D’Argen did not have a house of his own in Evadia. The city was growing rapidly, but the castle had not even been mentioned—to his knowledge—let alone his rooms. There was a room he used to sleep in, when he visited the city, in one of the older wooden houses. It had four wooden pallets with thin straw mattresses that were obviously used more often than he was ever there. The neatly folded blankets at the foot of one of the beds revealed which one was his to use. Two of the others had blankets that were roughly thrown on the pallets and one of the pallets had nothing at all.

He looked around the small room as soon as he closed the door behind him. The desk in the corner was stacked with multiple bags on it, a few pieces of clothes thrown on both the desk and chair, and even a few pairs of boots and shoes at its feet.

There was only a single window in the room, right over the desk, and though another house was opposite and not much light made it in, the room did not feel stuffy.

D’Argen was not sure who the other two occupants were at the moment, but he knew they would not be back soon.

After returning to Evadia with Abbot in tow, he let the artist spread the rumour of the demons through the vines and went into hiding himself. Acela would know. All he had to do now, was wait for her to shut down Upates’ experiments.

He moved inside the room and sat on the edge of the bed ready for him. He leaned down, resting his elbows on his knees and hunching over to look at the wood under his boots. It was dark, stained, and old. It probably would not last another decade, if that, without somebody taking care of it.

His eyes roved over the faded whorls and new cracks, trying to memorize their pattern, and focusing on that instead of the thoughts swirling through his head. The room got so dark that he was tracing the cracks in the wood out of memory rather than sight.

Thar’s shade was the only bright spot in the room, even though it too, was faded in the dark. It stood, completely still, in the corner. When D’Argen chanced a glance in his direction, it was to see the man leaning against the wall with his feet crossed at the ankle and his arms crossed over his chest. His face was formed into a scowl, even as it was turned away to look at the window rather than at D’Argen.

“What do you expect me to do?” D’Argen finally cracked and asked. His voice was raspy and hoarse, as if he had not spoken in days.

Thar turned only his eyes to look at him before looking away again.

D’Argen felt judged.

“I can only sit and wait,” D’Argen tried to defend himself.

Thar said nothing, as always before.

D’Argen could not remember ever hearing the man’s voice, not in this set of memories at least. He knew Thar had spoken to him in the other set, but his voice was so distant and warbled by overlapping thoughts and events that D’Argen was not sure he could even taste it properly.

“Is any of this real?” D’Argen finally dared to whisper, tearing his eyes away from Thar’s shade and focusing back on the patterns in the wood. His eyes had adjusted enough to the dark to see the deeper cracks, but the whirls were all from memory. Memory.

He looked up, hoping for an answer, but Thar’s shade was gone.

When he looked back down, the light from outside was bright enough to reveal every whorl and swirl he had missed earlier. Some were so faded and worn that it looked almost intentionally smoothed, while the cracks were so deep and many that it looked like the wood would break any second.

D’Argen shifted.

Time had changed again.

He leaned back and the straw mattress under him was so bare it was like there was nothing inside the cloth holding it together. When he reached for the blankets, his hand made a cloud of dust rise. A look at the desk revealed it mostly empty, save for a pair of leather boots beside it that were flaking from disuse.

He was going insane. His head was hurting again. He collapsed back into the bed, hitting his head against the wooden wall on his fall, but only shifted just enough to straighten out his neck. The pain from the bump was nothing compared to the stabbing behind his eyes and between his brows. He closed his eyes tight and dropped his hands over his eyes, hoping that keeping them closed and in the dark would lessen the headache. The stabbing moved to his temples, and he pressed there harder with the heels of his hands.

A knock on the door had him shifting just enough to make the scabbard of his sword—when had he gotten a new one?—shift so that the hilt was within easy reach. The thought of the long blade at his side made his fingers itch. When the door opened, he lifted his hands and opened his eyes. Two of his fingers on his right hand had thin scars at the tips in a straight line. He startled. In order for his body to scar, the wounds must have either been really deep or he must have kept reopening them. As if from holding a bow string too tight for too long.

“Acela has been asking for you,” Tradiel announced when they entered the room. The scent of stale water followed them inside and D’Argen wrinkled his nose in distaste. Tradiel did not move to him, instead going to the desk where a pack waited for them. “Have you been here the whole time?”

D’Argen hummed in response, though even he was not sure if it was in agreement or denial.

Tradiel did not seem to care either way and opened their pack. D’Argen glanced over just as Tradiel started disrobing. He watched with calculation as skin was revealed in long swatches until Tradiel stood there completely bare. The other’s body did nothing to affect D’Argen. He wondered for a moment if, in fact, Abbot had been right long ago and there was something wrong with him. He had seen Cana completely in the nude and in the middle of her sexual rites, the scent of intoxication making even the strictest around her flush with arousal, yet he felt nothing at the time.

Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.

Thinking back on it now, he tried to remember if there was ever a moment when something other than curiosity had him reaching for another body like that. Then he remembered a sudden heat, pouring down his throat like hot honey and sticking to every part inside him as it settled in his groin. He remembered sitting on someone’s lap as that heat consumed him while he tried to breathe the same air as—

Thar.

He quickly snapped to look for the shade in the corner, where he last saw it, but it was empty. Then he remembered the cavern where the two of them had embraced and the thought had him flushing even as the heat started travelling south.

Tradiel shifted, the sound of skin brushing against skin and bones rearranging. There was a loud groan and D’Argen watched as Tradiel changed their form. They had decided on a masculine figure today, broad shoulders that lead into a thick waist, firm buttocks and even firmer thighs, coarse hair on their chest, stomach, and groin that matched the brown on their head. A beard, thick but neatly trimmed, and brows so heavy they made Tradiel’s eyes squint in shadows.

“Any news from Upates?” D’Argen asked when he felt the heat inside him dissipate. It was not an insult to Tradiel, they looked beautiful no matter what form they took. It was just that D’Argen did not feel an attraction to Tradiel in any sense other than the awe at which they could change their body to suit their needs.

“No?” Tradiel answered, but it sounded like a question. “Should there be?”

“Just wondering if he is still doing his experiments.”

“Should be. No changes. Not that anybody would tell me.” Tradiel’s voice became much deeper with each word they spoke. By the end, it almost matched their new appearance. They got dressed in a new set of robes, ones that stretched on their wide shoulders and left their chest bare.

“He, today?” D’Argen murmured the question.

“For now,” Tradiel responded and pulled their long hair out from behind the robe. “I will see you around, no?”

D’Argen nodded in response and sat up when Tradiel left. He closed the door behind him softly and his heavy steps sounded down the short hall to the main door. D’Argen turned to look at the ruffled blanket beside him, the one that a moment ago had thrown up a cloud of dust from disuse yet was now crumpled as if recently used.

He remembered the cavern. But he also remembered the aftermath. He remembered Lilian’s death, in both sets of memories, though he was only witness to it in one. He remembered the avalanche he had caused when that heat inside him turned to ice, and he used up all of his mahee. All of Thar’s mahee too. Then he considered.

Delcaus had never said anything at all about his experience after he moved the mountain. It had yet to happen in this set of memories but, if Tradiel’s brief news was true, it was going to happen regardless. Decades, Delcaus had spent unconscious after using up most of his mahee, and when he awoke, he said he only felt sore.

But now, D’Argen considered it was something else. Delcaus had acted sore for years to follow, his shoulders stooped and head heavy. Maybe, it was because he had experienced what D’Argen was experiencing now.

It was not another set of memories, it was not him going crazy, it was the mahee trying to give his mind something to focus on while it tried to heal his body. He wondered, for a moment, where exactly his body even was. Were they still in the north? Was his body covered in the ice and snow that he had brought down on them all? Or was he somewhere safe with Darania watching over him and caring for him, as she had for Delcaus during the first few decades.

How long would it take until he awoke? He had already been here for three and a half millennia and if he could awake before the deaths started—he stuttered at that thought, remembering holding Lilian’s lifeless body in his arms.

The itch of his mahee, urging him to run, had him out of the room and tiny house before he even registered the thought. The way his mahee acted, distracting him from deeper thoughts, only made him search for Thar’s shade at his side.

As he crossed the city streets to get to the wide centre and the stone hall, Thar’s shade appeared. When he neared the hall though, thinking that was where Thar wanted him to go, Thar’s figure disappeared, and another replaced it.

Vah’mor stopped walking and crossed their arms over their chest. They looked around in all directions, as if searching for something, and their silver eyes passed over D’Argen as fast as they did everything else. After confirming something, Vah’mor uncrossed their arms and started walking.

D’Argen followed without knowing the reason why.

The wide street they walked down would eventually become the main road that connected the centre circle with the castle of Evadia. Now, it led to the skirt of a lonely and short mountain and the forest that had yet to be cut down for wood to build more.

When they entered the forest, Vah’mor took one step around a tree and Darania walked out the other side. D’Argen’s mahee was the only reason the surprise did not make him stumble and fall. The next time, Darania’s slight form changed to Tassikar’s. D’Argen thought for a moment that Tradiel was playing tricks on him, yet the changes were too smooth, and the clothes changed as well. D’Argen did not say anything and followed quietly.

When Asa, the newest form, stopped near a cave, D’Argen stopped beside a tree. Asa looked right at him, though their face did not change to indicate they had seen him at all. It was Sa’ab that entered the cave and D’Argen followed. D’Argen had never been here before, not that he could recall, in either set of memories. The path that Sa’ab started turned into many winding steps down natural tunnels and through small caverns, descending into darkness until Sa’ab became Simeal, yet Simeal used the naturalist aspect to shine a light from her hand.

On and on they went and, at one point, Simeal turned to Santis and stopped. It felt like he was waiting for D’Argen to catch up to his circle of light. Once D’Argen did, Santis continued walking without acknowledging him.

Until they reached a small cavern that had no other way out. There, Santis and his light disappeared and D’Argen was thrown into complete darkness. He panicked, reaching for the stone around him, but found nothing at all. On his next step, there was no ground under his feet either, though he had not seen a hole when there was still light. He fell.

The darkness around him enveloped him even as wind whipped at his robes and hair. He screamed and opened his mahee, hoping to touch something, anything, to help him push off and run. But there was nothing at all. His voice disappeared into the void and then the darkness ran down his throat. He closed his eyes tight and could do nothing but wait for the impact.

When it came, it was to a straw mattress under his ass that was too empty to be comfortable. He opened his eyes to worn wooden whirls and swirls, and deep cracks in between that made it feel like the wood would break any day now. A moment later, there was a warning knock on the door and then it swung open.

“Acela has been asking for you,” Tradiel announced and walked in.

D’Argen wanted to cry.