Chapter 19
Dreams of Light
“I was avowed, for certain; and, now, I become Oathbreaker. Light is my sickness, and Dark my revolution. I await… the Darkbringer.”
Mind of the Heretic, Final Volume
Olivia nervously tapped her fingers against the armrest, her lips quivering, drips of red wine visible on their corners. The pair of amber eyes watched the empty wall in silence, a storm unveiled in their gaze. By her side, standing still like a statue, was a figure clad in dark garb, a hooded face beyond which a pair of yellow eyes stared hollowly at her. Beyond her breathing, only the occasional whizz of the wind blew by, as though a reminder the time hadn't stopped.
"… he would have killed him, no?" Olivia muttered, at last, shuddering.
“… yes.” The hooded figure replied.
“…” Olivia turned silent once more, lowering her head. Within her mind, a churning storm of thoughts unfolded like the waves of the turbulent ocean. The unassuming Outlander, the clever one, was all but, she realized. He was dangerous, Olivia thought. In that pair of the shimmering, blue eyes was the darkness. Anyone who can speak of life and death so casually, Olivia knew, was not a good person.
However, she didn’t need him to be a good person; perhaps, in a way, it was better that he held the cruelty to him. He seems far better at navigating the world of death and betrayal than her – even when less knowledgeable. She had known for quite some time that Quickett was a part of the Myrsell House, as did likely her brothers and sisters as well as her parents. However, they had to give way to it; ever so often, they would have to take a step back for the Houses and let them do something while turning a blind eye to it. He didn’t have such reservations about the matter; rather, he immediately dove into it, like a seasoned swimmer.
“… I have to tighten the noose around him.” She uttered out loud, getting up, pacing around the room. “If I don’t, the same fate might befall me in the future as well.”
“…” the figure remained silent, seemingly agreeing.
“… I have to talk to him.”
“What will you say?” the figure asked. “Will you ask him about Quickett and expose yourself?”
"Well—no, of course not," Olivia denied. "However, he doesn't seem to hold anyone in proper regard. Not me, not my brothers, or even my Father. To him, it seems we are all just the same."
“…”
Olivia suspected it to be the case for a while, but the ‘event’ during the Courtly Meeting, as well as the conversation with Quickett, proved to her beyond the shadow of a doubt that Noah… took none of this seriously. Or at least in the capacity she did. All those warnings he gave to her sounded hollow and empty now, as though they were simply musings of an adult toward a child. Was that how he saw her? Not as someone above him, or even equal to him, but as a naïve child? Was her request for him equated to a child asking for candy from their parents?
A bubble of anger sauntered into her heart, one she quickly burst; she didn’t know him, she realized, so she had to reserve the judgment. I am lying to myself, she knew. She knew him. She knew men and women like him. Perhaps, however, that was what it took – all that she lacked, he had. The disregard, in part, was what struck her; she was always terrified of speaking out, of trying anything, because she held everyone in high regard and believed all her plans would be seen through immediately. Yet, within a few weeks, he had done more for her dream than she had in two decades. And nobody knew; nobody even came close to learning.
Her muscles relaxed all of a sudden as she let go of a toxic breath, lying down onto the furnished sofa and burying her head into a soft, silken pillow, closing her eyes. Her hair spilled over like tendrils of smoke, strands folding over the contours of her face, forming a makeshift mask that hid her expression. She found it all so tiring; she hadn’t slept properly in weeks, always waking up, sweating, wondering whether the sellswords were coming for her. Whether there was a dagger hiding in the shadows, ready to slit her throat.
She began seeing enemies everywhere, even in the faces she found pleasant not too long ago. All eyes were scrutinizing her, it seemed, reading into her soul and heart and writing out her doom. She regretted it, deep down, ever getting into the bed of thorns, ever learning of the Outlander, ever suggesting the madness – she didn’t know what took over her.
A canopy of light suddenly unfolded before her, like a set of curtains drawing back to expose a new stage to a play. A field of immeasurable gold spread, and she, once again, found herself on a familiar stage – one she'd visited frequently throughout her life. Flowers sprung out into golden gems, shining incandescent, and winds swayed in a lovely melody. There was no life besides her, and she doubted even she was among the living. The sky itself was not blue, but white gold, like the sun itself. It was warm, yet not terribly hot; it was calming, cradling, embracing. She belonged here, she felt. It was a dream that woke all other dreams within her; somewhere out there, in the wide, vast world, there was a field just like this one, and there was an emotion that wasn’t made up waiting for her. The sense of calm and peace and love that she never discovered elsewhere in her life. She belonged here.
Unlike before, however, the golden lands shook asudden; bolts of dark, terrible, black and devouring, splintered from the holy sky and bore deep holes into the earth. And those holes began churning fire, spitting it out into rivers that began consuming everything. Her scream was drowned out amidst the screams of the folding darkness that fell from the sky. Weeps of terror, tears of agony, screams of the broken. It was like those stories of war, amidst the fields of gray and red, where a hero stood bloodied and bruised, bearing a flag of his Kingdom, behind him hills of dead haunting him.
From the folding darkness, shadows flew out, much like those bolts; terrible, faceless, hollow creatures of empty eyes that changed their size repeatedly. The invisible lips stretched out into screeches, revealing the boundless abyss within the horrid mouths. The stench overcame the lithe grace, and the gold was sunk into the sea of black and red; dark and fire burned, fought, struggled, and amidst them, she stood wrapped in a bubble. The membrane felt thin, breaking, and cracks began to spread – bit by bit, like a shell, a cocoon of a wild insect, it broke and she flew out – not into a new, wonderful life, but into the scorching pain. She couldn’t breathe. Her voice was snuffed, her lungs filled with the horrible shadows, and she opened her eyes.
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She was back on the sofa, drowned in sweat, shaking in the deep, damp cold. Her breaths turned to whizzed sounds, a terrible need for a cough straining her as she sat up, holding dearly onto the solid surface, still feeling adrift amidst the dark. Her mind a mess, she looked around repeatedly, confirming it was a dream. She was awake now, safe. Safe, she repeated time and again in her mind.
Her holy palace, the sanctum of peace and tranquility, was now corrupted; the only solace she had was now gone, and she was alone, once more. The empty room gave way to the eyes that weren't there, to the lips that didn't speak. She shook the feeling away forcibly, getting up and walking over to the balcony, leaning over the fence, taking deep breaths. It helped; she found herself calming down, the darkened enigmas vanishing. Everything was the same as it was before the dream, yet partly different. Something was different; perhaps it was just her imagination, but the world… seemed a shade bleaker than before, despite the brightly shining sun crowning the cloudless sky above. I must speak to the Wheel… she thought, running.
***
Days were long and dull recently for Sylene Myrsell; even with the looming truth of the Holy War on the horizon, she found it difficult to care for much, or for many. Even drinking the renowned wines and plucking away at the fruits from Beyond the Seas was hardly enough to sate the empty and hollow days that had come to besiege her. More often than once, in recent years, she had wished to have never opened her eyes in the morning, to have quietly walked into the night and vanished into the Light. She had reigned long and hard and had maintained their House when all of it was certain she would burn it to the ground. However, now, she was tired.
A lonely sigh escaped her slightly dried lips as she brought a cup of wine to them and took a sip. Shaded under a massive parasol, she sat on top of the wide terrace overlooking the glistening Sumnner’s River in all its glory. The artery of the Kingdom, the heart that pumped blood in its veins. She had long since grown tired of watching its turbulent movements, however vigorous they may have been. It was dull, like most else.
The terrace, besides her, was empty. Her sons were too busy kissing the feet of Princes to care much for her mother, and her husband… the dull old man must be attending the gardens again. The little joy that she found in life came from watching Fammir, the only man who braved the storm of her House during her early days and asked her hand in marriage. He was never of quick wit, or of courage like other Dukes, but, to her, he was the pillar. When it felt the whole world was against her, he stood by her side, most-likely not even understanding the weight of it.
At that moment, however, a distant face crept into her memories, souring her mood further – her daughter, Claire. She had intended to teach that silly girl, to prepare her and, against the wishes of the Kingdom, usher her into the seat of power – continue the line. She was young and beautiful, and quick of wit as far as Sylene could tell; liked well-enough around the parts, and settled to have any man she wanted. She, however, ended up wanting the wrong one. A very wrong one.
Years later, the bitter taste still lay adrift in Sylene’s sullen heart; she could have had the blooded soldier, she could have had a beggar for all Sylene cared, but she should have waited to have a seat first. In the moment of the rose-colored youthful glee, she had thrown her future away. She was not of quick wit, after all.
“Lady,” a familiar voice of her aged Dacent, pushing a hundred, seemingly requiring to wait out her death until he dies himself, came from behind, though she hardly bothered turning around. She knew the old, aged face full of dents and wrinkles and piss-yellow eyes too well already, and nary a desire to stare at it for any longer. "It is a beautiful day. Why don't you join the Lord in a garden walk?"
“… my feet grew lips this morning, Itto,” she replied hollowly. “And they keep screaming whenever I press them against the ground.”
“They seem to grow lips at will, my Lady,” the old Dacent chuckled bitterly, walking over and sitting on one of the wooden chairs, hiding from the sun. “You are a miracle, it seems.”
“… you are fair leagues older than me, Itto,” she said, glancing at the old man. “Tell me – how do you find it in your bones to still break out into a smile? Hasn’t it all… grown dull?”
"… hardly," the old man replied, glancing at the open sky. "The world is a mysterious and puzzling place, my Lady. I feel… even ten lifetimes wouldn't be enough to make me bored of it."
“I envy you, old man,” Sylene sighed, her gemmed, emerald eyes shining in the gleam of despondence. “To me, the world is as dull today as it was fifty years ago. Full of angry, bitter men shoving cocks into whatever they can, and making cock-shaped things to shove them into those it is sinful to shove them in… what little mysteries and puzzles might still live out there, hardly seem worth watching the cycle of madness repeat itself.”
“… you began having those dreams again?” he asked in a somber tone.
“For some time,” she replied. “Dead and dying decorating the shining floors, Sumnner flowing bloody. There is a change to them, however.”
“A change?” Dacent quizzed.
“I pull back from it,” she said, taking a sip of wine, gazing absentmindedly into the distant nothingness. “And I see darkness swallow the world. And then… it goes away. And there are neither dead nor dying, nor is there a river of blood. Just a veneer of calm… of peace.”
“… darkness never brought peace before, my Lady,” the old man said. “If anything, it is the thing which corrupts the peace into conflict.”
“… spare me the Doctrine’s lines, Itto,” Sylene said, sighing. “I’ve read that book more times than I’ve fucked my husband; and, in contrast to that, it grew more and more awful with each new read.”
“My Lady…”
“… perhaps… darkness is what we need, Itto,” she said, glancing at the old man. “An actual darkness. Something so evil… it reminds us that we can be good. Light, everywhere else, casts a shadow. But not here. Not with us, the Doctrine says. We are too pure for it. Too holy. Perhaps, a long time ago, we may have even been; or, at least, we believed we were. By now… we are well aware of just how broken we’ve become.”
“… broken, maybe… but not yet destroyed,” Itto said, sighing. “Don’t give up on your people yet, my Lady. There is good in us. And we show it every day. We may like sticking swords into each other’s guts, but we like sitting around the dancing flames and singing in joy just as much, if not far more. The First One gave us Light because he believed in that good he saw, the good that beat the evil in us each and every time. And it still holds true.”
“…” Sylene didn't respond, merely glancing at the old man and smiling queerly for a moment before returning to her thoughts. It didn't matter, she thought, that good existed amongst the people when those holding the seats of power are broken shards of glass. If her long, over seven decades long life has taught her anything, it is that it only takes one rotten apple to corrupt a full basket of them. Just the same, it takes one evil to rid hundreds of good, leave them frothing at their lips, maddened at the sight of blood, crazed beyond joy they have slain someone they called a brother a fortnight ago. I should visit the Wheel, she thought. Who knows? It might even smite me… and end this pointless bore…