D’Argen sat staring at his hands as he waited for the meeting at the great hall to end. His feet were wide apart as he hunched over with his elbows on his thighs, so that he could see the trampled earth and focus on its dark soil whenever he saw flashes of red on his fingers. At one point, he noticed dried blood in the fold between skin and nail and he started digging at it to try and get it out. It only made the skin there bleed and then he stared at that in fascination instead.

The mahee should not allow him to harm himself, even something as small as this. Yet he felt no resistance at all other than a pounding in his finger as he dug his nail deeper into the wound.

It was that thought that kept him focused because the other thoughts running through his head were terrifying.

There was a shuffle in the dirt and a pair of golden sandals appeared in his view. The dark skin of the owner’s feet almost matched the earth in colour. It was the colour of life.

“I have been looking for you,” Abbot said but D’Argen refused to look up from the man’s feet.

Abbot was alive. His blood never stained D’Argen’s hands, and his breath never faded away as D’Argen tried to carry him off to safety. In fact, the revolts that brought Abbot down and made him lose his title had not happened at all.

Yet.

And D’Argen did not feel Abbot’s mahee leave. That horrible pain that he knew would come when one of them died. He remembered the pain when Tassikar died – he was the first of them, not Abbot. He remembered the pain of every single one of them that died afterwards. He remembered their names. He remembered the reason why they died.

“—and was hoping you had some advice.”

“I’m sorry, what?” D’Argen finally tuned into Abbot’s words and craned his head back to look at him. Abbot had yet to become known as the artist, even though he dabbled in chalks and stains.

Abbot rolled his eyes, but he was smiling. “Mind if I?” He did not finish the question and motioned to the bench beside D’Argen.

D’Argen nodded and straightened his back. The wound on his finger healed over in moments and he forgot about it. Abbot sat beside him, straddling the bench to face D’Argen.

“I said,” Abbot started, “that I was wondering if you could help me with something. You run all over the place and talk to a lot of people, both us and mortals alike, and I was hoping you can give me some advice.”

“About what?” D’Argen asked, surprised. In this set of memories, Abbot never looked to him for advice. It was too reminiscent of their times millennia from now when Abbot wanted reassurances or directions, wanted someone to give him orders and tell him what to do. D’Argen never thought he deserved the position, but he had taken it up anyway for all three of his friends.

D’Argen missed travelling with them even though they had not travelled together even once. He missed Abbot’s habit of making him stop to enjoy the views he would have breezed past otherwise so the artist could paint them or write a new poem of their beauty. He missed it when Yaling, who loved to talk almost as much as D’Argen himself, was able to start a conversation even in the most awkward of silences. And he missed Lilian… Lilian was his first and closest friend, the one who always reminded him where Evadia was and the one to take him back home.

Lilian was not the same here.

“Are you even here?” Abbot asked, startling D’Argen out of his thoughts.

“Yes! Yes, sorry. I was thinking about something. Not sure how much I can help, but what is troubling you?”

Abbot smiled wide, shuffled close enough for D’Argen’s skin to prickle, then started talking.

“Acela has been receiving missives from some of the eastern lands for centuries now. Mortals asking for advice, asking for a visit, you know? The usual. But sometimes, in between all those, there come a few complaints. And recently, those complaints are about me.”

Yes. That was how the revolt started. It had not been violent. There were a few smaller villages abandoned, some burned, some statues broken, and effigies changed over, but there had been minimal bloodshed – if any at all.

“You see, they worship me as the God of Light, but apparently, that means something different to them. The mortals keep trying to shove me in this tiny box and have expectations of me.”

“Like what?” D’Argen asked, even though he knew the answer.

“Rise before the sun and then bring it out. Help them with their crops. Keep the night away for longer. You know? The usual.” D’Argen did know, so he nodded along. “The thing is, they do not seem to appreciate the light at night. Do not even ask me how that makes sense. In fact, Acela shared one of the missives and whoever wrote it complained that I was corrupting their young! Not in those words, mind you, but Acela took it seriously.”

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“Corrupting? How so?” D’Argen remembered this conversation, even though Abbot had not been speaking to him when it happened before. He followed along with the script as best as he could, trying to remember what Vain had focused on when he made his notes.

Vain. D’Argen glanced around the ground floor of the great hall but did not see the historian anywhere.

“—and, apparently, drinking alcohol is frowned upon in some areas. As if they did not base their entire religion on me. I drink! I like my tobacco and alcohol and women, you know that. But they have gone to the point of banning sex before marriage in a few places! In fact, listen to this, they wanted me to marry the last girl I slept with! Preposterous!”

D’Argen nodded along though he stopped paying attention to the words.

“—and I mean, it is not like we can procreate like they can, anyway.”

“Sorry!” D’Argen suddenly shot up when he saw Vah’mor descent the stairs from the upper floors. “Look, Abbot. You have nothing to worry about. Mortals will be mortals. Their morals and ideas change over time and nothing you can do about it. Be you. I have to go now.” With those quick words in parting, he rushed the stairs, lifting his chin to Vah’mor as they passed, then up them.

Darania and Upates went down the stairs as soon as he was up them, but Acela and Zetha remained.

“I have to talk to you about something,” D’Argen announced himself to the two, even though he was looking at Acela.

“Is it urgent?” she asked without looking up from the paper between her and Zetha. If D’Argen remembered correctly, they were looking at plans for the foundation of the castle. However, a few things were already out of order, so he would not be surprised if they were looking at a list of supplies or names of enemies.

“Yes! Very.” His tone must have been enough to convince her because Acela looked up at him.

“Both of us?” she asked.

D’Argen glanced at Zetha. While it did concern both of them, he knew it would be harder to talk to the two of them at once. Acela could convince Zetha, while D’Argen could only lay out facts without proof that Zetha would easily dismiss.

Acela made a motion with one hand. Zetha leaned over, kissed her cheek, then walked off with the paper, leaving the two alone.

“Is this private enough?” she asked.

The railing overlooking the ground floor was low and they could hear chatter from there, but if they spoke quietly, they would not be heard. Yaling had yet to create her shared spell of enhancing hearing.

“You must not ask Upates to look into procreation,” he blurted out.

“Excuse me?” Acela looked more surprised than anything else.

“I know your daughter died recently, my condolences again, but adopting mortal children to raise is better than the alternative.”

“And what alternative is that?”

“Asking Upates for help. He cannot do it.”

“How do you know?”

D’Argen hesitated, unsure how to answer her without appearing insane. He should have thought this through, but as soon as the memory came to him, he rushed to the great hall and asked for an audience with Acela.

“You just… you can’t.” D’Argen waved his arms around, trying to demonstrate how important it was.

“Is this your urgent matter?” Acela asked with a dismissive tone.

“Just, trust me. Something bad will happen. Really bad. Do not ask him of this.”

Acela narrowed her eyes on him but said nothing. After a long and awkward moment of silence, D’Argen raised his chin high to the sky and bared his neck to her. “My apologies,” he muttered out and then turned on his heel and left.

If there was a chance, even a tiny one, of him changing this one memory – he would do everything in his power to do so. At the moment, the only way he could think of doing that was to either fabricate the history proving what could happen or reaching into the future to see it. The first would be discovered immediately. The second was impossible.

Currently.

D’Argen walked past Abbot, already talking to Vain and continuing the conversation D’Argen had abandoned, and then he ran right out and to that crooked house further out of the centre where he knew the God of Time resided. Olde could not see in the future yet, but if it had not already, D’Argen would plant the seed of his mathematical formulas in his mind and maybe, soon, it would be possible.

Olde welcomed him into the house with a grin and excitement making his frail body vibrate. He led D’Argen into his room on the first floor of the house where he walked the runner through his latest experiment. Though D’Argen could not understand most of it, he did see the beginnings of what he needed.

“This is all going completely over my head,” D’Argen admitted after over an hour of Olde trying to explain his latest mathematical formulas to him. It was not completely true, but it was not a lie either. D’Argen remembered studying this, but had not used it since.

“I have a question for you, though,” D’Argen jumped in before Olde could try and break it down into simpler terms. “Is it possible to predict the future using past events?”

“What? No, it—” Olde suddenly cut himself off and stared off into the corner. “I mean… it… maybe?”

“For example, I can say that I know that venison will be served for dinner at the hall tonight, because I saw a hunting party go out earlier.”

“I mean, it is a probability. You cannot know for sure. They could have gone south into the fields instead of the forest. It could be a different season and…”

D’Argen remained quiet, letting Olde ramble on about all the possibilities. When Olde flipped his board and started drawing with chalk on the blank side, D’Argen smiled. He got comfortable in the stool he had sat in earlier and watched as magic came into being through math.

The mathematical formulas were one thing, but once Olde applied his mahee to them, the man would be able to see into both the past and the future. Not very far, but far enough to make a point. D’Argen made sure that Olde was watered and fed and that everything he erased from his boards was committed to paper before it disappeared. D’Argen would need proof to give Acela.

When the sun was rising, it entered through the window at a certain angle that made D’Argen squint his eyes. That was when he noticed the white shade that sat on the second stool Olde had pulled out and quickly abandoned. D’Argen did not turn to face it fully, afraid it would disappear, but he did see the edge of a smile out of the corner of his eye.

D’Argen quickly corrected the thought in his mind.

Not the white shade.

Thar.

Thar was the one sitting beside him and D’Argen was tempted to reach over and hold the man’s hand, even as Olde walked through his visage.