Year 349 after the War of the Gods, Summer

Grave of Titans

When the sun was low in the sky and the heat of the afternoon had subsided, they broke camp and continued their journey. Thorgest had kept his promise and asked no more about her wounds, and Iora was grateful for that. They were none of his business. “So, what do you want in Myrar?”, Iora asked him as they rolled up the tarp.

“Oh, I'm just passing through - after that I'm heading north to Qarahad. I just want to stock up on my provisions in Myrar, which you're eating so eagerly”, he said with a wink. “I'm also meeting an old friend there. I hope she's not in any trouble.”

“Please, I’m hardly eating as much as you are, in a single day”, Iora replied dismissively, feeling guilty right after. He hadn't had to give her any of it and had still helped her. She played it off. “Does that happen often? For her to be in trouble?”

They had just stowed the last of Thorgest's belongings in bags and loaded them onto the donkey - Nasr was his name, as Thorgest had told her. It wasn't much. Probably better that way when one travelled alone through the wasteland.

“When first I met her she was sitting outside an inn in Diræth’Asin, with a black eye and her shirt covered in blood and wine. Torn knuckles and drunk. Not her best day.” He laughed into his beard at the memory. “She refused to talk to me back then. Didn’t want my help either; it took some convincing. But in the end she allowed me to patch her up.”

“A brawl in an inn? Did she tell you how that happened?” This wasn’t the sort of friend she had expected from the dwarf. Brutish, uncultured, got drunk and then got into fights. Iora didn’t like her.

“Yes, but that's her business. And please don't tell her that I told you this story.”

“Not a word past my lips.”

Then they set off to continue their journey northward under the far more favourable sun of an early evening. And even if Iora didn't trust this dwarf and had perhaps even misjudged him, it was good not to have to go alone. And it was good to have a destination in mind instead of wandering around blindly.

#

When finally even the last rays of the sun had disappeared behind the horizon and Sénbhe and Dhénia followed their eternal dance in a field of flower-stars, they finally set up camp for the night in the faint shadow of a mighty boulder. Thorgest asked them to look for firewood - or anything flammable - while he himself took care of setting up the tent and tarp and tending to Nasr. Her task turned out to be a lot more difficult than she had anticipated. For the most part, all that grew in this stretch of land was dry brushwood, which the gods had probably created specifically to withstand both this barren environment and her assault. When she finally returned to him with two arms full of pitifully thin but all the tougher twigs, Thorgest had already finished his part of the work. As a greeting, he handed her a cup, which Iora gratefully accepted after she had placed her honourably slain prey in front of the small tent. The guilt that had wormed into her mind because he again shared what little he had with her again, was instantly burned out of her as the liquid fire ran down her throat. After a long day she had welcomed the drink and taken a big draught. Too big. The taste of anise was overwhelming. It clung to her tongue and the back of her throat. And underneath it all, it was sweet. She grimaced and when she exhaled, the same warmth rising from her stomach burnt through her nose. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand. “That’s not water.”

Thorgest laughed out loud and Iora wasn't immediately sure if she mightn’t take offence. “No, no. It's been a long day today, we deserve something more. Drink”, he encouraged her and toasted her. Doubting, she looked down at the cup in her hand. The pale light of the dancing sisters mirrored in the milky-white contents. She thought she was prepared, but even at the second sip, she grimaced. Thorgest again laughed. “My last bottle, but you should never skip an opportunity to drink with new friends.” He emptied his own cup. “And I’m more than happy to trade my araq for some good company.” He stopped. “Wait. How old are you? Can I even give you this?” Purely out of protest at this statement, Iora emptied her cup. And regretted it. “My goodness, child, you don’t have to prove anything to me.” He at least was having fun.

He sat his cup on the ground and began to pile up the spoils of her hunt. Iora toyed with her own cup and watched as the warmth from her belly started to spread throughout her body. When he was finally done, he inspected his work and was satisfied. Then he took a very small twig and held it between his hands. A thin wisp of smoke rose between his fingers and as he blew lightly over his open hand, the first little flames awoke and began their twitching dance. He placed the stick with the others.

Iora looked at him with wide eyes. “Are you a mage? Can you teach me that?” She had thought there were no more mages, she had been so sure. Since the War of the Gods and the Edict and the Inquisition– In Ardport she had heard of executions, of torture. She had thought the knowledge had died long ago. But her former master– Of course there could be others. “You must teach me,” she blurted out.

“Oh, that’s just a small trick I picked up. I can teach you that one. But you have to be careful. You know how things are these days.”

She sat down next to him by the fire and watched the erratic dance. She knew how things were these days. But she already couldn't show herself on the streets as an elf, so what difference would it make if she could weave magics or not? “I thought there were no more mages”, she half lied.

“Oh, there are some of us yet. Though there aren’t many of us left, we’re still here”, he whispered in a conspiratorial tone, but then he stared back into the flames and sadness crept into his voice. “But I miss them. There are too few left. No one left who can or wants to share the knowldege, who wants to teach the next generation to understand. The world is poorer without magic.” He sighed. “We all carry the scars of the war of the gods around with us.”

That had significantly dampened her enthusiasm. To distract herself from the unpleasant feeling - and perhaps him as well - she held the cup out to him to give her a refill. She didn't want any more of it, but it seemed better than dwelling on that moment.

#

When Thorgest handed her a piece of the flatbread, she took it gratefully and then asked him hesitantly, “So you know about the time before the War of the Gods? What was it like back then? What was the world full of magic like?” Of course, she had also asked her master, but right here sat someone who really knew.

“Some say it was the age of gods, of Gatewardens and great heroes.” He tore off a piece of bread for himself. “An age of wonders. And maybe of adventures, if the stories are to be believed. The people back then weren’t so different than they are today, but the world… It was more alive, imbued with the magic of the gods. I don’t want to say that we’ve forgotten them, that’s not right. We still turn to them, pray to them, ask for advice, ask for their blessing, hope that they will show us the way home. And we hope that they will hear us and show us their compassion. But can we be sure that they are there? How many have been washed away by time’s currents? It was different back then. It is said, you could sense them all around you. Nomdatir and Ninḫursaĝ in the crags, mountains and earth around us, Tivone in the rivers and lakes and clear mountain streams, Dhadia in the Southern Sea, Dhat-Badan in oases, Demæthe in the woods that no longer exist. Tarnath and Varnith and Haphas in the fires and the sun. Anfúar in icy winds and Irdorath in a mighty tempest when she calls for a hunt. It was a world in which the gods were alive, a world that was alive through them. When you look into the fire, do you see them? Indeera? Naarus? Nythys?”

He handed her some cheese and seemed to wait for an answer. The elf bit into her bread and stared into the fire. The flames ate greedily at the branches. A thin wisp of smoke danced above them in the hot air. Sparks floated up and slowly fell to the ground again. But it was just a fire. There was nothing divine about it.

“No”, she replied, disappointed. She would have wished it.

“Neither do I. I would give much to feel them. They haven’t showed themself in this world for so long, people are beginning to forget them. And they are finding new gods.”

The other question burning inside her, Iora held back, until it burst out of her. She couldn’t resist it, no matter how inappropriate she deemed it. “And who are you, who knows so much about it all? You are a mage, you know how to heal, or play the part quite convincingly at the very least; speak of ancient times.”

If he took offence at her question, at least he didn't show it. It wasn't as if he owed her any answer, but she at least wanted to know who she was dealing with. “I'm just a wanderer and a medicus and maybe I've learnt a bit too much about the world in my long years.” He smiled, perfectly at ease. “But allow me the same question then: Who are you?”

She thought a long while; chewed on the answer for a long time, like a stale piece of bread. “Nobody. Not anymore.”

#

Despite his offer, Iora set up her own camp for the night, away from the dwarf's tent. She felt safer with the embers between them. And she wanted to be alone. “Don’t look at me like that”, she snapped at Nasr who was simply unfortunate enough to be looking in her general direction. Later, when she was sure Thorgest was asleep, she took her blanket and curled up on the other side of the boulder on the still-warm earth and tried to sleep.

She cried that night. Wept for her old life; how it would never again be. Wept for the betrayal. For the man she thought she’d known, the man she had thought closest to a father she ever had. And she wept for the world, which seemed to lack all colour in the cold light of the moons. Wept for the shame that burned inside her and ate away the last remnants of her soul. And for herself, who she no longer was, couldn’t be any longer.

#

Iora was woken by the first rays of the rising sun and the world in its warm tones no longer seemed as cruel as it had the night before. Defiantly, she walked back to the fireplace, determined not to answer him if Thorgest would ask why she had been away. He was good enough to not. They took down the tent in silence and loaded Nasr up again - Iora apologised to him and scratched him between the ears. Iora was grateful for not having to talk. The cool morning still betrayed nothing of the oppressive heat that awaited them at midday and would force them to rest. They therefore decided to set off as quickly as possible to make the most of the time they had left. Thorgest offered her some dry cheese and bread as a small breakfast and then took one last look at her bandage. He decided that it would last another day. And so they left, following an uncertain path that only Thorgest could see.

In the mind-emptying waste of the Grave of Titans the world and Iora’s thoughts blurred into an ever-same cloud of dust, stirred ‘neath her step. And through that veil of ash and rust, she began to see it in a distant corner of her field of vision: The symbol of the Daeva. Pale, pulsating, with twitching edges. But when she gave it her attention, it withdrew deeper into her.

The memories of her master she had banished to a distant room of her mind, deep in the labyrinth, which she did not want to enter again any time soon. The march through the wasteland, the mindless rut, it helped her. Just keep putting one foot in front of the other. Don't stand still. There was a certain satisfaction in moving further away from her past with every step.

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