knew where he was when Memeira was taken there.

“I was the fourteenth, Memeira,” Isephor said. “I was on the trail, following you north. I

understand now why I was going that way. I was part of the same sacrifice that you were

going to go through, but the humans did not dare approach me, for they knew who I was. I

went from the road to the Holbæ, where I needed to desperately speak with someone. I

wouldn’t have done it if I knew why I needed to go north.”

“Why is this so bad?” said Memeira. He was not scared of his mistake now. At least he

knew that it wasn’t him who caused this much grief that he still did not understand.

“I know what was supposed to happen when you were lead north, Memeira,” Isephor

paused. “You were about to undergo a ritual that is supposed to happen every sixty years in

the hope that from it prosperity and protection will come to Ilãrys. You’re going to meet with

a terrible fate, aren’t you? Fourteen should be lead into the mist to undergo the ritual, if you

could call it that. For as long as fourteen go into the mist and all suffer the same fate, Ilãrys is

safe for another sixty years. I left the road weeks before the final ritual, leaving only thirteen

to be left to endure it. Were you the youngest person during the final ceremony, Memeira?”

Memeira looked at Isephor for a second before nodding.

“You were supposed to be the fourteenth sacrifice. Fourteen marks the hope that Ilãrys will

be at peace. Yet the number thirteen symbolizes the end of the line of the first kings of Ilãrys,

and subsequently the end of the north were Ilãrys stands.”

“Did I make a mistake in escaping from the ritual while it happened.”

Isephor looked into Memeira’s eyes for five seconds. Memeira stood there and looked back.

He knew that Isephor was thinking again; he was looking into Memeira’s eyes to see if he

knew that same fear that he knew. He did, and it was so many times stronger than Isephor had

ever knew any fear.

“Memeira, think about it this way. There is no sacrifice more important to Ilãrys than what

you have endured. To them, it feels as if the entire security of the earth depends on the child

that has wandered so far south. Do you understand Memeira?”

Memeira did not understand. He was bewildered. It felt as if he was part of a painting,

documented because this point in history was so much more important than anything he had

ever heard of. He did not know what to expect next. Everything was moving slowly. Isephor

had turned away but was now looking back at Memeira, who stood there and did not say

anything. Isephor was weary, Memeira could see it from the lines that formed under his eyes,

and the tangles in his hair. His clothes were once reasonably dark, but had now been turned

murky and grey from the filth that covered them. Isephor’s hair was always long, but he took

whatever chance he had to shorten it, even if it meant taking his sword against it.

He had little facial hair compared to what Memeira had seen. He had a beard, but it did not

sway in the wind, but was kept from coming from his face. Memeira realized the trauma that

this man had been through. He had not seen anyone that could cut his hair, or replace his

clothes for years. He had been wandering, and doing only what he needed to do in order to

keep the balance in the world. Perhaps that was why he had moved south. Perhaps this was

the reason that he asked so many questions even when he didn’t expect Memeira to know the

answer to them.

Who was Isephor? Memeira felt like he had been so foolish for telling him so much about

himself and where he had come from, when he was not even sure if he could trust him.

Perhaps he should stop telling the truth. Maybe if he did tell the truth on the basis of trust, he

would be deceived, like in some cliché whereby the storyteller tells the fable of someone who

gave all the secrets of a kingdom away to a king who was merely an imposter, only to then

realize his mistake and suffer from it.

Was it the same thing here?

“Memeira,” Isephor said, “we need to hasten our trail north. We must divert from every road

that takes us some longer route, and stay far from any other place that would bring us harm in

any way. We need to take ourselves to the kings of Ilãrys, where they will take us back north

to complete the ritual.”

Memeira took a deep breath.

“Maybe this is all superstition though?”

“No,” said Isephor. “Maybe it is more than that. I am almost certain that on the same day

that you escaped from the ritual I may have slipped valuable information to someone who

shouldn’t have the right to know it.”

There was silence. Not even the wind was blowing. It was cold, but the cold did not move.

Everything was motionless as if time had stopped it progression and the grave had finally

came to a standstill from the tumult of the world.

Memeira looked down at the stone. It was cracked where the name Dulinil once was carved

into it. The words had faded and more and more snow fell on it and buried it in the ground.

Memeira did not want to forget Dulinil. Perhaps she was still alive; the date on the grave was

constantly changing as if it did not want Memeira to know it. He needed to go back north and

see his sister’s face one more time, even if after he would have to die.

“How long do I have to live?” said Memeira.

“I don’t know,” said Isephor. “I think there might be something else, though. If Dulinil did

die on the ice plains, then the ritual has failed, because there is no way that she could ever be

brought back to the mist to die there. If she is alive, then all three of us can go together to

complete what has already begun.”

“So there is hope that she is still alive?” Memeira said.

“There is only hope that the runes on this stone speak true. Perhaps if they do then there is a

chance that the end is not here.”

“The end?” said Memeira.

‘This is not the climax of the road, Memeira. This is Dulinil’s grave. Maybe the end did

come over the ice plains in the north; maybe Dulinil did die then, and this is the grave that

you made for her. But lo, how do we even know that this is the same stone when you made it

here only a week ago, when the age of the grave surpasses the lifetime of even the oldest

person alive today.”

“I don’t know. How could we ever be sure that she’s alive, though? How could she be

alive?”

“Maybe these false thoughts work more for the good things in the world than the bad things,

even when the existence of them came from the will of something so wretched.”

“How much time is there?”

“We have only the time to travel north and find Dulinil, before taking ourselves to the mist

and ending what I fear is to come before it starts.”

“Before it starts?”

“Of course,” said Isephor. “If what I have heard comes true, then we really don’t stand a

chance. If what was fortold has already come, then we are already too late.”

“What have you heard?”

“Whispers of death without preemption. People gone from the world, then coming back as if

nothing had ever happened to them. Men flee from Ilãrys. I have heard that the towers of

Emãrule have crumbled already, and thousands have run to escape from their fate.”

“What is their fate?”

Isephor stopped.

“Men are beginning to paint a picture of the world beyond death, and it may not be as

peaceful as it was once made out to be.”

Memeira did not understand, yet he knew that one-day he would. Was there any way to stop

this fate? Had Dulinil already died? How could he be sure that Dulinil was alive? Memeira

turned his back to Isephor and slowly began to walk away, back south, where he knew he

belonged, far from the maddening sounds of the northern world.

“Memeira,” Isephor said, “you would spoil the chance to see your sister once again to find a

way south to where the world remains at a standstill while Ilãrys, the guardians of the earth,

crumbles and leaves you behind in its ruin?”

Memeira turned.

“You can say that Dulinil is still alive?” Memeira said.

“No,” Isephor hesitated. “But if she is, and Ilãrys has not fallen yet, then there is still hope

that everything will remain, and none will have to succumb to this fate. If you turn away now,

then all is already lost.”

Memeira turned around completely. He was looking Isephor in the face now. It was as if

they had swapped places, and Isephor was now the one who was knelt before Memeira,

pleading for him to go north along the same road that he had to.

“I will go north with you.” Memeira said, “but not to help Ilarys; I will not help them after

what they did to me. I will go north to find Dulinil.”

“Our road was already set that way since I needed to find the humans of Ilãrys to warn them

about the false thoughts that plague the earth. We will do that as well as completing the ritual,

though I cannot say that I will be true to the road. Perhaps we will need to turn back for a

second time if we know that all is lost.”

Memeira still did not quite understand everything that was to be taken in. He knew that

eventually everything would become clear. However, he did know that his days on the earth

would be shorter than he had anticipated. It was as if he had been given life by escaping from

the ritual, but his life had been cut again by the need to return.

He hadn’t been thinking as much as he had before. Memeira couldn’t take his mind away

from Dulinil. The only reason he was going to stay with Isephor was because of the hope that

she was still alive. If she wasn’t, then he would have failed his journey and Isephor would

have failed his own.

Memeira knew that it sounded like the fate of the world rested in the hope that Dulinil was

not dead. Memeira wasn’t sure yet, but in a way that was true, for his own world and the

world for all those who lived in it.

“When will we leave?” said Memeira.

“When the wind settles and the mist thickens.”

Isephor was standing a few feet away from Memeira. He had his right foot pressed against a

stone.

Memeira looked back at the grave, then to Isephor and begun to think again. He thought

about how everything felt like a dream, even though he knew that it wasn’t. He thought about

all the people he had seen and how many of them he would ever want to see again. If there

was one person he would ever want to see again, it was his sister.

The only reason he ever stayed with his sister was for her to help him, and keep him alive.

He didn’t need her to keep him alive; Isephor was with him, but he still wanted her back, and

he knew that if she were still alive, then she would want him back too.

“Why can’t we leave now?” asked Memeira.

“I don’t know.”

Memeira watched as the wind blew through Isephor’s hair. His cloak hung low around his

feet, flapping like the wings of a bird caught in a storm. His feet remained as they were.

Isephor didn’t want to leave, even though he had to.

“Why are you always scared?” said Memeira.

“I’m not scared.”

“You are, I can see it.”

Isephor turned to Memeira. His feet moved around on the spot. His cloak was still blowing

in the wind against the back of his legs. Isephor had his hand on his sword. He didn’t look

like someone who would ever be scared. But Memeira knew he was by the way he kept

looking ahead and doubting and wondering if he would ever find anywhere that he could lay

his head for more than a night.

“Fear is something that we all have to deal with, even no one admits it.”

“But why are you scared?” Memeira was picking up the snow in his hands and letting it melt

between his fingers.

Isephor cricked his neck from side to side and turned slightly to his right to look at the light

of the sun, which no one could ever really see in the misty parts of the northern world, as it

moved between thicker and thinner parts of the sky, changing the scenery from being dark to

light, and light to dark again.

He wondered what he was scared about. There was everything to be scared about. He knew

not the fear that he would forget each night, but the fear that would be constantly on his mind.

“Are you not scared?”

Memeira let the last drops of water from the snow come through his fingers before he turned

back to Isephor.

“I’m scared, but I’m a child.”

“The wind doesn’t blow in a different direction when you grow older. Fear never leaves you

with time; it grows, and will never leave you even if thousands of years surpass.”

“Isn’t that a scary thought?”

Isephor raised his eyebrows.

“Isn’t it scary that no one will ever rest?”

Isephor turned away from Memeira as he thought about it. Yes, he muttered under his breath

before turning to the snow that had crumbled beneath his feet. He watched as the snow turned

to filth that covered the rock he was standing on. He looked for his reflection but couldn’t

find it over the mess of the ground.

“Memeira, you will be at ease one day,” Isephor arched his back over the earth, trying

harder to see the reflection that wasn’t there.

He knew there was just as much doubt that he would ever find his own face in some

reflection in the melted snow that anyone who lived would ever be at ease. There is never

really nothing.

“It has been said so many times that there is no such thing as the cold,” said Isephor. “Cold

is only the lack of warmth, or so men say. Does that mean that no one has ever felt cold?

Does that mean that as long as there is warmth there can never be any degree of cold? No.

Cold is the word to describe what we feel. Memeira, even if you know that there is still

something that is putting you at some degree of unease, you should know that you will only

ever suffer for it if you think that cold is only the lack of warmth, and that unrest is the lack of

rest.”

“But what of Dulinil?” Memeira said. His voice was barely heard through the wind.

“How could you ever find ease if you think it will only come once every problem in your

mind should go? Let go of Dulinil. Look for the better things of the earth, and all the

problems that are yet to be resolved, then go looking for the problems that you know there is

only the smallest chance will disappear, and if they don’t go, let go of them.”

Memeira stood. He pressed his hands against the snow underneath them and felt the lack of

warmth press against his skin. He felt all the drops of water move through the lines on his

fingers, even when he didn’t acknowledge them. Ahead of him as he stood beside Isephor

was the world, in which was everyone and every problem that had ever been created.

Memeira looked up at Isephor. The wind had brushed his long hair across his face, and even

though he could not see anything he kept looking. His mouth was slightly open. His teeth

were moving across each other, brushing against all the imperfections on the bone. Memeira

could feel his bones creaking as the now calmer wind pushed him onwards to where the road

lead.

Memeira looked back and there was only snow. There was no broken stone where his

sister’s grave once was; the stone had been buried hundreds of years ago. Ahead was what

was to come, and that would come in a matter of moments.

Memeira wanted to stay there, where even the coldest place felt warm. He wanted to stay

with what was left of Dulinil, which was the buried gravestone, and the memory that had been

lost, even by Isephor, who had learnt to let go.

The wind calmed and the mist thickened, and Memeira followed Isephor along the road that

led north.

Chapter Eight – Prod Your Brain with a Stick

Dulinil looked down over the mountain. She could see the clouds. As the clouds shifted

around the mountain she caught occasionally glimpses of the ground beneath them. She was

high up now. There was only a small climb before she would reach the tower at the summit of

the mountain.

She was following a precarious stairway that circled the mountain until it reached the top. It

was made of rocks that were pressed into the side of the mountain. On the rocks there was

some kind of grit to keep people from falling from the edge. She kept as close to the mountain

as she could. Dulinil closed her eyes and stopped. She took a deep breath. She opened her

eyes again and looked over the edge.

Dulinil looked up and took another deep breath. She turned her eyes to Harúsyr. Half of his

body was buried in the mist. He stopped, then looked back at Dulinil.

“Only a short climb to the top now, then we will circle the tower to find who I am looking

for.”

Dulinil nodded, took another deep breath, then moved along the side of the cliff, pressing

her body against the wall of the mountain. She stopped and braced herself as the wind started

again. Harúsyr looked at her. He reached out his arm to Dulinil. Dulinil took hold of his hand

and let him guide her across the stones.

Dulinil looked up.

“Is that the tower?”

“That’s part of it.”

Dulinil looked up for a moment to take in the sight of the tower. She could only see the base

of it, which was buried deep into the stone of the mountain. There was snow there. It was

scattered around the foot of the tower, which was wider than Dulinil had seen from so far into

the distance. The clouds up there shifted, and with each blink a new part of the tower was

revealed.

Dulinil looked higher to the top of the tower. She had never been so high before. The

mountain was beginning to affect her. She felt faint. She wobbled from side to side, then felt

Harúsyr keep her steady. She closed her eyes and took three deep breaths, then was fine

again.

She looked back to the top of the tower, or at least what she could see of it. Dulinil turned

her head from the ground to the high reaches of the stone, then back to the ground, even when

all she could see was the faint shadow of the ground, pressing itself through the mist.

And the mist was everywhere. From the ground it stretched high into the air, until it reached

even higher than the reaches of the tower. Dulinil could not even see higher than the second

floor of the tower, not least by the size of the structure, but also by the clouds that surrounded

it. And when did the mist become the clouds? She had come to Emãrule so long ago, or so it

felt.

She remembered when she rode there with Harúsyr; looking up at the large towers. There

was a kind of dome that surrounded her and the horse, which bordered the mountains and the

towers that were set upon them. What dictated where the mist, or fog, or clouds, or shrouds,

or haze went and where they didn’t go? Perhaps there were people who could explain the

diversity of the world, and how everything was so confusing, and how much people cared

even when they didn’t know why. Why did she care?

Dulinil looked again at the tower. Its sheer size overwhelmed her. As far as Dulinil looked to

the left she could not see where the tower curved all the way around, and as far as she looked

right she could not even see the end of the stones that built up the platform that the tower

remained upon.

The more she looked at it, the further away it seemed. It seemed to be slipping away from

her as if she was falling slowly away from it, or if it was leaning over her.

Her head hurt. The wind was still blowing, and the mist ever thickened.

“Most of Emãrule is underground. There are passages going through the mountain into

catacombs and dungeons. That is where we are going.”

Dulinil looked up and straightened her back and felt the wind push against her again. She

turned her head from side to side until Harúsyr came into her sight.

Harúsyr pointed to a point on the mountain that separated two segments of it that had been

torn apart. There was a bridge that spanned a couple of feet that stretched over the gap

between the two rocks at either side. The bridge was made of carefully placed stones that

were now covered in moss. There was a stream of water that flowed gently down the side of

the mountain underneath the bridge.

Dulinil followed Harúsyr to the bridge. She stopped halfway over to look over the mountain.

Below her were still the clouds that she had passed on her ascent. Dulinil looked at the stream

that flowed down the mountain, passing underneath the bridge, then trickling down from the

edge. She scratched her head.

“Harúsyr, why is there water here?”

Harúsyr turned around.

“Why is there water where it’s higher than the clouds?”

Harúsyr stood to the left of Dulinil as she looked over the mountain. The clouds moved apart

beneath her for a moment. She felt a sudden rush of adrenaline.

“There isn’t.”

Dulinil rubbed her head. She closed her eyes. When she opened them again she looked back

underneath the bridge. The stones were not mossy and the rock was dry.

Dulinil stopped. She looked around her and tried to listen.

“Dulinil, keep walking.”

Dulinil turned to Harúsyr, then continued to follow him. The path winded around the

mountain. The rock to the side of the path had been cut into in order to make the ledge that

held the path wider. Occasionally Dulinil would spot carvings into the stone. There were

runes and symbols that she didn’t understand. Harúsyr would stop to look at them as well,

though did not appear to be nearly as fascinated as Dulinil thought she was.

The path began to climb. After every step that Dulinil took the next was harder. The climb to

the top of the mountain had completely wrecked Dulinil. She thought about all the people

who had to climb the mountain to reach their homes almost every day. Then again, she was

taking another route that led into the catacombs beneath the towers to see someone that

Harúsyr wanted to meet. She looked up. Dulinil couldn’t remember the name.

The wind tried to drag Dulinil from the edge of the mountain. She kept her entire body

pressed to the side of the mountain. She breathed in, then out, then stopped breathing

altogether. She closed her eyes and felt her feet push lightly onto the ground. She tried to

force them to the floor. Dulinil tensed her muscles. She felt her heart beating. The wind was

blowing strongly now. Everything was dark in her head. She felt the rock behind her. It was

sharp against her hand, which was gripping a jagged stone behind her. Dulinil wanted to cry.

She gritted her teeth. She opened her eyes.

Below her feet were the clouds. They were now hundreds of feet down. The slope of the

mountain soared through the clouds and reached out like an arm reaching out of an ocean.

The mountain shook as the winds blew the dust of the mountain into Dulinil.

She looked up for a moment, but her eyes were drawn back to the enormous drop beneath

her.

Dulinil had no notion of vertigo, or how people had any fear of heights. She had seen those

people who had fallen from the mountain before, and she knew that the same thing could

happen to her. She didn’t know why it was so hard to breath, or why the air felt so much

different from what it felt like down there.

She held tighter onto the rock in her left hand. She imagined the enormous mountain that it

was behind. She tried to forget about everything and just walk.

Dulinil turned her head. Harúsyr was sitting down. His head was in his hands. He was

breathing steadily and wavering from side to side as he sat on the rock.

He looked up and saw Dulinil standing there.

“Come on,” he said. “This place is wretched.”

He stood and brushed himself even though there was no dirt on him.

He came towards Dulinil who was still standing there and reached out his arm again. Dulinil

took hold his hand, but did not let go of the rock. Harúsyr led Dulinil across the narrow ledge

on the mountain and led her to where he was sitting.

As Dulinil followed Harúsyr up to the higher parts of the mountain she reached the highest

point that the clouds extended to. It was so cold.

The path became flat, and the mountain sloped again as it did. Dulinil saw again that same

kind of triangle that is used to portray mountains, instead of the chaos of the jagged rocks and

crevices and growths in the rock.

“I can see clouds underneath us.”

“We are not as high as you might think. The clouds in these parts of the world are low; that

is the mist. Clouds here will go as high as they may, or sink to the floor of the world. You

may see the clouds beneath you, but there are heights that soar far higher than you stand now,

and places that reach further into the sky that you have ever seen in your books or pictures.”

“Places higher than this?”

“There are some things that even the most wise cannot fathom; heights that soar higher than

the lights in the sky, creatures that people have only ever seen before in their dreams and

depths that reach deeper than the lowest dungeons. And everything does not seem to come

together in any kind of pattern.”

“Why should there be a pattern?”

Harúsyr looked at Dulinil for a second, turned his head back into the mist that surrounded

him, then looked back at Dulinil.

“Someone must have put everything here, surely? Everything can’t just have happened.”

The wind was blowing.

“The same person who decides where the snow falls and where it doesn’t?” Dulinil asked.

“Perhaps.”

“But the snow falls where it is cold, and it is cold everywhere. Does that someone also

decide when it snows and when it doesn’t?”

“Perhaps. How could it happen any other way?”

“Chance?”

“Perhaps.”

“Why does it even need to snow?”

“Perchance it doesn’t.”

“Why do we even have to be here?”

Harúsyr gave Dulinil a strange, steady look. He leaned his head away from her, then took a

step back. Dulinil looked as he breathed; in, then out.

She kept going. Up and up the mountain they went. Occasionally there were faint cries. Now

the cries were louder. Rocks poured down from the top of the mountain and shouts echoed

around the sky. They were getting close.

What there was at the top, Dulinil did not know. She was hungry and had not even enough

energy to keep her eyes from closing. She kept looking over to Harúsyr in such longing that

they would ever rest. Looking down she could see nothing but stone and mist intertwined.

She slipped. It was icier nearer to the top. The path winded around the mountain, as Dulinil

could see it. She could not see where the path led around the curve ahead of her. She looked

across the sky. The clouds merged together and stretched endlessly. Dulinil squinted and tried

to see further into the distance. There were specs in the sky that occasionally appeared then

drifted away. Dulinil thought these things to be birds high up in the sky, but as she watched

them more she could not decipher what they were.

She took another step. Her right foot touched the ground. He pressed it down and felt like

collapsing. Dulinil bent her back and looked up. She could see Harúsyr walking on ahead of

her. He put her arms around her stomach. Her clothes were blowing behind her in the wind.

She was pushed against the side of the mountain. The winds were roaring.

“Must we go further?”

Harúsyr turned around, but kept walking on.

“We have come so high.”

The wind was blowing against Harúsyr. Dust was scattered across the scene. Dulinil saw the

faint silhouette of the man. The background went from white to some light shade of blue. The

colour spread from the far side of the mountain to Harúsyr, shrouding him in the hue.

“Please, can’t we turn around?”

“No, we must go.”

“Can we not go down. I don’t want to be up there.”

“No, we are going to the top.”

Harúsyr’s voice carried with the wind. Dulinil felt the stone shake. Cracks appeared in the

stone and debris fell from above her. She pushed herself to the wall. As she looked down she

could see the sweep of the dust below her. She could feel the wind try to drag her across the

path.

“I don’t want to be here.”

“Nor do I, but we must go.”

Harúsyr looked upwards. Dulinil watched as he scanned the scene.

“Night is coming. We must go quickly.”

Dulinil tried to brace herself against the wind. She took another step towards Harúsyr.

Harúsyr was walking away, but she found her pace and drove her body against the wind. She

followed Harúsyr the rest of the way to the curve of the mountain, before the path became

less treacherous. The wind kept its push, and the noises of the mountain echoed on as they

had done.

There was a sense of mystery that Dulinil felt. She looked up, as if expecting to see the top.

She knew that wherever she was on the mountain she would still have hours before they

reached the summit where the tower was. Dulinil could hear things from around her. Things

she could not explain. She could hear something in the wind that unsettled her. It was

something that she had heard long ago but had since forgotten. In her head she thought to

herself that the world finally was becoming restless. People were waking. Things were

stirring. These things were not of the earth, but in her head. Dulinil was thinking.

These sounds made her think of how still the earth had been when she was going north.

Everything was so much more troublesome now. She expected it to be from the start. Dulinil

knew that even if she had seen everything, she still would not know everything, and every

single notion of what the world is to you is wrong.

Dulinil watched Harúsyr as he stopped. He looked over his shoulder to Dulinil, then over to

the sky. Dulinil looked over with him and saw how the clouds stretched over a pool of white.

In the distance she could see the last rays of light as they went below the clouds. She looked

back at Harúsyr and saw him bite his lip. He closed his eyes, then looked back at Dulinil.

“It has started,” he said.

Dulinil walked over to Harúsyr. Beside him was a small ledge. Harúsyr sat down on a rock.

Dulinil watched him and listened.

“It’s night.”

Dulinil looked over and saw how the whole world became enveloped in darkness and

shadows were thrown over the rocks. The blackness that covered the frosty pebbles on the

path of the mountain was stretched and dragged to Harúsyr’s feet. Dulinil stood up straight.

The mist thickened and the clouds rose above the rays of light. The mountain around her

became dark and the snow that fell began to fail from her sight.

Breathing in and out, Dulinil watched as everything faded. The scene dimmed and the light

dispersed from the view over the clouds. The last pieces of light struggled to break through

the clouds. Even the brightest lights in the sky eventually dimmed.

“We should move on. It’s night now, and the darkness will only bring unwanted things.”

“What do you mean?”

Harúsyr began to walk up the path, swinging his belongings over his shoulder. He turned

and briefly looked at Dulinil, before carrying on up the path.

“The nights and days have been growing longer near to the Ice Plains,” Harúsyr looked to

his right. “Some say that we are entering a time that the nights are so long that we will forget

the sun when it rises again.”

Dulinil remembered the last ray of light that had disappeared from the mountain. She kicked

a rock and watched as it went out of her sight in the same way that she had lost sight of light

from the sun. Dulinil sighed and tried to peer round the mountain. From as far as she could

see from her left to as far as she could see to her right the mountain did not curve. Looking

above, it felt as if Dulinil was standing on a shelf suspended from a wall. The path went on to

her right, where she saw Harúsyr walking. She watched as even the sight of that man became

dim. He faded into the mist and Dulinil walked on.

Dulinil’s feet pressed against the path of the mountain as much as the noises from the tower

above echoed across the sky. The high mountain leaned further towards the ground the higher

that Dulinil went. She slipped, but found her feet again quickly. Grabbing onto a rock that

protruded from the side of the mountain, Dulinil hoisted herself up. The path had become

more reminiscent of a staircase now, and the steps were guiding her feet to the top.

Dulinil covered her ears. There was a great shout from the top of the mountain. She bent

down, as if trying to move away from the sound. Dulinil peered up to see Harúsyr come to his

feet abruptly. Rocks began to roll from the mountain and dust was scattered over Dulinil’s

cloak. She breathed out, and the cold went with her breath. She watched as her breath was

thrown across the mountain by the wind.

The sounds from the top of the mountain were becoming clearer now. Mixed with the

screams and shouts of the men in the tower was the roaring sound of the wind. Noises of great

crashes filled the air. Dulinil felt as if she could feel the rolling waves and the tumult of the

sea in the highest place in the world. A vast tower then loomed above Dulinil. She arched her

back as she made her way up the mountain, admiring the shadow that was cast over her. She

then took a step to her right, watching her footsteps as she came closer to the side of the

staircase path. It felt as if the stone of the tower was pushing against Dulinil, making her want

to move closer to the edge of the mountain.

Dulinil pressed her foot onto the small ledge that separated the mountain and the sky. She

shrieked, and looked at the rocks below her as they rolled down the mountain as if pushed by

that tumultuous sound. She felt something touch her. Dulinil quickly pulled her hands from

her face and turned, but the mist had carried that presence away. She turned her head upwards

again. The tower hung over her like a great ghost. The rock was grey and dust was peeled

from the skin of the walls and thrown down the wall of the mountain.

Dulinil turned. She could not see Harúsyr. She stumbled on the rocks at rolled beneath her

feet. She tried to run but the wind pushed her against the wall of the mountain. The mist came

around her. Dust was thrown across her. Her cloak was forced into her eyes. Dulinil was

blinded. She stumbled and tripped. The wind and the weight of the sky pushed her against the

ground. He felt her hands scrape across the stones as she crawled up the mountain, trying to

find Harúsyr.

“Dulinil! Dulinil!” the cries echoed across the sky.

Dulinil grabbed her cloak, and with her fingers locked into the threads she cast it aside to

see, but the mist thickened. It was as if the din of the world blinded her. The darkness was

reflected from the rocks. Dulinil could not see even the brightest drops of the snow.

Pressing her hands against the ground, and driving her fingernails into the icy ground,

Dulinil managed to claw her way closer to the noise, which became louder with every claw

up the mountain.

The uproar became greater. Dulinil was pressed against the rocks. Her chest was forced

inbetween the sharp stairs. She dug her fingernails into the ground and waited.

“Dulinil!”

She blocked the sound out. The world had become muted and there was a deathly hum.

Dulinil ignored the cold that dug into her skin; she had learned to disregard the cold. The

breathed in and held her breath. She counted.

Then the uproar of the mountain cleared. The mist thinned, and Dulinil could see Harúsyr

standing in the darkness. Dulinil could see the silhouette of an outstretched hand. She reached

and tugged on the outline of that figure. As she was pulled up the mist from the height of the

mountain separated. The noise of the world came flooding back to Dulinil as if the dam

holding back the sound had been broken.

“Is it there, Harúsyr?”

The walls of the tower were dark. Even with the tower high in the mountain Dulinil could

still make out the scars in the stone. The wind scattered the dust from the crumbling bricks

around the tower.

“There is another tower in the distance.”

Harúsyr pointed to his left. Dulinil could see the tower curve into the mist and quickly

vanish. It seemed as if the harder she looked into the mist the more she could hear, and the

more she could know about the place. She could not see the bridge that connected the two

mountains because now it had been covered in the thick white mist. The wind was howling.

Dulinil turned back to Harúsyr.

“There is a bridge that connects the two mountains that hold the towers. Underneath the

bridge there is a lake, but now it is frozen. The bridge was once made of stone, but it

crumbled and fell into the lake. It is now made of stone.”

“What happened to the other tower, the one that fell into the lake?”

Dulinil looked into Harúsyr’s eyes as they looked at her strangely. She watched as he moved

his sight from her to the tower, and back again.

“Let’s move up to the tower now, Dulinil, before we forget why we came here.”

Dulinil followed Harúsyr as he made his way up the mountain. The shouts from the tower

above were getting closer. Dulinil could hear hammers beating against the stone. She stayed

close to the mountain, watching her feet as the path became narrower. The tower loomed

over. She could see the indents and marks that she imagined to have been carved into the

rocks a long time ago. The wind did not stop beating into the stone.

The mist then surrounded the tower, squeezing against it and enveloping it like vines around

a tree. Dulinil saw as the tower became shrouded and became as forgotten as the light coming

through the clouds. The dark stone of the tower was pressed against the mist. The windows of

the tower were like tiny specs of dust against a huge canvas. The mist drifted and shrouded

any light that came from the tower. It was as if darkness was spreading from the tiny windows

of the tower.

Dulinil felt for the side of the mountain. She fell to her side and reached for the rocks.

Pressing her hand against the sharpness of the cold rocks she pushed herself back up. She

could not see the scars on her hand.

“Harúsyr.”

Her voice was scratched by the sound of the wind. She pressed her back against the ice-

covered rocks.

“I’m here, Harúsyr.”

There was no reply. Dulinil stood shivering. She watched as tiny pieces of light poured from

the mist as it moved about the sky. She could not see Harúsyr. Dulinil could still hear the

sounds of the men of the tower above her. She could feel the weight of the sky and the rocks

pushing down on her, as if the tower was beating like a beast’s heart. Reaching for another

rock, Dulinil pulled herself up the mountain. Every time she pulled herself closer to the

mountain the light dimmed and faded. She felt as if she was moving herself further into the

darkness.

“Harúsyr, I’m here.”

She took a step and the sound of the wind faded and the lights from the tower disappeared.

Dulinil found herself on a slope that led downwards. It led nearer to the tower so Dulinil

decided to follow it. She could hear echoes from beneath her. She stopped and became quiet

and tried to hear, but the sounds were quickly washed away by the wind, which poured down

the slope.

Dulinil took another step. She felt something hit against her head and she fell to the ground

and cried in pain. She felt for the side of the mountain on her left. Dulinil pushed her hand

against the rock, scraping the ice from her fingertips. The rock crumbled and fell to the

ground. Dulinil heard the stones roll down the slope and hit another rock at the end. The

sound echoed around and there was a deep rumble that loomed. Dulinil stood there with her

hand against the rock. She pushed herself up and felt for what had hit her head. She lifted her

left hand and pressed it against a rock above her. She realized that she was in a cave and the

cave was leading downwards and that she would have to follow it. The rumble of the rolling

stones slowly dimmed and eventually faded leaving only the sound of the wind and the cries

of the men from the tower.

Dulinil reached for the rocks around her head and lifted herself up. She pressed her feet

against the ground and felt as the rocks slid and tumbled down the slope. She arched her back

and moved forward further into the cave, feeling against the walls of the tunnel to help her

along. She could faintly see where the tunnel curved and sloped upwards as light moved and

shifted among the rocks of the wall. The light brought up the contours of the rock and Dulinil

could see the sharpness of the walls of the tunnel.

She moved towards the light, carefully deciding where she put her feet. The rumble and roar

of the mountain became louder as she moved into the depths of the cave. She felt the wall

where the tunnel curved but the light was no longer there. Dulinil reached out in front of her,

hoping that she would feel the ragged cloak of Harúsyr. Cold air ran through her fingertips.

Wind and snow funneled through the tunnel. Dulinil shivered and moved further down into

the mountain.

The walls were becoming thinner. Dulinil pressed the sides of her arms against her body and

twisted herself in order to move between the rocks. From the opening of the tunnel a dark

blue light cast itself over the rocks and illuminated the sky. From the end of the tunnel Dulinil

could see the orange glow that brought out the shape of the rocks.

“Harúsyr, are you here?”

The light from the end of the tunnel dimmed. There was no reply. Dulinil arched her back

over and pressed herself against the wall of the tunnel, twisting her feet between the narrow

gap.

She could hear the sound of the wind. The cries and shouts from above had disappeared

now. There were occasional echoes and rumbles. It sounded as if it was raining from outside

the tunnel, but that sound was distant and Dulinil could not distinguish it from her own

imagination. There was a hum then Dulinil could clearly hear the sound of footsteps coming

closer to hers.

Dulinil kicked against the wall of the tunnel and forced her way through the narrow tunnel.

The light had dimmed and she threw her arms forward to try and find a way through the

passage. She slipped. Dulinil reached out her left arm and pressed it against the roof. Looking

to her right she could see the dark blue of the night, mixed with the white of the mist. The

passage was overcome with darkness. Dulinil took a step, but fell and scraped the side of her

body against the sharp rocks. She reached over to feel the cuts with her hand, but was dragged

into a dark hole by the weight of the mountain.

She felt heavy for a moment. Her feet were forced against the ground, driving the sharp

rocks against her soles. Her arm scraped against the ground as her body was driven to the

floor.

It was cold. Dulinil closed her eyes and forced her mouth shut. She lay there on her side,

reaching around her body to the cuts on her left arm. She pressed her fingers into the areas

that were most painful. She pulled her hand away quickly as she touched the wounds. She

opened her eyes. She looked upwards. Above her was a narrow gap between the two rocks

that made up the ceiling of the opening she was in. The orange light shifted between the rocks

for a moment, then disappeared.

Dulinil closed her eyes again and rolled over onto her front. She shifted her body in order to

cover her arm with her cloak. She placed one foot on top of the other and rubbed them

together. She could feel the contours of her skin even through her boots. She rubbed her hand

over the ground, feeling the grooves and engravings of the stone. The stone was cold. Dulinil

opened her eyes.

She lifted her head and ahead of her was a large opening, illuminated by a distant light. She

was in a narrow corridor that stretched as far as she could see. She turned behind her and

there was a wall with an engraving on it. She twisted her neck and pressed her head again to

the floor. The ground was covered with a repetitive pattern that continued for as long as she

could see the corridor extend. The pattern on the floor consisted of carvings of eyes and

strange animals that she had never seen before. Dulinil lifted herself slightly, pushing against

the floor with both of her hands. She looked down below her and observed the patterns more

carefully. She did not recognize the drawings on the floor. She did not know if even the

drawings represented animals.

The ground was painted over with a green paint. Dulinil could see places were the paint had

peeled, or the ground had been covered with mud from the boots of those who had walked

down the corridor. The tiles of the floor were cracked and some were dislodged. Dulinil

remembered seeing the windows of a large building that were made up with hundreds of

smaller pieces of glass, coming together to form a picture. She was reminded of that here.

Each picture on the floor was made up of hundreds of small pieces of coloured rock that had

been etched and scratched into since they had been put there.

Dulinil ran her fingers along the floor. The floor was cold, but in places there were small

pockets of heat. The rocks on the floor shook and vibrated as Dulinil hear the rumbles from

deep in the mountain. She did not know how much further down the tunnel stretched, or how

far along the corridor went.

Pressing both hands against the ground, Dulinil pushed against the tiles, forcing her skin

between the indents on the tiles. She raised her body, but bent her head lower avoiding the

low ceiling of the tunnel. As she stood dust fell from the gap in the roof where she had fallen.

Dulinil could see the lines on the stone that she had scraped her boots against. With every

breath she took more debris and rubble fell from the gap.

Dulinil turned and saw a dim light from the opposite side of the corridor. She did not know

whether that was where the corridor ended, but she knew she would have to move towards

there in order to find Harúsyr.

She looked back up at the hole that she had fallen from. It seemed too high for her to climb

back through, but she did not want to have to move further into the corridor. It seemed so

silent and ominous to her. She could only dimly hear the sound of the wind now. Dulinil

reached up to try and get a hold of a stone that she could use to lift herself up. She took a deep

breath and pressed her eyelids together. Feeling for the rocks she lifted herself up. Dulinil

scraped her hands against the sharp stones. The rocks fell from the ceiling. Pieces of rubble

and dust crashed to the ground. Dulinil quickly released from the grip of the rocks. She

quickly kicked her leg and yelped.

Dulinil’s shoulders were tensed up from the enormous sound that the fall had created. There

was a deep rumble and the mountains shook. She looked down to the end of the tunnel were

the orange light still glowed. The once unmoving light now shifted and the dot from the other

end of the tunnel became white and moved about through the contours of the stone.

Dulinil cowered and looked up at the entrance that she had fallen through. She reached for

the stone again but the wind that funneled through the tunnel above her blew dust into her

face. She turned and looked to see if there was anywhere else she could go. She looked back

at the light. It had gone. Dulinil was in total darkness.

Dulinil moved closer to where she had seen the light. She felt the sides of the walls. She

breathed in as the walls became closer to each other and the passage became narrower. She

turned her body to the side and arched her back over as far as she could. It felt like she had

torn a muscle in her lower back. Dulinil closed her eyes as she moved closer to the end of the

corridor. She felt her feet press into the holes and indents in the floor. She pressed her lips as

tightly as she could together. She whimpered and a tear came from her eye.

Looking again to the end of the corridor the light became just a spec of white in the distance.

The perspective of the walls to the end of the corridor seemed forced and as Dulinil went

further into the passage it seemed as if the passage was pushing her back to where she had

come. There was then a rumble and the sound of metal coming against metal. The dim sound

of the wind then cut off and the entire tunnel was covered in darkness. Dulinil was left

between the walls of the passage with nothing but the sound of her footsteps.

She took one step and heard the sound of the dust scattering around her heel. She then took

another and her back cricked and arched over. She fell against the side of the wall. She

reached ahead of her and tried to pull herself back up, but the pain of her back forced her back

against the side of the tunnel.

Dulinil tensed her body but let her head fall to her right. In the distance she could hear the

dim sound of footsteps. Pushing against the side of the passage that she was leaning on she

tried to push herself up, but her feet moved over the sliding rocks on the ground. She tried to

feel for something in front of her so that she could move herself further to where she came

from, but the wall felt wet.

She tried to claw her way along the wall but her foot was caught underneath a rock. As her

fingernails scraped against the wall of the cave she could hear dust falling from the opening

on the other side of the cave. She then became still and held her breath.

Who was that person with the torch that she had seen? Had they followed her down into this

place? What were they going to do to her?

Dulinil turned her head to her right to look down the corridor. There was total darkness. She

closed her eyes, but that did not change a thing. There was the sound of footsteps that echoed

like drips of water in a cavern. The footsteps were getting nearer. Dulinil could feel the

shaking of the mountain as each foot came to the ground. Nearer and nearer the footsteps

became. Dulinil took a breath, then closed her mouth.

There was silence. Dulinil waited for something to happen. She could hear the sound of the

wind in the distance again. There were sudden outbreaks of noise, mixed with the rush of

wind funneled through the tunnel. Then the wind stopped again for a short time.

Dulinil pressed herself against the wall. She felt the slope and curve of the wall as it closed

in on her feet. Her ankles were twisted, forced into the tiny gap that made up the space for her

to walk. Dulinil tried to bend her spine straight again. She could feel the stress of her bones as

she forced her shoulders back against the wall. There was another sound: a drip of water.

Dulinil turned but there was still nothing. The wind was distant, but not yet silent. She could

remember the force of the wind against her as she was climbing.

Then, reaching again to the wall, she felt a rock protruding from the stone. She leaned and

clasped her fingers around the stone. She pulled. Her foot twisted. Dulinil cried out and dust

fell from the ceiling. She could hear the footsteps coming closer again. They were coming

faster now. Dulinil pulled on the rock and let her foot loose, pulling the rock from out of the

wall. The rock hit the ground and the echo reverberated through the tunnel. Dulinil could see

a tiny spec of white at the end of the tunnel. She hurried, moving towards it because she knew

it would be the only way out of the passage.

She was limping. Her back was arched over from the height of the corridor and her foot was

twisted around, being dragged along like a carriage tied to a horse. There was then a shout,

and dust was scattered through the tunnel. Dulinil stopped, and the white light began to grow

and move towards her. The white light then became a red glow that illuminated the walls.

Dulinil looked at the floor and she could see the patterns again. She followed the long

repetitive patterns up the corridor. The felt to the walls to try and find a place where she could

hide and let those people from the other side pass her. The walls were smoothed over, and felt

almost wet. The tiles on the wall were kept in perfect condition. Dulinil could see the shades

of green that made up the pictures and engravings on the wall.

She stopped and listened. The footsteps had slowed down. She closed her eyes. The black

that she saw when she stared into her eyelids became a red glow. Then the light died out.

There was darkness again. There was a single drip of water from the ceiling. She listened to

every breath she took. She counted. Every breath felt like hours from the last. She opened her

eyes. There was nothing. She looked around. The entire passage was in total darkness. There

was another drip and the sound of the wind was still there, but Dulinil was not sure if she was

imagining it.

A red glow then filled the corridor. The light filled up the contours of the rocks on the wall.

Dulinil closed her eyes shut and held her breath. She took a step back. A deep red colour

filled her eyelids. There was the sound of a roaring fire. The footsteps were now directly in

front of her. She turned her back and forced herself down the other end of the corridor. She

stumbled and hit a wall. She then felt something touch her hand and she pulled away and

collapsed to the floor. She held her breath again for five seconds before crying out and

kicking her feet against the wall.

“Dulinil.”

She topped and she opened her eyes and gasped for breath. In front of her stood Harúsyr. He

had one hand outstretched and in the other he was holding a blazing torch that lit the tunnel.

The torch was made from reeds pieces of hay. The flame was great and was spitting pieces of

red against both sides of the tunnel. Dulinil could see the cracks on the tiles of the walls now.

The walls were intricately decorated with pictures and drawings that Dulinil could not

decipher. She turned back to Harúsyr, but could not think. The torch that he held gave off a

deep crackling sound, echoing about the cavern. Harúsyr was panting. He closed his eyes and

took a deep breath and stopped. Dulinil turned to Harúsyr and opened her mouth.

“Where did you go?”

Dulinil looked into Harúsyr’s eyes. He shut his eyelids for two seconds and looked away.

His back was bent over under the low roof. He moved his arm, dragging the flame of the

torch across the walls. Dulinil rubbed her eyes and turned away from the torch. Harúsyr was

now wearing a silver cloak that he had thrown over his shoulder. On the cloak there were

gems that had been laced in with the fabric. Harúsyr took a deep breath before he looked

Dulinil in the eyes.

“The mist thickened when we were still climbing the mountain. I called for you but the wind

was too loud, so I went in search of Aelenthir, who I have brought with me.”

Harúsyr stood aside in the passage. Behind him stood another man. He was small and was

wearing a ragged brown cloak that he had thrown across his body. The cloak was stained and

all across it Dulinil could see places that it had been cut. He wore black boots that were

covered in dust and snow. His face was covered in wrinkles and scars and his mouth was

shaking. His bottom lip protruded his top lip, jutting out like a rock from the side of a cliff.

His face was defined, and the angles on his chin were sharp. He reached out his hand to

Dulinil.

Dulinil reached out as well, placing her hand in the palm of the old man. His hand was

shaking. Dulinil could feel the wrinkles of the hand. She pulled her arm away for a moment,

then held his hand again. He tugged and lifted her from the floor of the cavern. Dulinil looked

into the eyes of the old man. His mouth was shaking, almost as if he was crying. His eyes

were grey and Dulinil could not see where the man was looking. His head was twisted and he

kept forcing his neck back into place.

“Harúsyr, who is this?”

Dulinil looked down to where she had just been lying. On the floor dust and dirt covered the

engravings and tiles. The green paint that covered the floor was now mixed with the orange

glow of the torch. She could not keep her eyes from looking between the cracks where the red

intertwined with the blue. She looked up again into the eyes of the old man. She pitied him.

She imagined him once to have been a person just like her, without the pains and stresses that

come with old age.

“This is Aelenthir. I knew to seek for him when we left the watchtower. He was once wise,

when I knew him. He has become wretched now somehow. Perhaps it was the work of the

city that drove him to insanity.”

Dulinil could hear the old man whispering something. His eyes were fixed open. It felt like

he was looking through Dulinil. She turned, but his glance did not change.

“Was he once like you?”

“Yes, not long ago.”

“How did he get like this?”

Harúsyr bent down and went close to the old man’s mouth. Dulinil watched. She saw as

Harúsyr pressed his ear close to him, but the old man seemed not to mind. She waited. She

saw the confusion in Harúsyr’s expression.

“He is whispering something.”

Harúsyr stood up straight, almost bruising his head on the ceiling.

“What is he saying?”

“He is talking of the inside thing, but I wouldn’t know what he meant by it.”

The old man then took a step back. His eyes went dark and he shook. He pressed his feet

into the ground, scraping the heels of his boots against the tiles. Dulinil looked into his eyes.

The clouds within them began to shift like the mist. He opened his mouth wide and turned his

head to the symbols on the wall. His hand was raised slightly. It wavered in the air, then fell

back to his side. His index finger began to shake as well. He pulled his arm up to his pocket.

Harúsyr bent down beside him and looked him straight in the eyes. His eyes did not falter.

The old man kept staring at the symbols on the wall. He was leaning forward slightly,

bending over the tiles on the ground, as if he was covering them.

“Aelenthir, you will help us?”

The old man began to shake again. He began to thrust his body back and forth, bringing his

right arm up then letting it fall again. His fingers were shaking as if he was trying to point at

something but his fingers were being violently twisted back into their place. Dulinil tried to

move towards his, but his eyes flared and the clouds within them shifted.

“Aelenthir, you must help us. You know something. You have seen something, haven’t you?

Something that we have never known?”

The old man withered then fell to the ground. Harúsyr caught him, and lifted him up. His

feet kicked and thrashed at the ground, bashing out the tiles. Dulinil watched as the grey

clouds in his eyes were thrown across his pupils. The old man twisted his neck.

Harúsyr looked at his mouth. Dulinil watched as his expression changed as he watched the

man’s shaking mouth.

“Aelenthir, tell us what you know.”

“The inside thing.”

The old man took a step back. The clouds in his eyes settled. He leaned further forwards. He

took a breath out. Dulinil shivered.

Harúsyr looked at the old man for a moment, then turned back to Dulinil. She was standing

at one end of the corridor. She thought about the man, and how much she pitied him. She

knew that he had seen something that Aelenthir wanted to know. The old man lifted his left

hand up now and tried to reach his arm across his body. He held the wrist of his right arm

with his other hand. He was shaking.

Dulinil saw something on his hand. It looked like blood when she first saw it. She held the

old man’s wrist and tried to loosen his grip around his arm. His eyes flared again. Dulinil took

a step back. The old man then held out his left hand in front of her. Dulinil took hold of the

old man’s arm and turned his hand. She laid her fingertips over the palm of his hand then

gently pulled them away. The lines of his hand were filled with a dark black hue. His hand

was tortured. Across his hand were scars that gouged between the bones. What little skin that

was left on the hand had become grey.

The man lifted his hand and his sleeve rolled down his arm. His arm was dark grey and

covered in scars. Dulinil turned away. She listened as Harúsyr hissed and covered his arm

back with his sleeve. Dulinil turned again, avoiding the sight of the arm, but her eyes were

strangely attracted to it. The man stood there with his hand thrust out in front of him. His

fingers were shaking. The man’s bottom lip jittered for a while, then he let his arm drop to his

side.

“Who did this to you?”

The man looked away, letting his head glide smoothly through the air, then begin to shake

again. The clouds in his grey eyes became smooth and a thin red line appeared around the

edges of his eyelids. “What happened to him?”

“He has seen something, and it has made him wretched.”

The man turned back to them. His eyes seemed to fog up, but no tears came from them.

“We need to go.”

“To the tower?”

“No, we must go further into the cave. We must get him to talk.”

The old man began to walk. He walked with his right leg and let his left leg be dragged

along with him. He stopped and turned to Dulinil and frowned. His mouth was still shaking.

His eyes were fogged. He turned again and walked along the corridor.

He lifted his right arm and thrust it into the air. He created a fist with his hand and moved

his arm up and down. His knuckles scraped against the wall when he walked but his stare did

not change.

Harúsyr followed and Dulinil stayed very still.

“Must we follow him? Can we not move up into the city?”

“I fear it is not safe in the city. If we were to go to the captains of the city and tell them

about the false dreams I don’t know what will happen to us.”

Aelenthir turned. He had a tear in his eye. He lifted his right arm again and Dulinil turned to

avoid looking at it. Dulinil then turned back to Harúsyr who was staring at the old man. He

stopped walking. He pressed his feet firmly into the ground. He scratched his head and closed

his eyes.

“Dulinil.”

He pulled his eyes open and looked at her.

“Something has happened here. Aelenthir has seen something, and he has told the captains

of the city of it. There is a threat to Ilãrys that people have not yet been able to see. That

threat has turned Aelenthir into this, and people have been turned blind by these false

dreams.”

“Why is there a threat?”

“I don’t know. Let’s just go further into the cave. We need to get away from here.”

Dulinil pressed two fingers against the side of her wrist and felt the blood flow through her

veins. Red and blue veins would be the only ones she knew. She continued through the cave

and let the light disperse into her eyes in ways that she never thought it would. She ran her

finger against the side of the cave wall, and wondered why she had never brought herself to

think about the way that the world interacts with itself complexly. She wondered why nothing

fell apart. She stopped thinking, and told herself she would never do it again.

There was a small dot of light at the end of the passage that had now grown into an opening.

She followed Harúsyr through who followed Aelenthir through. He quivered and radiated

nothingness throughout the passage. Everything felt like it wasn’t, and Dulinil didn’t want to

run her fingers along the wall anymore. There was no sound but the sound of the glowing

door opening.

“What have you met with?”

Aelenthir turned and it felt as thought every part of Dulinil was screaming, like she had run

her fingernails so hard over the sides of the walls that her fingers had been scraped away and

made into dust that covered the floor. She almost felt sad, and the hairs on her arms stood on

end.

“Dulinil, what has happened to his mind?”

“I don’t know.”

“The inside thing.”

As he opened his mouth his skin peeled and cracked and his eyes turned in their sockets

when he looked and his fingers flickered between intense shaking and absolute stillness.

Between schizophrenic sprees of laughter he would sigh and tears will spill from his eyes.

“There is a thing on the inside, and it is now out. And there is a thing living inside all of us,

and the world will go blind in three days.”

Dulinil felt a shiver down her spine. She looked around and she expected someone to be

there. Aelenthir turned to her. She began to walk down the passage and couldn’t stop. Her

feet slid across the floor.

“You are not the one.”

Dulinil half-closed her eyes. On the top there was blackness where her vision once was, and

on the bottom she could see the faint image of someone standing in the end of the passage.

She moved towards the figure and her arms slowly rose. She opened her mouth slightly.

“Dulinil, where are you going?”

The sounds began to change, and the walls of the cave pressed in against her and then

stretched further away. The places in the far end of the passage began to twist, and she felt her

entire world move beneath her feet. She tried to turn her head, but her eyes remained fixed in

the position at the end of the passage. She thought she could hear Aelenthir speak, but there

was nothing, and she kept wandering on down the passage, all the while fixated on

something.

There was a wisp of smoke. Things were moving from the floor, and drifting upwards, and

there was a ghost-like figure, now placed in the middle of the shifting passage. The green on

the walls turned to grey, and all the colours became muted. There was something there. There

was something that she had lost, and Dulinil felt like she had found it. There was something

there. There was something there.

She kept walking. She felt as if her feet weren’t even pressing against the floor anymore.

She felt like she was floating. But she kept moving. Her arms were detached from her body

for a second, but then found their way back in somehow. She used to be able to hear the

distant sound of music, but it had gone now, and she kept going.

She peeled the lids of her eyes back, and her head jerked back in response. There was

something there, and there was something on the inside too. And suddenly she felt alone,

apart from the presence of something in front of her, and she kept going. Light poured in, but

there was a patch of darkness in front of her where she could see something, and around it

everything began to shift and change, and it interacted with its environment. And everything

became strange, and her teeth turned to yellow as she moved further towards it.

She bent her head back over, looking straight forward, through this thing that was in front of

her, to the end of the passage. The thing seemed to materialize, and there was something in

front of her wrapped in cloth and weirdness, and she felt like she wanted to laugh for some

reason, and she kept going, and she reached out her arm as if to feel the thing but it felt as if it

wasn’t really there at all.

And the whole time the chemicals inside her were changing and she couldn’t control herself,

and she didn’t know what was happening, but didn’t care. And she kept laughing.

And then when it all dispersed she was left alone in the dark corridor, and the light from

behind her where Aelenthir once stood with that old man who she had forgotten the name of

disappeared. There was something in front of her. She closed her eyes and could hear the

gentle sound of breathing. She opened her eyes now, and twisted her body round and the

world had miraculously stabilized, and she was looking into the eyes of Memeira, who was

grey and made of chalk, and she could see through him while he floated there in a ghostly

state.

“Memeira!”

She shouted and the air shimmered, and then squeezed the words together.

His arm was outstretched and he was holding something. It was black and around it there

was dense smoke, and the air was disturbed, and she was disturbed. Memeira’s eyes were

tired, and there was nothing in them, and the top of his head was carved off, and there was

energy flowing from his ethereal brain.

“You were gone for so long, and now you are here, and I can feel something changing, and I

feel so scared.”

There was a faint humming sound.

Memeira looked down at his hand, where the darkness was, and his eyes became strange,

and he opened his mouth, and there was nothing in there. Dulinil stepped towards him, and

stretched out her hand and tried to place it in his, but there was nothing that she could hold,

and her hand drifted through him, and she looked into his eyes and was sad.

“What is it?”

Memeira looked angry. He began to move again, and there were pieces of something that

were falling from the roof. Dulinil took a step back, but Memeira remained with his hand

outstretched. He was begging for Dulinil to take this thing from him, but she couldn’t. She

was scared, and wanted to run but the walls were moving in on the two, and she couldn’t

understand anything, and her brain began to hurt and everything was so dark, and she

couldn’t feel anything. Memeira began to cry.

He looked up at Dulinil, as if pleading for her to take the thing away from him. She didn’t

know why. It wasn’t hurting him. A dark chord played in Dulinil’s heart, and she looked at

Memeira with disgust, peering through his dusty exoskeleton. There was nothing in his heart,

and ink was leaking from the outside. Dulinil turned, and began to walk away to where

Aelenthir was, and that old man, who she had forgotten the name of. Dulinil vanished.

“He is still alive, and we need to find him, because he has the inside thing in his hand.”

The old man began to cry and everything became so unbeautiful. Dulinil ran. She had

nothing better to do.

Chapter Nine – The Battle over the Ice?

Isephor stepped. The ice under his feet crunched. He looked up and around and all the light

that went past went into his eyes and he could see the world. Everything was white. The sky

hurt his eyes, and his feet felt sore from walking. He tried to remember where he was going

but couldn’t. He tried to remember anything at all but the neurons in his brain were slow. So

he decided to go on anyway, and he had been thinking, and he had thought that maybe it

would get to the point where he would die, and that would be the end of the story.

He closed his eyes and his sense of hearing was magnified. He could hear the wind, and his

breathing, and could almost feel the blood flowing through his red and blue veins. He felt his

slow heart beat, and when he pressed two fingers against his wrist he could feel a gentle

pushing against his fingertips.

He opened his eyes and looked over at Memeira, who was that one raggedy boy who was

following him and he couldn’t remember why. The ground was hard. Memeira stumbled over

the rocks. Without lifting his feet he let them slide over the ice. He was looking towards the

ground, and the bone that ended his stretch of back protruded his skin, and Isephor got older

and could feel his bones creak.

“Memeira.”

He turned.

“Yes.”

“Do you want to sleep?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll sleep when we get to that small ring of hills over there, in the distance.”

Memeira stayed still.

“Where?”

Isephor walked forward to where Memeira was standing. He placed his arm on Memeira’s

shoulder. He was shaking. Isephor looked down at him.

“Are you feeling sad?”

“Yes.”

Isephor looked up. The sky was darkening and there was green light. He breathed out and

watched as the coldness dispersed through the air. He urged Memeira along, and closed his

eyes to hear the crunching of the ice beneath their feet. The world was stretched out, and

Isephor felt as though his eyes were filled more than they could have ever been. He flicked

between words in his head to try and forget about the cold. He brushed the ice from his green

cloak and walked up with Memeira by his side.

Isephor looked over the stretch of land in front of him. The horizon was impossibly long. It

was almost as if it never curved. It stretched and stretched and when it got too far it burst into

the whiteness in the mist. The skies were full of clouds, with the occasional opening where

the green light would stretch through and cascade to the ground. The earth was flat, and the

ring of hills in the distance got closer and closer.

Dulinil looked up at Isephor.

“Do you think in words or pictures?”

Isephor kept his eyes on the ring of hills.

“I think in words. A conversation.”

“With yourself?”

“No.”

“Who do you speak to then? Is it someone you know?”

“Not really. I can hear my own voice, which has been going on for long enough for me to

hate it. But there’s another voice in there.”

“What’s it saying?”

Isephor stopped.

“Nothing. It’s just there.”

“It’s just there?”

“Yeah. It doesn’t make any words. It’s just kind of sitting there inside my head without me

wanting it there.”

“Well, is it bad?”

Isephor closed his eyes and scratched his eyebrows before brushing them back into shape.

He leaned backwards and the bones in his spine cracked back into space.

“I don’t know. Thinking about it only makes it worse.”

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

“No. It’s fine. It will always be there. There’s just kind of a thing inside of me. It’s kind of

inside of everyone, even you. It will become louder eventually and you will be able to hear

it.”

“How long?”

“A few years. Maybe. Maybe then you’ll be able to hear it and know the same that I do.”

“Oh.”

A gust of wind swept down and brushed Isephor’s hair against his face. He wiped it away

and carried on. The world scraped past them and Memeira walked a few paces behind

Isephor. The sky lowered and the stars brightened and the clouds became dark and shadow

was being cast over the world. Then, the sun burst through the clouds in the distance and

silhouetted the ring of hills, which were drawing closer, and the horizon was black in

comparison to the blinding sun. The shadows stretched behind Isephor and Memeira and

blackness was cast onto the ground where they had already walked.

The sun became red, and the orange fought with the green. Then the orange dispersed and

the green spread through the colour and the ink of the sky was diluted. The blackness was all

around, and spots of colour sprouted from the ground. Plants grew around them in Isephor’s

head. He stepped, wrapped his cloak around his thumb and widened his eyes to take in the

last of the light of the world.

The clouds simmered and flew through the sky, heading away from them. They were sucked

into the sun, and cast across the ground as mist. The last of the orange disappeared and the

green filled up the sky, stuck behind the now black mist.

“It’s night now, so we’re going to be quick to get to that ring of hills over there.”

Isephor turned to see where he had just come from. He yawned and his breath came out as

smoke, which went with the wind to his left.

“It’s night and I can’t remember where we were going,” he said and he stopped and took in

everything around him. “And I can’t remember why anyone ever does anything.”

Isephor clung onto his shivering hand to stop it. Everything was dark and he felt exposed

while he stood in the Ice Plains. Memeira looked up at Isephor.

“The sun! Did you see the way that it went down?”

Isephor looked back down at Memeira and shook his head.

“Didn’t you see the way that the light bounced off the clouds?”

“No.”

Memeira looked up at the sky. There were strips of light that glowed. They were going, and

Memeira thought he was looking at something beyond, and not just the pieces of dust that

floated and dissipated the further he looked up. And nothing was as it seemed. He could hear

noises.

Everything else slipped away and Memeira faded into his own world as he wandered on. He

wasn’t certain of where he was going, but he didn’t need to be. And he kept walking, and let

his fading shadow follow on behind him. He turned around, and it had gone, and he was alone

in the darkness with the memory of that man who he had been following.

The ring of hills in the distance was drawing closer now, and every step he took it magnified

while everything else slid away.

There was no hum. The sky was grainy. Memeira looked on, and lying on the ground a few

steps away from his was a box that was lodged in the ground underneath some ice.

He walked towards it, slowing down his steps for some reason. He lost all thought and for

the first time in his life he couldn’t hear the constant background stream of noise and

annoyance that rattled around inside of his head. He looked at the box for a moment, then

crouched down in order to pull it out of the ice it was lodged in. Fueled by intrigue he clasped

the box and tugged on it and then looked at it. There were things on it.

There were things on it and he didn’t know what they were. He squinted and tried to see

them in perfect clarity. He looked up and there was a dot in the distance and he thought that

everything was beautiful again and the world had now slipped out of place and the

strangeness was there for the second time.

The gentle sound of the wind was there, and Memeira felt the presence of a curious child

who had found something in the woods press against his skull and he laughed, but couldn’t

work out why everything felt so magical. The wind swirled around him, and there was a circle

of darkness and there was nothing around him. There was only him and this thing that was

stuck in the ice and he was so confused and he had his hands on the thing that was stuck in

the ice and he wanted to pull the thing out of the ice that it was stuck in but then he didn’t

because he was too self-conscious.

And then when it stopped making sense it pulled it out and the world became what it used to

be and he looked onwards to the ring of hills in the distance, and he didn’t feel so alone

anymore, and Isephor was in front of him walking along and he put the box in his coat and

didn’t look at it again.

He tried to skip along to where that strange man was but his feet were too tired and he could

hardly even lift his legs. His neck was sore, as if he had been sitting in a chair pouring over

something for his entire life. He hadn’t.

He wanted to close his eyes and let his tiredness take him. Instead he looked up to the sky,

wondering what he would be seeing if he slept. The holes in the ceiling poured out light and it

hit the floor making dots where the stars should have been above and he got the feeling that

nothing was supposed to be as it was.

Memeira was walking, but he wanted to sit down. Isephor slowed, and Memeira managed to

come closer to him.

“Who are you, Isephor?”

“Who am I?”

“Where did you come from and why did you decide to follow me?”

“Because you were there and you were small and alone. So I thought I had to take you with

me and then maybe you wouldn’t die.”

“Where did I come from?”

“I don’t know.”

“But I don’t remember, and now all there is now is this strange man who I have to follow,

and I don’t understand anything or why I’m even here.”

“Strange man?”

There was a twang in the chemistry of Memeira’s brain and chemicals started to pour from

the outside, in.

“I suppose you’re right. I suppose I am just a strange man.”

“But who are you?”

“A strange man!”

Isephor shook his head and laughed, and then kept walking. Memeira followed along.

“What was that thing that you found in the snow?”

“What thing?”

“The box.”

“I didn’t find anything in the snow.”

“Oh. You don’t remember?”

“No.”

Isephor nodded.

Memeira turned, and the world pushed away from him. He looked down at his hands, they

were of a shade of white that he had never seen before, and his veins were pulsing and

pushing his skin upwards from his wrists. He looked around, and everywhere that he saw that

there were things and thought that they were good they wandered away from him, and

everywhere he walked he didn’t feel like he was moving and he felt alone with this strange

man in the middle of a vast plain and his thoughts were turning from rational to abstract and

he couldn’t be sure where he was going.

North. To finish the ritual, and then the world will be fine and I will be fine, and everything

will be fine.

He had to constantly remind himself, that way he could feel like there was some kind of

point to what he was doing.

But he couldn’t even define himself, and he couldn’t even know whether he was finding

point, or forging it.

North. And then everything will be over, and I will be able to leave with Dulinil, and

everything will be fine, and I will be fine. I want to be fine.

The mirrors on the back of his eyes will be all that he’ll ever see.

It was all so sad, that she was gone, and he was alone again, but it didn’t matter, because

everything would rearrange itself one day. And little parts of his mind were still opening, and

they were getting worse, but it was okay, because there was point, even if it was handcrafted

by that strange man who was wandering along on the ice. And the times were so sad. And

Memeira thought that the world was so lonely and life was so unfulfilling but it was in such a

beautiful way that he wouldn’t want anyone to take it away from him. And he remembered

that he shouldn’t be having those thoughts, and even though he stood little more than five feet

above the ground, he couldn’t help but feel that no one else in the world felt the same way as

him, and no one else in the world would ever know him without guessing where every hair on

his body was, and where every chemical in his brain dripped, and where every thought on the

inside of his head went.

The world was dark now, and the wind swept across the plains, and there was grass

emerging from underneath the ground in the place that they walked. The slopes increased, and

the earth became weird and unfamiliar. The ring of hills in the distance no longer seemed like

an impossibility. They hurried. Isephor was becoming restless, and kept looking back to

Memeira to see if he was okay. Memeira was okay. He kept telling himself that.

The earth began to form itself in ways that Memeria had never seen before, constructing

hills and shapes in the sky, and places where Memeira could trip and hurt himself, and places

where things weren’t just beautiful, but there for no reason apart from to satisfy the pattern

that nature had set in motion.

They stepped in, and Memeira turned to his right, expecting to see a ghost following them

along, looking in from the side and sliding across, watching them glide into the ring of hills.

There was no on. The two went on, alone.

“Wait here.”

Isephor went on and Memeira was left to endure the cold. He pulled up his cloak, and all the

fur that surrounded his body and it now covered his mouth. With every breath the air around

his mouth froze to him. Now his eyelids were frozen open, and he tried to shut them, but they

were stiff in the coldness.

He felt his mind wander off into the air. It was probably going diagonally. Memeira would

not be proud of himself if his mind wandered anywhere but diagonally. He stopped and

breathed again, and then breathed again, and watched the world and for some reason was

happy, and he didn’t know why, because everything should be so sad to him. It was beautiful

instead.

The pretty things in the world arranged themselves inside his head again, and he

remembered why he had kept himself alive, instead of letting himself drift into the mist along

with the other eleven who hadn’t escaped the ritual.

The ritual.

He remembered it clearly now. And for a moment, he was back there in the silence of it all,

and he looked down at that misty shore again, and he saw Isephor looking back at him.

Memeira felt something sharp against his back. He moved his hand to feel it, and attached to

his spine was a box, with things on it that Memeira was never able to imagine before.

He tried to tug, and for a moment remembered the curiosity of a little child wandering

through the woods to find something magical. He tugged, and in one swift movement he had

pulled all his bones free, and felt his body collapse into each part.

Then he blinked and everything was back to normal.

And in his hand he was holding the small black box, and it was warm, and there was a hum

coming from it. The box had dials on it, and there was a long iron strip coming from the top

right corner. Or, at least he thought it was the top right corner, but amidst all of his confusion

he couldn’t even tell if the sky was up or down.

He hit the small black box, and the hum stopped.

The sky is up. He remembered now.

And Isephor came back and he slipped the small black box back into his spine where it

belonged and followed along with Isephor and they entered the ring of hills and the hum came

back.

There was a small orange dot in the distant and it flickered and it came in and out of

Memiera’s memory.

And he followed along behind the man with the long green swirling cloak and he was tired

and he was making steps across the ice. The hills were making shadows from the darkness up

above them and all around the wind swept tiny pieces of white, but he could hardly see them.

And all the world felt as if he was looking through a hole in the wall.

They went further and further and looked for a single place where they could put down their

head and sleep. But there was no where. The further they went the darker the sky became and

a roof of something began to creep over them. Memeira turned but the exit to the ring of hills

wasn’t there and the floor opened up into a large circle and Isephor turned to him and sighed

and laid down his things and sat down and Memeira went on instead.

There were shimmers inside his head of past procedures and everywhere he looked he was

reminded that his sister was dead. He remembered the grave, though. And the strangeness

stirred again and he remembered the orange dot in the distance. It was gone now. And he kept

walking. Always.

A tune was coalesced with his memories and he felt like there was no remedy to how he felt.

He would have to keep going forever, and then he would find what he was looking for.

And he would have to go up north and go back to the place that he was at the start of his

memory and he would have to die. And his sister was dead.

And for a second he felt like everything instead of himself, like he was forgetting that he

wasn’t all that he controlled, but everything was all as one, and he was the same as Isephor,

and Isephor was the same as him.

He turned and that strange man was behind him and he was sitting on a sack of his things

with his head in his hands and he shuddered. Memeira breathed in and out and rolled his

hands up into fists and beyond. He let everything unravel and he was himself again and he

went back to that strangest man who was sitting on a sack of his things and he didn’t know

what to say. He placed his hands on his shoulders but felt no warmth and there was instead a

chill.

His eyes found their way up to the roof of sky above their heads and Memeira felt a pillow

being pressed into his skull. He snorted and the water on the inside of his nose turned to crust

and everything froze. There was dust covering both of them, but the small pieces of white

would not touch them, nor would the wind. They were locked in the center of the hills with no

small orange dot, or hum, and everything was frozen in time.

Memeira could see Isephor slowly close his eyes and the lines on his face were magnified.

“We will all have to die one day.”

The breezes moved away and the circle around the two expanded and the roof of the sky

collapsed and light danced down and cast shadows on the pieces of white and everything

turned to grey for a while.

“And there is a thing, and it’s on the inside, and that’s all that I’ll ever have to think about

and that’s all that I’ll ever think about. In the times when I want to forget about what’s real

and what isn’t all I have to remember is what’s inside of me. And one day I’ll peel my self

apart and I’ll be able to know what that is.”

“Why are you speaking about this?”

“There is no point, so do what you want.”

“I want to find my sister.”

“You’re sister is dead. You’ll never find her.”

Memeira let his head tilt and he sighed and he watched as shapes danced in his eyes and

everything was so much bigger than it should have been and he was tired and forgot about

everything. He remembered that once the strange man had been talking about how there were

things and those things were there because he hadn’t completed the ritual. He forgot about

them. He wasn’t going to die.

“I want to find my sister, and that’s all that I want this to be now. There shouldn’t be

anything else.”

“No.”

The wind howled and all around things were moving and the ground shuddered and

Memeira saw the moon emerge in the sky and it was grey and the world was grey and when

he looked to the strange man everything turned grey. Isephor wrapped his fingers around

Memeira’s wrist and spoke only with his eyes and it became calm.

Memeira pulled away and grabbed the part of his wrist that Isephor had touched. The strange

man opened his mouth and shuddered and Memeira turned and he began to walk again.

Again! And now each time the ice crunched beneath his feet he would grit his teeth and let his

mind wander and hear songs in his head even when he didn’t know why they were there. And

there was a small orange dot at the end of it all and a humming sound. Memeira walked.

And up above things flew over and the pieces of white that were scattered around in the sky

became parts of Memeira’s eyes and they turned to a darker shade of grey. His hands were

white and his cloak was green and he was walking. The world was twanging and there was

life somehow bursting from underneath the ice and it was all shining, but grey. Memeira

whistled and walked and he pushed his self into the deepest part of the ring of hills and

Isephor wasn’t behind him anymore, or near to him, and he was alone again.

And as he walked it all became darker until he was immersed in nothing but himself, and

even that began to fade away.

And there was a line of dead bodies in front of him.

And he wasn’t scared or upset and he didn’t panic. For some reason he laughed!

The grey that wrapped himself around his body slid out of him and filled the dead bodies on

the ground and the more he looked at them the weirder it all became. The pieces of white

filled up the faces and there was that same grey all around.

Memeira bent down, and felt the faces of those who had died there and he could feel the

chill from their lifeless bodies run through his veins. They were locked there and their faces

were the same as when they had died and Memeira was not afraid.

There were people bent into peculiar shapes. Pressed down on them was the sky and then

there was the realization that all of these people were once alive and then there was the

realization that all these people were now dead. And Memeira was afraid.

He let his world come free and the knot went loose and he looked all around. The sight felt

like the scratching of strings and when he looked into the faces of all those dead people he felt

something tapping against the back of his skull and he turned but there was nothing there.

Isephor emerged and looked all around too. He went from being agitated to confused, and he

knelt down and looked up. Memeira looked where he looked, and ahead of them there wasn’t

a line of ten dead people, but a line of ten thousand, until they stretched so far that they

disappeared into the mist and fell of the edge of the places that the two could imagine.

They were ghostly and their arms were reaching into the air and their hands were still

clasping at something and their faces were in horror and their mouths were wide open. And

Memeira left Isephor to kneel and think while he went and walked along the line that was in

darkness.

And when he walked every face that he saw conjured a new memory in him and all of a

sudden there was the feeling of guilt and grief and sorrow and despair, and he felt sad again,

and knew why. And he knew that everything had an end, but here that end had already come.

He scanned his eyes upward and followed the faces that lined the ice below them. And all

sunk into the melting snow but one. One who was not horrified and whose mouth was not

open and whose arms were not up in the air and whose hands were not clasping at something

unimaginable.

And she was there and she was lying on top of the snow and she was smiling. And

everything was happy for a second.

And Memeira ran over and he let his arms swing open and there in front of him was the

ghost of Dulinil, and she was holding something.

When he came over the ghost rose and her feet slid across the ice and feel into place and she

dropped and her feet were pulled onto the ice and they stayed there, not slipping; not swaying.

She was fine. She was smiling. And Memeira looked through her ghostly teeth and put his

arms out to embrace her and stopped. His arms went right through her.

Everything became chilling. And Isephor disappeared again. And there was a hum and when

Memeira looked off into the distance there was an orange dot and a blue dot. In the back of

his head the chemicals rearranged again. There was that same sound. And metal was being

grinded against metal in his mind and everything was crying out.

Dulinil raised her arm further. Memeira looked back down to her hand. He placed his hand

on something and twisted himself and tried to feel what was there but couldn’t. So he looked

because that was all he could do. In her hand was a small black stone and there was a dark

mist that came from it and went out and went back in again. Dulinil was urging Memeira to

take it but whenever he tried his hand would slip through her’s. He shook his head and tried

to make his sister realize that he couldn’t take what she wanted him to have.

Her eyes went a darker shade of grey and she pierced into his and she was looking at the

back of his skull.

“I’m sorry. I love you! I love you!”

Dulinil turned her head and tilted it down and opened her mouth slightly and pushed her

hand with the dark stone back down to the floor and Memeira took one last look at it,

admiring the way that it didn’t make sense.

He looked at the way the thing was on the end of a string, which went through Dulinil’s

half-real body and went into her heart. The thing wasn’t on the outside. It was on the inside,

and it was what Memeira had been looking for, he just hadn’t realized it.

So he placed his hand in Memeira’s again and felt something cold like he never had before.

He pulled away, then, carefully he laid his fingers over the stone. He wrapped his being

around it and it watched at it formed crystals over his hand and stuck to it. He looked into

Dulinil’s eyes in despair and she laughed and the air around them shimmered and that strange

man wasn’t there anymore and Memeira couldn’t remember what he was called.

He closed his eyes and saw the pieces of white that were attached. He opened them and she

was gone.

There was a wisp and one by one the bodies that were on the ground came back up again.

The dots on the horizon disappeared. First orange, then blue. The strange man was there

again. Memeira still felt the cold cover his hand. He looked down and where the stone once

was there was now just the lines on his hand and the small bumps that covered his fingers.

The skin on his wrist became loose again and he opened his mouth and looked at the strange

man and wondered what had happened and everything became grey and hazy and the mist

cleared and he was standing in the middle of a ring of hills.

“I saw her.”

Isephor looked at the floor and kicked the snow where he stood. The lines on his face were

there and they had grown deeper.

“I saw Dulinil.”

And the wind blew.

“I saw Dulinil! She was holding something and at the same time as it being on the outside, it

was also inside of her. And it was dark and looked like a stone, and when I held it I felt

nothing. And when I held it again I felt everything. And she was there, but now she’s gone.”

Isephor looked up at Memeira in disbelief. His hands wavered for a few seconds as they

moved about his body. He stopped and shook his head.

“I don’t think so.”

“She was there.”

“She was never there.”

“She’s alive.”

Isephor walked further towards Memeira. He looked up at him and into the pits of his eyes

and into the back of his skull and everything that stirred in there was sinister and there were

so many years.

“The world has grown so strange. I used to admire the way that nothing made sense. It’s

different now.”

“She’s alive, and I need to go and find her!”

“You’ve been tricked. There is something that wants you to find her.”

“She is still alive, and we need to find her, because she has the inside thing in her hand.”

The strange man began to cry and everything became so unbeautiful. Memeira ran. He had

nothing better to do.

Chapter Ten – His Beautiful Mind

The other strange man slithered down from the north. His spine was twisted and cracked

and his feet hurt and he was looking for that girl who had run away. The wind was howling

but not in the sky; in the back of his skull. There was a stone dislodged in his heart.

And he listened to his soul too soon and breathed in freely and told himself he barely needed

her. But he kept going anyway. He was walking over the bridge and when his feet collided

with the bark that extended from string to string his heart fell down but left him standing

there.

Foot in front of foot and all the while he was looking around and the world was majestic. In

front of him was the white of the side of the mountain and to his right was the red around the

sun. In the middle was nothing. He felt his own body being silhouetted against the pieces in

the air. It was all being wisped about from side to side and flies dotted through the sky in

circles.

He thought about the spots on his hand and he thought about the spots on Dulinil’s and his

heart went down further still. Once looking forward into the tunnel, back again, and then she

was gone and he felt sad because of it.

The sun was a strobe light and all around shards barely visible were scattered. Aelenthir felt

his feet drift through the wood. Behind him was that other strange man. The one strange man

was black and blue, and that other strange man was red. Only red.

But still, when he heard music nothing was there but the ring in-between the marrow.

He drifted in another world but when he heard things he couldn’t feel like he was floating.

He was grounded in reality and nothing changed when he wanted it to. And when he felt

things, he knew that the chemicals were moving, and when he squinted he could change it

from one to the other until all that was left was a thick black sludge that seethed through the

cracks.

He was walking! But every time he put his feet down he was pulled under and every time he

breathed the air was amazing! And he jittered from laughter to sadness and they overlapped

and he had a headache and he admired the way that nothing made sense to him anymore.

Slowly, being poured through a hole in the back of his head were all the chemicals that

would ever make him him, in infinite amounts.

All the ways of abstraction were working inside his head now, and it felt better, like he had

that beautiful mind that he had always wanted. He was distracted for a little bit but was all

better now and he turned to his right and the red of the sun turned to grey and back again all

the time. He felt his body drift out of itself and the hairs on his arms stood on end and he

didn’t care that Dulinil had gone for a second.

That strange man went ahead of him and he watched as his feet danced patterns across the

floor. But each time a foot was pressed to the ground it was still beautiful. His mind was

changing so fast, but he knew now to leave it the way it was, drifting further downwards

within the yellow light.

The strange man was ahead, and steady on the bridge, but paranoid. Aelenthir could feel his

mind go back and from forth between them. He couldn’t understand why his consciousness

had to stay within him, and not drift away.

He turned and the hum disappeared and the dot on the horizon became the sun and he

breathed out and it wasn’t as spectacular as it was before. He centered his body on the bridge

and began to contract his muscles in order to walk. He remembered everything. Something

slithered through holes in the pink inside of his brain. He had forgotten that people die, and

that he would one day have to die too. And it comes rushing back, and he feels sad.

“Harúsyr!”

The other strange man turned and looked him in the eyes and then turned his gaze away and

continued to walk over the rope bridge. At the other end, sometimes buried in the mist, was a

column of broken rock and debris.

Aelenthir went on. His feet were cold, and it hurt when he pressed them into the wood of the

bridge. There was a sharp pain from his chest, but he ignored it.

He looked down. Between the planks of wood there was white. Sometimes he could see

through it and beneath it was blue. He missed the blue of the sky. It had all turned to dark.

When he thought of the white it wasn’t the same as it used to be, like it had been mixed

something else.

His headache had gone, and his eyes un-crossed themselves and he turned petulant. And he

asked himself why things, they always had to slide away.

Each sound annoyed him, and there was still that sharp pain coming from underneath his

clothes and resting on his chest. So, anxious, he pulled away the red of the cloth around him,

and underneath there was a dark grey dot, and it was birthing something from the surface of

his skin. He pulled the red back over, but the grey was seeping through his clothes, and the

colours turned to pink, then to brown, and then to nothing at all. He waited, and watched as

the other strange man drifted into the mist ahead of him. He looked around, and was hit in the

face with vertigo and his eyes drifted away from him and looked down and he almost

collapsed to the wood of the bridge, splintering his hands on the rope.

And the wind picked up and the redness on his cloak was blown off and the grey dot was

there again. It had found its way through and the white swept it upwards. His cloak became a

drawing and he wretched in pain but the thing on his stomach was still beautiful.

He smiled and looked down at it as this great arm of wonder stretched out of his body,

upwards, through the air. It was grey, and he could see through it, and it went out and back in

again, and went from being a dot to every animal every second.

He tried to clasp it, but it wasn’t there. Entangled in this thing were all his memories, and

they drifted in and out in time to a song that was playing in his head. He wanted to sleep, but,

mesmerized by this thing that had birthed itself from the plain of his skin, he couldn’t.

It had come from the inside out.

The light hit it, and there were pieces of light around something metaphysical. When

Aelenthir blinked, it took the thing a while to piece itself back together. It didn’t manifest

itself in this world. It seeped through cracks in his eyelids and the light tried to clasp it but

couldn’t. And the bridge wavered.

Aelenthir kept walking, all the while keeping this thing growing from him. And when it was

done being every animal it became every flower and all the memories of every smell, and

now a stalk was sprouting from a grey dot on Aelenthir’s chest.

He lifted his arm, and let the grey on his cloak slide of until there was no colour at all, and

there was no lack of colour at all, and there was no lack of light at all; his arm existed.

Streams and branches came from the thing on the inside and made their way through his arm,

and resting in the palm of his hand was a stone, and he tried to throw it in the air to catch it

again, but it never left his skin. There was no gap between the coldness of the stone and his

hand.

The black veins were drawn on the side of his arm, and his skin turned grey, and it was

transparent. The thing wriggled from underneath and shared his blood. He cried but the thing

on the inside carried on in spite of it. It was feeding on the inside of his body. It sucked

through the marrow of the bones and ate up the tissue from under his skin until his entire

body was hollow and there was nothing but his consciousness and this thing that had been on

the inside.

He could still walk, and look, and think. He went on, even though his body had turned from

what it was supposed to be, to a stone that was hung up in the air, and there were veins

coming from it. The blackness from it spread around and trees grew themselves from within

it.

He knew what the thing was. It was the inside thing. And it was trying to find a way from

the inside, out.

And as soon as he realized, the light from the thing dispersed, and the blackness that was

coming from his arm and from his chest simmered and disappeared, and he was left there,

normal.

He arched his back over and covered his face with his hands and felt the lines on his face.

He pressed his fingers into a bit of fat that was stretched over from the bottom of his eye and

it felt infinitely detailed. He looked around because he wanted to take in the world. The

colours that once lapsed over ever surface and found their way into every crack was not the

same anymore. It was like he had lived his whole life without realizing that this was the way

it should have always been. And he coughed and a little ball of darkness fell out onto his hand

and disappeared. He ignored it.

He separated his lips, and felt as the skin from each of them slide. His mouth came free. He

felt his new tongue press against his teeth for the first time.

“Harúsyr.”

He turned and looked Aelenthir in the eyes, and his gaze pierced into the back of his head.

“There was a thing that was living on the inside of me, but it’s gone now. It’s like it never

even existed.”

And even though Harúsyr’s stare already pierced straight to the back of Aelenthir’s skull and

was pressing against it, it seemed to go further and penetrate through the bone. He stepped

forward, and wobbled on the bridge and his feet separated slightly and he grabbed onto the

rope.

He breathed out.

“It seemed to me like you were sleep-walking this entire time! But you are okay now?”

“Yes.”

“Does it feel like you just woke up and now you are here?”

“I don’t know. But there was a thing that was living on the inside of me, but’s gone now. I

can’t remember what it was called.”

The light over Harúsyr’s eyes changed, and the detail multiplied.

The world was bathed in trippiness. He came across somehow all the memories of when he

was Miraduel, and when Miraduel was him.

Chapter Ten And a Half – Radio Soul and Misery Head

Isephor breathed in and the air seeped through his nostrils. His hands felt wet and he

couldn’t feel his feet. There was ice and there were trees and the green on them was faded.

Holes were appearing in the leaves and the sky was dark and moving over him. He could only

see a few feet in front of him. It was night.

When he moved past the trees they rotated around him and the moon was up above. Small

streams of light poured through the holes in the leaves and the ground was turning from grey

to silver.

His pace was fast and he turned his head every few seconds to see if anything was following

him. He thought that something was following him. There was something etched into his

skull that told him that something was following him. So he tried to run, but his feet were too

cold and his legs were too tired. And he had to find Memeira.

The leaves of the trees became branches and they pressed against him and then were driven

into his skin. And for a second he saw the pale face of a person made of nothing standing in

front of him.

He turned and tried to go another way, but everywhere the branches of these dead trees were

closing in on him.

So he walked away.

As he walked he tried to imagine the sky moving up above him, but it remained completely

still. He could only hear the sound of the leaves rustling in the wind, then that sound died. He

entered part of the plain where the ground was hard and covered with ice and the trees were

black.

He saw a few trees in the distance. He walked towards them. As he got closer the colour on

the leaves faded, then they fell off. As he went further, and left them behind him, the leaves

sunk into the ground and the tree grew new ones in his place. The pale-faced shadow was still

there in the distance. It remained completely motionless.

Isephor looked around him and the plains were black. He tried to look for a small orange dot

in the distance to remind himself that all the time he was dreaming, but either the mist was

too thick or it just wasn’t there.

He clenched his hand together into a fist and pulled his sleeve over it to try and shelter the

skin from the cold.

And he was afraid.

Every step that he took he heard the shadow creep closer to him.

But he couldn’t look.

The sound of the leaves had gone. The trees were far behind him now, and buried in the

mist.

He could hear the shadow breathing.

So he turned and faced it, and it breathed out, and then went again.

Isephor felt a chill through his veins, and his heart fell thirty feet under the ice. He blinked

and breathed. He pushed aside the air and began to walk, faster now.

Up above things began to muster. The sky unfroze itself and began to move against Isephor.

The wind picked up and began to spread his cloak across himself. He dragged himself along.

He felt his neck being stretched and pushed back. He couldn’t turn around now. He felt like

the shadow was coming closer to him every second.

He went on a bit and the wind pushed the grey mist aside and in front of him was a wall of

dead trees and an opening emerged and he went into it, pushing aside the branches. The roof

of the trees became thick and mist was hissing in through holes in the trees. He could see

leaves in the distance, but just as they had before, they died when he approached them.

He panicked and clawed his way through the branches, cutting himself on spikes. Blood

formed patterns over his clothes and on his skin, but he kept going.

He turned and the thing was following him. It’s pale face shifted between pink and grey and

white. It was only a circle.

Parts of his clothes got caught up on the trees and tore off. He turned as parts of his green

shirt fell apart and were left there, hanging on a branch.

The ground was flat, and he followed a path until it split into two. He turned and the light

from the pale face of the shadow wasn’t there anymore. He turned right and carried on. The

path was straight, and the trees hung over him in symmetry. As he went on the end of the path

became darker and darker, and the trees loomed further over him. When he looked up, he

could see parts of the grey sky that was pushing itself through the roof of the trees.

He went on and couldn’t tell how long he had been going for. As he went on through the

path, everywhere he had a horrific feeling that he had been there before. Every tree was the

same, and the trees constantly felt like they were moving closer to him, but they stayed utterly

still.

And he had to find Memeira.

He turned and the shadow was drifting across the floor closer to him. He looked to his right

and saw a part of the trees that was different. He cast himself against the wall of the tree-

tunnel and when he blinked he was somewhere that was new. His sight cut in and out and

patterns were emerging over in the distance.

Small dots were emerging over the surface of his eyes. They were purple and black and

drifted in and out when he closed and opened his eyes. He turned and kept going. He

desperately scrambled for any remaining energy but found little. He kicked his feet against

the ground in anger, expecting his body to be propelled forward, but he went nowhere.

The ghost was gone now. He looked all around but the sky was now clearing up. He turned

back to the trees but they weren’t there. He was alone in the middle of an area of utterly flat

ground. He clouds glided across the sky, but they were starting to slow down and fix

themselves above the earth.

Isephor breathed out and fell to his knees and it was as if he could see his reflection in the

ground. He had lost all colour in his face, and the lines that made up his wrinkles had started

from his eyes and stretched out like veins. Then he breathed out again and the reflection

vanished. And he was left half-aware of what had just happened, with his knees pressed into

the ice on the floor. He kept thinking that he could hear music, but it was nothing.

So, with one movement he clicked every bone in his body. He galvanized himself so that he

would never rust, but the air was so thick that it slipped through. He went on.

His mood swung back and forth between bright skies and dark clouds. He clung onto the

memories of when he felt happiness, and then it came again it felt like nothing at all. The

clouds in the sky parted and a small stream of light no thicker than the body of a worm fell

down from the sky, and it was slow enough that Isephor could see as it slithered downwards

and materialized itself to the ground.

He began to laugh, and felt the lines on his face slip away from him and go off and become

the wrinkles on the ground. He shook his head around and his neck hurt but it was okay

because his hair was swinging all around him. And he had to find Memeira.

He remembered that when he first came across Memeira, his hair was pretty short. His hair

was once pretty short, but now it was just pretty, pretty soon it would be pretty long he

presumed. He shook his head; he wasn’t sure what was going on. In the ground he came

across a puddle. He looked in it and readjusted his hair. Secretly he longed for it to be silver.

But I guess he just had to put up with it being brown until hair-dye was invented. It kind of

sucked, but you just have to get on with things in life.

Isephor bumbled along and wondered to himself how old he was. He didn’t really like how

he had never been told, but I guess that’s just li-

No.

Isephor turned around and looked at the world. He admired the way that it all fit in together

and the sky remained up above without ever falling down onto his head. The wind was

always above, and when it came below, instead of blowing him over, it would push against

him and rustle his cloak. He admired own complexity, and was mildly annoyed at the way

that sometimes he felt like he deserved to be sad. He felt like if he removed all his

complexities then maybe he would find his own spiritual enlightenment. But idk, maybe that

doesn’t even exist. But he drifted inside his mind and imagined scenes of him removing, one

by one, all the pieces in his mind that made him in any way complex. In the end, when all the

lumps and twists in the tubes in his mind were gone, he was left with a single orange dot in

the middle, which flickered, then died.

For a while he managed to exist completely in the moment. He didn’t even realize that he

had stopped walking. He stopped imaginging that there were things beyond him and far away

that were going wrong. He forgot that he was supposed to be finding Memeira, and he was

fine. He pulled up his sleeves and even though it was cold he felt comfortable, because he

cold see the movement of his veins as the blood flowed through them. He pulled his sleeve

back down.

He kinda felt sorry for the ghost now (or the pale-faced shadow.) I mean, it was a bit of a

dick move to just completely dismiss how, for all he knew, all the ghost really wanted to do

was have someone to talk to, or someone to hug. The world was pretty empty up in these

parts of the ice plains, and Isephor was pretty sure that if he came across anyone then he

would probably assume that they would try to kill him. That’s just the way up in the Ice

Plains. It was probably different down in the down-there places in the world. Idk, it’s not like

I basically came up with this world when I was thirteen and then just forget about it all for a

while and am now trying to finish this whole thing in one night just because I kinda want

money from it (true story.)

So, he decided to have a different perspective on things. He decided he would wait for the

ghost to come back, and instead of running away this time, he would talk to him, or her, or

they or them (whichever pronoun they identify with most strongly.) So that’s what he did. He

walked a bit further in order to generate some heat from his muscles, then he just stood there

and waited.

Waity waity waity.

He crossed his arms and looked to his left. There was nothing there. He looked to his right.

There was also nothing there. What fun he was having!

He looked ahead and admired the world. Everything on the Ice Plains seemed to be

condensed into a tunnel. A vignette was drawn over his eyes, and filtered through were only

the good things that he could see in front of him, like how everything was very pretty. He

imagined being able to find every pretty thing there was, every flower and formation of cloud,

every type of tree from the singing tree to the lonely tree, and maybe then he would feel like

he deserved this oh-so crazy world. But not now. For now he would just have to kind of not

deserve the world, because afterall he was just standing there; you kinda need to give the

world attention if you want the world to give it back to you.

Then he heard footsteps coming towards him. He turned, and there was the ghost.

“How are you making the sound of footsteps when you are literally floating?”

“Because I identify as someone who has feet.”

“Woah.”

The ghost glided over the glacious ground to the green of Isephor’s garments. Isephor tried

to shake the ghost’s hand, but instead of touching it, his hand slid right through.

“I’m sorry, man. I would shake your hand, but mine literally just slides right through

your’s.”

“That’s okay. You just have to identify me as someone who has material hands.”

Isephor tried shaking the ghost’s hand again, and he succeeded.

“Woah.”

“Ikr.”

“Hey, you know, you remind me of what people used to look like in this thing that I used to

do?”

“You used to do a thing? What sort of thing are we talking about here?”

“It was a game. But it was a game that had people who were almost real, but at the same

time they weren’t real. I’m only mentioning it because you have the same colour clothes as

the people from the game.”

“Why were you following me this whole time? If you need a hug, you just have to ask, you

know.”

“No, that’s okay. I don’t really need a hug right now. I just noticed that you had a radio on

you, and I was wondering if we could listen to it together?”

“A radio? What’s a radio?”

The ghost seemed a little confused. He took a step back and took another look at Isephor.

The wind blew and he looked down at a pocket on Isephor’s coat. Isephor looked down too,

and saw one of his pockets where there was a small black box.

“What? This is a radio?”

“Yeah, that’s a radio.”

“Oh, I thought it was just a small black box. What does a radio do?”

“Do you want me to demonstrate?”

“Yeah, sure, go for it.”

Isephor peeled the black box from the pocket on his cloak and handed it to the ghost.

However, he forgot to indentify the ghost as a real human being, so the radio fell right

through his hands to the floor.

“Please,” said the ghost, “I would really appreciate it if you identified me as a human. I’m

really touchy about this; I’m not very comfortable in my own skin… or my lack of skin, if

you will.”

Isephor sort of laughed, but he sort of didn’t. The memory of laughter was buried deep in his

brain, piled under with all his other fogged-up reimaginings of his life, then pushed so far

under that soon yesterday turned into a year ago, and a year ago was lost in a frenzy of

intangible feelings about how everyone thinks they’re wasting their time, but soon time

wastes them away. He closed his eyes but instead of seeing his eyelids there was just a kind

of space where there was meant to be something, but there was nothing at all. When he

opened his eyes slightly, the nothing at all became something in the middle, but it all still

confused him.

He felt his memories drift further down. He watched from the back of his head as the ghost

glided through his gastrointestinal; it was ghastly. He kept thinking that the world was falling

apart and then rearranging itself, but every time he came across such a thought, everything

was already in its right place, so he couldn’t be sure.

The ghostly gurning ghost guided his ghostly hands to the radio. From it came not

vibrations, but colours, which shifted in the air and pushed the waves inside Isephor’s head in

a way that they were never meant to be. The contours in his mind were bent now.

Then from the colours there began to form notes, which danced in the air with each other

and generally just had a good time. They put together jigsaw pieces inside of Isephor that up

until now he didn’t even know could fit together. The notes became a single note, and then

from it was birthed words that Isephor couldn’t understand.

They were plain, and whoever was singing the notes wasn’t very good, and it was quite

whispery, but in spite of that beautiful things were happening inside of Isephor’s head. Like

how squirrels were poking their heads round the corners of what they thought to be trees, but

were actually stems of Isephor’s imagination that had branced out so far and for such a long

time that there were now animals inside of him. Weird, huh?

The music made him feel solipsistic, because it was like he was being wrapped in something

really strange – like bubble wrap – the kind that when you were young (and occasionally still)

you would press your fingers into the bubbles to burst them and let the air be free and become

one with the air all on the outside. Here it was pressing into his skin, but the bubbles didn’t

burst, they just chilled with him and he was totally cool with that.

“Miranathǚr irathynwa léma soa, omanithyr miranathil.”

He was beginning to feel the music through his veins, but when he looked up at the ghost, it

didn’t look like they felt the same thing. He wanted to become a tree, because he felt like,

even thoughe he wouldn’t have ears, he would be able to appreciate the music more, and he

would be able to feel it flowing through his leaves like the wind. Every time he got locked in

thought patterns like this, though, he realized that basically everything that he wanted was

impossible and that made him sad, so he stopped thinking about it.

The music reminded him of everything in his life that he regretted, like all of the things he

had said before that when he thought of them made his heart sink right down into his stomach

and fall out of him and then go back in again. There were girls that he remembered from

thousands of years into his past, or so it felt, and when he rememebered about them it made

the acid in his stomach burn, and they floated around in his head, taunting him and they just

wouldn’t leave. They had a way of getting inside of his head and staying there. They weren’t

to blame for making him feel like this; he simply loved some people so much that when he

thought about how they didn’t feel the same it made him spontaneously combust. It felt to

him like it had been thousands of years since he had held someone’s hand. But he was

forgetting that when you put your own hands together then technically you are holding

someone’s hand. So there is no need to feel lonely.

He could feel his fingers pressing into something. They were going up and down and

making tapping noises on some kind of platform being held into the air. He tried to

concentrate on the sounds again. The ghost had become completely motionless. It wasn’t

even the kind of motionless that just suggested that it wasn’t moving: it was like it had been

stuck in time.

Isephor went over to the ghost and identified the ghost as a material thing, but it was no use;

his hand still went right through the ghost’s ghostly body.

The wind blew and pieces of the earth were swept over in magical showers over the top of

the ghost’s head, and he slowly began to be whisped away into the eternal flow of the

universe. Isephor watched in horror as parts of the ghost’s transparent anatomy began to

become part of the wind and flow into an endless river that glided through the air. It was like

the ghost was turning into an infinite number of pieces of sand so insignificant that it makes

ordinary sand look like boulders. Isephor felt that sinking feeling that you get in your chest of

slow-burning regret and guilt while he watched as the ghost slowly began to fade away until

he was a single grain of practically non-existent sand.

“Go home, sweet spirit. I am Sorry and Sorry is Me.”

Chapter Eleven – It Lives Inside of Him (Inside Us All)

Memeira was woe’d.

The rain fell in patterns over his eyes and everywhere he could see himself floating through

the air. The world fell apart, but it didn’t mend itself. He wanted to slip out of his body. His

mind had finally acknowledged itself, and he knew that he wasn’t the whole of his mind, but

strange intangible parts of it that argued with each other and cried in lonely corners of his

skull. He was a tiny human trapped inside an infinite maze of strange illusions and memories

and emotions, and he screamed but his brain could not hear itself. It carried on in spite of him.

Small crystals sprouted from the ground in purple and green and blue. They cracked under

the glare of the sun as soon as they formed.

He had to find Dulinil. The world ahead of him was an endless stretch of steps. The clouds

in the sky formed over the top of the horizon and cast his sadness back down onto him. He

wanted to slip out of his body. He wanted to slip out of his body.

And he could tell the small parts of himself that he trusted not to be sad, but when he did

those parts were surrounded by every thought of every wrong thing that he had done, and

every wrong thing that he had thought, and it hurt. It was no longer all inside of him. The

crystals from the ground began to sprout from his body then burst. First they came from his

shoulder and pierced through his clothes, before finally shattering and sending pieces into his

eyes, which turned into warm drops of water and sinked underneath.

He felt like he was on his way to uncovering something; like some answer that he didn’t

even know he was looking for, but every time he found it, it hurt so much that his memory

lapsed over itself and he found his body where it was before, wandering over the ice plains

and through strange pathways in his brain that he had tried and tried to make sense of.

“Don’t be sad,” he said to himself. “The world is so beautiful and nothing has to make

sense.”

And he cried.

And the patterns of clouds in the sky rearranged themselves and made symbols for him to

look at. And the colours that painted them were sucked down and immersed themselves

within each other. Red mixed with green, purple mixed with yellow and black mixed with the

eigengrau inside Memeira’s head, and from those combinations were birthed colours in ways

that he had never seen before. When he took a stone and another, from it came three, and in

front of him crystals came in and out of existence, not because he made them, but because

they wanted to.

There was a thing that had once lived on the inside, but it had found its way out, and because

of it Memeira thought that he would never find the point in his own life again. Yet he

breathed and he breathed and he breathed and up until now everything fell where it was meant

to. His eyes told him that the world was ugly, but his mind adamantly defied it all. And

slowly this nauseating feeling of being oh-so sad was turned into a kind of blissful

melancholia, where the transition from day to day becomes a gentle lulling stream of

memories being piled up, onder under another, until yesterday becomes a year ago and all

around everything ever taken for granted begins to slide down underneath the edges of the

world.

Sometimes Memeira felt that all his anxiety was just something he had to snap out of. He

was only like eight years old, so he didn’t really understand why he was already having these

realitsations, but he ran along with them and appreciated that for his age his mind was truly

remarkable and was able to conjure things at will.

He observed the horizon and tried to get a grip on the reality of the situation, despite how it

felt like it was constantly slipping. There were mountains that stretched up in perfect triangles

in the distance. The light made one half of them look grey and the other half look red. The

ones in the far distance were so buried under by the blanket of the night that they just looked

like black shapes made grey by the even blacker blackness of the sky.

He felt laziness creep over his body and wanted to just stop and curl up and go to sleep and

feel warm and unafraid forever. Things felt like they were approaching him at an unwanted

speed and wherever he looked there was no therapy to be found; no chair for him to sit, no

black-clad androgyne so that he could place his head on their lap and feel comforted, even if

he was taller than whoever they should be.

Memeira reached into his pocket. He brought out some rizzlers, some filters, some baccy

and finally some pot. He perfectly placed the filter into a single rizzler. He pinched some

baccy and freed it. Lastly, he let the pot slide onto the baccy as if it was parmaham cheese

onto spaghetti Bolognese. All the mountains looked at him and were happy. He rolled, he

tucked, he licked, and in the end the thing closed up finally. He looked up to the dark skies

and thanked the strange bearded lady that he got the pot from, and lit it.

He smoked it and concentrated on the sensation, making every second of his breath feel like

a lifetime, and for a while he was fine. The tumultuous seas of the world seemed to part, and

this fantasy land that he had inhabited for his entire life broke up and he saw glimpses of the

real world emerging; every dyed-haired girl he’d never fallen for that existed in this world, all

the intruments, the cameras and the paintbrushes. He let the music from that other world pour

out into his. Afterall, all he was doing by smoking this weed was freeing up his mind so that it

could be opened up to the prospect that trillions of other worlds are all folded up beneath the

one he moseyed through.

The triangular mountains on the horizons all of a sudden became rugged, sharp looking

contructions. They reached up from the ground and became shards of mesmerizing dirty

glass.

For a while, he was himself again, and the world regained its expected normality.

Memeira remember back to the étha’mánatûr of his world, which is when the world existed

in nothing but darkness. But in the other world things were so much more abstract. It felt like

everything could be traced back to one thing, but that wasn’t really the case at all; it was all to

weird to even think about. If you understood it your head would fall off. The étha’anúli was

when the world was being birthed through the mist, but this was just what people had been

saying. Memeira (even though he was only like eight!) didn’t think that his world had to be

created by any means. It’s just there, really. The étha’arísil is the beginning, but that whole

concept was just so simple that it also made Memeira’s head fall off. He didn’t know why he

was caught up on these thoughts, so he let them slide away.

Memeira concentrated on his breathing while digesting the small pieces that the other world

was feeding to him. For a long time he had not had that ‘feeling’ that he usually got when he

admired the world, but it was all flooding back to him now.

He wandered along and beside him walked his long-lost imaginary friend. She had come to

him again now, and he was happy, because it was as if his sister, Dulinil was with him again.

He was anxious, though, because when he found Dulinil he didn’t know how he was going to

tell his imaginary friend that he didn’t need her anymore.

They didn’t talk. She was silent as she walked, but made footprints in the ice underneath her.

Memeira had missed her, but couldn’t remember her name. He felt ashamed, so he decided

not to talk to her for the time being until he could remember.

Time and time again cloudy pieces of glass would find their way into Memeira’s

imagination, and he glimpsed into the other world. He saw a static river, and in the other

world he was sitting on a bench with his imaginary friend and they watched as boats passed

by in a lulling parade and people mooched on behind them.

He tried to connect his body with the two worlds, making himself become a kind of in-

between. He placed his mind where it needed to be so that the distance from both worlds was

equal, and concentrated on becoming the link between the two. He focused on his breath, and

what his imaginary friend might be trying to tell him, but all the while he was just going with

the flow. He admired the triangle-like form of the mountains of the world he was in, but they

were disappointing compared with the astounding complexity of the mountains from the other

world.

But in this other world the shapes came in squares and rectangles to the point where it made

circles look fascinating. To him, it was all just like the story of Naniendur and Othondriel.

Probably, he couldn’t remember it that well, and afterall, the world was becoming all the

more abstract.

He felt a cut on his foot, then a sharp sensation moving up to his thumb. He looked and his

clothes were glowing in a line stretching from said foot to said thumb. Said clothes looked

weird, he said. But his imaginary friend was ignoring him; they were locked in their own

reality. He looked to the distance and in between the two tallest triangles was a tiny orange

dot. He admired it and its simplicity, and he wondered if ever he would be able to reach the

same simplicity. But in all his distraction he didn’t notice that the weirdness had begun to

engulf his body. The mountains were making perfect equilateral triangles, the clouds were

making perfect circles, and the horizon was peeling its edges to become an unmistakably flat

line.

The world kept simplifying itself, and unknown to Memeira until he stopped concentrating

on it, so was his body.

The strangeness was engulfing him. All the colours of his clothes turned primary, and as he

looked at his hands his fingers turned from complex cases of meat, with creases and veins and

varying colour, to red cylinders which imitated the beauty of his body in the most basic way.

The darkest part of the sky stretched itself out and became every part of it, and as he looked at

it all around there was only eigengrau. When he closed his eyes tightly there was no

difference between what he saw then, and the sky. But among all this darkening, the

colourlessness of the ground stretched itself out too and all around on the floor was nothing

but informationless white, covering.

His joints slowly began to join the simplicity celebration by collapsing and fading away. His

legs became yellow plastic cylinders, and clipped into the floor as he walked, hinging over on

the circularity of their base. He cried but his tears fell as cerulean spheres, perfectly preserved

in the air that they hung in.

He breathed out the pot that he had been holding in his lungs for a while now, and as it

flowed through the now-pipes of his body, but it didn’t come out as effervescing cubes; it

came out like it would have done even if the world hadn’t started this facetious fad for failing

to express its own complexity.

But amidst all of this, and even when the world had reached its most perfect minimalism, he

still found it beautiful, and appreciated the intricate ways in which the world had turned its

natural formations into still-recognizable geometric patterns. The other world was still

pouring in, but Memeira was fixated on his lego-like being, adjusting himself to the

strangeness of each breath that he took. He looked to his imaginary friend and they had

tweaked themselves to a perfect purple pyramid with two eyes in the middle of one of the

sides. They nodded towards the strange mind-portal that was opening up before them, so

Memeira turned back towards it and watched as it carried out its perplexing performance.

There was now just a tiny circle that Memeira could peer into and watch the going-ons from

the still-unsimple world. In that world he was there and he was with his imaginary friend.

They were sitting in a room with strange patterns and inscriptions all over the walls. The

walls were immaculately made, different from all the dungeons and castles in this world:

Emarule, Ganus, Holbae, even the most immaculate parts of his world didn’t compare to this

tiny room.

He and his imaginary friend were both wearing black, and their hair was multi-coloured. He

was unable to comprehend that it was really him that he was looking at: in the other world he

looked so much taller and there was more colour in his face, and he was free from dirt. His

hair was polished to near perfection and every few seconds the him from the other world

would run his fingers through it to push it into a flawless dwelling place.

He looked sad in the other world. It looked like he was trying to say something, but the

words just weren’t escaping from his whitened-teeth filled mouth. Memeira watched as he

tried to communicate with his imaginary friend, but there was a barrier between them; he just

couldn’t connect in the way that he wanted to. Memeira looked over to the perfect purple

pyramid that had made itself out of her, but she didn’t move. He looked up at the window to

that strange world and compared the cylinders on his fingers with the skeletal-like creations

from over there, and somehow he felt like this world that he was living in wasn’t good

enough, and whoever’s bored-to-death mind that it had come out of also wasn’t good enough.

He realised from just staring absent-mindedly at his fingers and comparing them to his from

another world, that the reality he was a part of was so far below what it could have been. But

he found comfort in the way that he had realised that.

He and her from the other world escaped the room and performed a bizarre dance among the

street lamps, which bended as they walked past. They masqueraded all the drunks and the

highs that meandered through the world, and gripped each other’s hands in the most un-

pullable knot they could muster. Strangers whistled melancholy tunes while they wandered

by, and when the clocks turned to midnight, they went back again and were locked in an

infinite loop of the night time. He from the other the world plucked on an impossibly plastic

ukulele, and stretched his voice until their ears rungs and vibrated with each other.

He was looking at a world where the same peace, love and empathy from his heart was

gliding around through the air, but there were only small windows where you could find it.

There was no adventure. There were mountains but most people used them to look at and

there was no rule to say that you had to climb them.

It was a world of rubbish-bins, storage containers, humming street lights, bizarre tangled-up

memories of trains, concrete rectangles to walk over and bizarre sub-humans were imperfect

faces masked with hair sprayed so vehemently that when a cigarette was lit a thousand miles

away it could practically be set on fire from whatever was so flammable in the strange

concoction. Peoples’ minds were not connected through some longing to be together, but by

ones and zeros and an infinite stream of pictures and videos and songs flowing through the

air.

Memeira tried to reach in and pull one of these songs from the air, but they moved so fast

that they slid through his fingers and ended up elsewhere; probably lost in some small black

box hundreds of miles away.

That view of the world then collapsed in on itself, and what Memeira was left with was him

and his imaginary friend sitting in the room again. They were both silent, so Memeira tried to

ingest more information from the room. There were faces on the walls, but they weren’t

menacing; they were there to look in at whoever was in the room and comfort them in the fact

that they weren’t alone in the way that they felt. His feeling of solipsism glided in through the

window and went through his heart and then out the door to find another victim, and despite

this feeling, he remembered that he was not the only one who felt like he was the only one,

and comfort engulfed his heart and connected his mind with his brain, and his brain with his

body, and his body with every other.

He watched as he and his imaginary friend from the other world drifted into a slow

conversation. A creature was wandering about between them and his imaginary friend would

occasionally stroke it. He tried to do the same but his hands just weren’t the same. His thumbs

just didn’t seem to be the same as her’s, and he felt shame about the lack of nail varnish on

them, but was too self-conscious to do anything about it.

He watched as he plucked on the plastic ukulele. The notes flew in through the window from

the same place that the solipsism came from. His voice cracked and his fingers shook and his

lips trembled as the words came out, and in a few minutes it was over, and they sat there in

silence.

Memeira watched and wondered whether that was it. It seemed like the he from the other

world was trying to do something, but he had failed. The image was crystal clear now.

Memeira watched as he slowly began to shake and fall the ground. He let his fingers slip

between the fur of the creature, and he was proud now in some abstract way, but the

chemicals were being weird inside his head and he didn’t know what to do.

Slowly, his imaginary friend began to fade from the room. First the nail polish vanished

from her fingers, then her winged eyeliner drifted away and went down the sink in the

bathroom in the nextdoor room, then her multicoloured hair was peeled away and flew into

the YouTube app on her phone. Images of mountains began to cover the computer screen, and

there was a glorious golden sunset, which lasted for a few seconds, then vanished. Eventually

the colour was lost from the eyes of his imaginary friend, then her face, then the rest of her

skin. The wind blew in from the window and glided past Memeira, who was lying on the

ground now. It touched the colourless body of the girl, and parts of her face began to come

off. First her eyes ground down to dust and went with the wind. The door swung open and the

dust travelled in lines and spirals and went down the stairs. Her hair joined the grim

procession, turning into pieces of straw that snapped mid-air and ground themselves down to

dust from the friction of the air in the room.

A stronger gust of wind then blew in through the window, brought on at the same time as a

flurry of distant police-sirens and sounds of children screaming in other houses and cars

rumbling down the night-time street. Her entire body was engulfed by the wind and drifted

away while Memeira was lying on the floor, watching. She was gone.

Memeira watched as the he from the other ground lay there, motionless. A magnificent

night-time lit up the computer screen, and stars danced with each other and drank chardonnay

to celebrate the transient melancholy of his nearly-broken soul. Shards of glass rose from the

ground where the ex-imaginary friend was sitting. At first there were one or two, then a few

more came to join the party. They put themselves together to form a perfect circle, which then

shrunk to half its size to become a cube that could fit in Memeira’s mouth. It glided over and

he chewed on it for a bit, before swallowing it.

All the while the he from this world watched the bizarre spectacle. It was like a strange

unrehearsed theatrical performance. As he watched he could feel things changing in his brain.

Things were becoming whole again, and memories flooded back to him, brought on by

abstract smells that he would never be able to recreate inside his head. All of a sudden this

foreign feeling of fulfillment and happiness spread from the furthest reaches of his brain and

became the whole of him.

Memeira watched as he in the room stood up to marvel at this strange psychological

achievement, like he had just let go of something that had been wrapped around his wrists for

thousands of years. He looked around the room and started to shake. He then walked over o

the window and realized that the world had become utterly still. The colour from it had faded

somewhat. It had begun to rain, but as the rain fell, it petrified itself mid air and faded to grey.

The cars and the people on the street were absolutely stationary, and the usual menacing

rumble of the city had completely vanished. He realized that even though he had reached

tranquility inside of him, he was now completely alone.

The window to that world then vanished.

Memeira stood there in the cold. He noticed it more now that the radiator-warmth from that

other world had dissipated. He turned and looked at the perfect purple pyramid embodiment

of his imaginary friend. They had returned from their polygonal form and become human

again. Memeira admired their multicoloured hair and black clothes and as-close-to-

symmetrical face that you could possibly get, but as he looked around he realized that he and

everything else in the world apart from the girl was still in this strange lego-like form.

He moved closer to her, using the hinges of his uncorporal body to make his way over the

flat surface, but the girl turned away.

He tried to speak but couldn’t: his blocky mouth just couldn’t make itself do anything. He

tried to raise his arms to hug her but they only move vertically. He urged his brain to make

something happen, but nothing worked. He at least wanted to be able to touch her possibly for

the last time before he eternally shrunk into this nightmarish state of mundane symmetry, but

the world forbade him from doing so: as he took one step towards her, she would take two

steps back. He wanted to tell her everything that he had never told anyone before, but with

every mechanical step he took towards her, she drifted away in an eloquent display of

fluency, almost like a dance through the cold spherical air pieces.

He stopped and watched as she drifted there for a few seconds. Every time she looked away

she felt happy, but when she looked back at Memeira, standing there in his undesirable cubic

form, the colour on her face would turn grey and eventually she would turn away and return

to her dance.

Memeira finally was able to muster words.

“Æ’aruér.”

“I’m sorry. If I knew I was making you feel this way then I would have stopped. I’ll see you

again one day, Memeira. I’ll get out of your head now.”

And as she did the world began to return to its familiar form. The mountains forced

themselves back into complexity, the ground sprouted hills and troughs and texture made its

way from Memeira’s feet all across the world. The horizon pulled its corners down like an

iron rod being bent and the clouds became strange again. The calmness of the wind came

back to Memeira, and the vague rumble of the world was present once more.

He watched as his fingers turned from cylinders back to their meat-like form. He felt blood

flow through his body and his entire mind was soothed by a gentle feeling of agony passing.

He felt a snap as each bone from the bottom of his body to the top turned from plastic back to

bone. His clothes regained their colour, and finally his skin and his eyes. It took time to

readjust to the way that he was supposed to be, but with effort and determination, he was able

to make his first few steps in his rejuvenated body over the remoulding Ice Plains. He thought

about what he had said to the girl, and was glad that he did it, but still sad that she was gone

and knew that he would probably never see her again. It was good that she now knew.

The last few pieces of the puzzle that made up the landscape and the sky fit themselves

together and everything returned to normality. There was a horrific hum that got louder and

louder the more that Memeira waited around, but as soon as he opened his eyes fully and

digested this normal world, the sound began to fade and slip back into his memory like it

never happened. He looked to the ordinary mountains on the horizon, and there was a peculiar

orange dot in between two of them. He stared at it for a few seconds until it began to flicker.

Eventually it disappeared and Memeira knew that he would never see it again.

He was ready to go find his sister, Dulinil.

So he wandered on, paying attention to the cold that inhabited all of his body. The further he

went on, the more the world seemed to normalize. He could feel the wind again, and

occasionally would catch the sight of forests and rivers in the distance. The world was no

longer totally grey, but had small pieces of colour that came in and out of existence like they

should normally do.

He began to feel the world warm up. He looked around to find his bearings in what already

felt like a familiar place. It was no use; every where he went on the Ice Plains it felt like he

was in exactly the same place. He looked to the dark mountains in the distance, and noticed

that once again there was a small dot. But it wasn’t the same colour as he had seen so many

times before. It was yellow, but in such a way that it was unmistakably different from and

shade of yellow he had ever seen before. Slowly the dot began to rise and engulf the

blackness of the surrounding mountains, casting light onto them. It got larger and larger until

Memeira could make out a circle.

Then the light from the circle broke through the outlines of those silhouetted mountains and

spread itself over the Ice Plains in front of him. The shadows of the mountains were cast over

the world in front of him and he felt warmth envelope his heart in a thick goo-like thing.

The small pieces of colour in the world that he could see were excentuated and thin vibrating

shadows were appearing in front of rocks and small mounds over the earth. Redness began to

fill the sky from the point where the yellow dot was emerging. The redness fought with the

blackness, but little by little the darkness was pushed back over the sky and fell into itself on

the other side of the horizon.

The warmth from Memeira’s heart had become all of him now. He looked around at the

ground and the few trees that he could see and the clouds and the yellow orb and the

mountains and it was like he had never seen any of this before. He looked at the orb and

remembered that it was the sun, and as he did he forgot all about the moon, letting it sink

down into his subconscious.

In the morning light he noticed that there was a pathway directly under his feet. He began to

follow it, watching how it meandered around small mounds and looped around itself like a

knotted piece of string.

As he followed the path he noticed a small hill casting a dark shadow in the distance.

Saplings began to sprout around his feet, the ice thinned, but the skies grew darker and greyer

and the clouds turned to weird shapes and became motionless. As the ice thinned the grass

shimmered. The wind blew and Memeira’s hair was swept across his face. He moved it away

with one hand.

He looked up into the sky where there was a flock of birds. They circled around the air

directly above him, hovering a couple dozen metres above his head. The birds were black and

silent. He stopped and admired them for a second, watching how they flew in sync with each

other perfectly. Through his motionless he began to feel the cold again. The birds then

dispersed and reformed in a single-file line and began to fly towards the small hill in the

distance. It was the only thing Memeira could see. The mountains in the distance had

disappeared, all the ground was flat apart from the hill in the distance, and the clouds had

washed out to form a single colour, held up in the sky.

The sounds of the world had disappeared apart from the unchanging sound of the wind and

Memeira’s footsteps as he walked further down the path. The further he went, the more the

path would turn from natural earth to concrete. He began to notice patters on the ground, and

it made out strange words. Over and over again it would repeat the words “False dreams, the

Inside Thing, I love you, please don’t leave me behind.” At first the words were faint, and

there were still parts of the enscription that Memeira couldn’t work out. He found himself

afraid, and the wind was sending shivers down his spine.

Somehow he had disconnected from any feeling of loss or pain or coldness. There was only

him, this path, the Ice Plains, and the ominous hill in the distance. He followed along, blindly.

The words on the path became smaller and more indistinct as he went on, until they were

replaced with new words:

“One day you’ll uncover amdist the infinite mess of the sadness in your mind the Inside

Thing.”

The words lasted for a few metres of the journey for disappearing again. Memeira forgot

them when he was confronted with the new words:

“You’re not alone. Keep going.”

The word turned darker again and the euphoria that Memeira felt from seeing the rising sun

had almost completely died.

He was afraid. His eyes and face lacked any emotion. He urged himself along the path. He

had forgotten what it was that he was supposed to be looking for. He carried himself along

through time and the path only by the dull feeling that he was supposed to be doing

something.

He felt completely naked, but the cold did not touch him. No matter how much the wind

swayed his clothes and brushed his hair against his face, it was no use to his brain. He

watched as the grass below him shimmered. All the ice had gone, but in its place it had left a

barren world full of greys and dark colours. He turned to look back at the world he had just

passed and on the horizon he could see a thin line of white; the last glimpse of ice he thought

he might ever see.

And maybe this was all for nothing. Maybe Dulinil really was dead already and every sign

he had come across, like the grave, or how he had seen her holding the Inside Thing was all a

lie he had told to himself to make everything seem better. He looked to the path to see if it

was telling him anything, but there was nothing there: just concrete rectangles pieced together

perfectly in a stream of potential footsteps.

So he kept going: walky, walky, walky.

He looked up to the sky and thought that the birds looked funny. They were once all flying

in sync but now there was one that was just out of time with the other ones and Memeira

thought that it looked really dumb. He laughed, and was surprised at himself that he did so.

He was shaking, though.

And as soon as he was done with his laughing the clouds opened up a bit and the sun shone

through, which was now slightly higher in the sky. He looked at it and it made him happier.

He felt warmed by it, and for some reason he also found the yellowness and the brightness of

it funny, because it was unexpected.

He looked round and tried to find other things to laugh at, but the clouds closed up quickly

and the world was cast into darkness again and it was all over. He was fine with that; he was

just glad that he had that little moment.

He remembered an old poem and said it to himself:

“Ú’endúnatar æ’phélu iènar ei'athéru teitherâtanûr andún dhúh méllenuh teidúhrir.

‘õr’iánahtéyr enarée méllenuh iyr‘dhúl tín’ ámahntu mídagr tiör’eilúhntei.”

It was from an old book about the creation of the world: the story of the Phélu, Othondrièl

and Nanièndûr. It was an old story and few had heard of it. Memeira had forgotten what the

poem meant, because he was too used to speaking in the language of that world full of

rubbish bins and police sirens and strange rooms.

He tried to whistle the tune that went along with the words, but he couldn’t remember what

it was either, and just ended up disappointing himself. He looked up and noticed that the hill

was getting closer.

All of a sudden he heard the faint sound of music. He looked around to see where it was

coming from, but everywhere he looked there was nothing. He slowly began to realise that

the music was coming from inside his head, so he focused on it, and tried to immerse himself

within the notes and chords and vocal stuffs.

He got this feeling of nostalgia the same as the kind you would feel if you hadn’t smelled a

certain type of deodorant for three years. Deodorant? Strange smell-fulfilled memories poured

back in through the back, and for a moment Memeira felt hundreds of years younger again,

despite only being eight.

He was confused and didn’t like what was happening to him, so he shook off whatever

feeling he had inside his head and continued down the path, running now, while slowly and

ecstatically his nauseating thoughts tried to worm their way into his brain. And worm was the

right word for it; because to Memeira his worries felt like nothing more than an infinite

parade of invisible worms that brought themselves all over him, multiplying everytime he

touched one.

But the music caught up with him and all of a sudden he had a troubling mix of that ancient

poetry muddied up by pop-culture and synthetic contemporary mind-materialisations, and he

didn’t know where this nauseating feeling was coming from. He had a flashback to mist, and

tried to bury it again. He saw in his head the man on the beach below him from when he was

standing in front of the wall of mist and realized now that the man was Isephor: it was a

premonition. He began to question to the entire world he inhabited. He finally began to see

that everything had started off normally, and slowly everything about the chronology of his

life had become self-aware: people that were meant to be with him through all of this had

disappeared, parts of his mind had lapsed continuously into strangenss and a sense of other-

wordlyness, and he had simplifyied the fact that something was causing him to have

hallucinations into the world somehow falling apart then mending itself, inaudibly.

And as the thought of Isephor came into his brain, he held it there for a little while. He

turned around and for a moment he swore he could see those familiar dark robes and metallic

boots, intertwined with the bizzare way that he wore his face. The image of Isephor was held

there for a second, then it materialized. He was there.

“Isephor!”

And he vanished, only to be replaced with another, who was wearing red.

“Not Isephor?”

And he vanished too.

The song was inside his head now at the same time as the poem from before, and they

danced together and merged into a chrysalis where they hung about for some time. He fought

it vehemently, but it was breaking through the walls inside his brain and forcing itself into

new internal chambvers. He lurched forward and tried to break it away, hoping that the force

of his movement would somehow dislodge it.

“Stop, stop, stop, stop, stop.”

“Deodorant. Rubbish bin. Police siren. Room. Train. Interrogation room. Pharmaceutical.”

“Stop.”

He looked up and saw that the hill that was once in the distance was still in the distance, but

the distance was now less distant from when it had been so distant that he would have to walk

a very long distance, so he was running now, trying to make his way towards it and find

whatever he was supposed to be looking for before he lost his mind and would have to find

that too. He was doubtful that if he ever did that it would turn up somewhere as obvious as the

lost-property basket.

Mixed in with the wind he heard sounds: the bizarre fluctuation of the ambulance siren; the

screeching of underground trains; the never-ending hum of the motorways. But wherever he

looked all he saw was this bizarre shifting fantasy land, which really wasn’t meant to feel

bizarre to him. It just was.

The hill was now no longer than a couple hundred metres away from him. He didn’t know

whether he should be frantically running towards it or just walking along at a leisurly pace. I

guess he could have done something inbetween the two, like doing a quick walk, but instead

he chose the dumb decision to schizophrenically revert between the two every couple of

seconds. He moved towards the hill like he was in a nightmarish glitched video-game.

As he got closer to the hill the clouds became darker. He stopped, and the darkening of said

clouds also stopped. He then turned around and walked further away from the hill again (just

as a spontaneous experiment), and the clouds got lighter once again. He thought that this was

totally weird and decided that, even though the clouds were most definitely darkening the

further he got to the hill and then lightening up again when he walked away from it, it was

probably still a good idea to satisfy his curiosity as to what was actually on the hill.

A small dark shape emerged from the hill and Memeira squinted to try and work out what it

was. He couldn’t make it out, so he tried squinting harder, but ended up completely closing

his eyes, thus defeating the point of the exercise.

The sound of the wind had turned from the natural hum that he usually heard in the Ice

Plains to the sound of static electricity. Memeira looked up at the clouds but there was

nothing static-electricity-y going on up there… weird. He had no idea where the sound was

coming from. He kept going.

The ground had begun to slope up now, and even though he wasn’t on a tower or some

mountain somewhere, he had this horrible feeling of vertigo, like he wasn’t able to tell which

way was up and which way was down. The landscape rocked about like a drunk boat, and the

dizziness spread from Memeira’s head down to his feet and made them feel squishy and

weird.

He was creeped out and from the inside of his heart he swore he could hear an inifinite

stream of consequetive crackling coughs. Likewise, in his brain there was a tiny monkey

jumping around in a tiny room, screaming.

He saw a figure emerge on the hill: a faint outline of a person just like the one he had seen

on that one beach when he was standing in front that one the wall of mist. He was scared,

because, let’s face it, who wouldn’t be completely terrified if all they could hear was static

electricity, the world was completely flat apart from this one hill in the distance, there were

no trees anywhere, the skies were completely grey, you were an eight-year-old boy wandering

around in a vast open landscape without anyone to help you, you probably haven’t taken a

shit in months according to your own memories, you don’t really eat food apart from maybe

that one bit of bread that that one human gave to you that one time, and you can now see the

outline of a figure on an ominous hill that you’ve been approaching for some time now? This

is a very freaky occurrence, my friends. But, despite his already strangeness-overwhelmed

brain, let it become more so; he seemed to thrive off a feeling that nothing was right.

He walked slowly, and concentrated on the sound of the static electricity. He couldn’t hear

his own breathing; he usually concentrated on his breathing so that he could connect his ever-

drifting-away body with his ever-muddled-up brain. All that he had left to concentrate on was

this vague feeling of gaseous exchange whirring away within the biology diagrams of his

body.

Even though there was no light source anywhere (even the sun had now disappeared), the

figure was backlit, and had become a comic-book-like silhouette. The silhouette was

undeniable a girl’s. Memeira went further towards her, gliding through the static electricity.

As he walked, his right arm uncontrollably lifted, perhaps being pulled by the electromagnetic

force of the hill, or something. He didn’t refuse it; he just rolled with it, and for some reason

there was a part of his brain that told him it was the right thing to do. Onwards and onwards

and onwards. Walky, walky, walky. Patterns were being formed in his brain and amidst a

bizarre psychedelic flow he digested a single stream of consciousness that told him

everything was coming to an end.

He was now standing right in front of the hill, and the girl was only a few metres away from

him, standing at the very top. The girl was still just a silhouette no matter how close he got to

her. The hill was a perfect circle, and it was the perfect green colour, and it was lit with

perfect light. The wind orbited the hill like it was a planet. Above Memeira, the sun emerged.

It fell to the earth blissfully and shrunk when it did so. It positioned itself behind the girl, and

remained there as a perfect circle, in front of which the girl’s silhouette now made sense.

Memeira was utterly still. He stood there, but never made the connection in his brain.

Everything that he’d been working towards was there, staring him in the face. His arm was

still outstretched, but there was nothing in it.

“I wanted to bring you the Inside Thing. But it’s not here. You have it, don’t you?”

“It’s not real.”

The blackness that formed the silhouette became Dulinil, and she fell to her knees. But she

was not in some ghostly form: it was her, and she was crying.

“I came all this way. I knew you were alive. I saw you, you had the Inside Thing. You had it

in my head, and now I’m here. You have it.”

“The Inside Thing is not real.”

Dulinil lifted the clothes from her chest to reveal an arrow in her stomach. The blood had

dried around it.

“The Inside Thing is not real.”

The sound of static electricity faded and became one with the sinking sun, which in turn

vanished. And all of a sudden there was only Memeira and Dulinil and the hill. Memeira felt

detached from his body, like he was merely an observer. He watched himself walk up the hill

towards Dulinil. He knelt down in front of her, his arm still outstretched. She lowered it for

him. She held his chin and moved his head up so that they were looking at each other in the

eyes.

Memeira watched as the colour faded from Dulinil’s face. She fell into his arms, her body

turned to dust, and she was whisped away with the wind, leaving behind a single tear that

followed a vein down his arm. He wiped it off with his sleeve.

And that was it.