Chapter 178
Southward
Sylas stared at the strange sight, perchance one that nobody would ever see again. Surrounded by at least eight-nine feet of snow, there was an entourage of people standing near the castle’s wide-open gates, eighteen wagons in total being pulled by forty-three horses, with fourteen more in the reserves.
Surrounding the wagons were hundreds of the confused souls, still wondering why they were doing something as moronic as migrating southward in the middle of winter--no, in the middle of the Cold Snap, the winter of winters. Nonetheless, it was a Royal Order, one stamped by the word of the Prophet, no less.
Everyone wore at least three layers of clothing, though still felt chill. Perhaps it was imaginary, as the sheer sight of the snow was enough to freeze one’s soul, but it was chill nonetheless.
Valen sat in one of the leading wagons, flanked by Ryne who was currently sleeping, Derrek who was reading a book, and the head Butler and Maid on the opposite ends. He was told by Sylas to prepare for departure, but to not leave without him. As such, all he could do was remain seated.
He did so for nearly half a day longer before a commanding shout came from the outside, waking Ryne up at last. The young girl yawned as Derrek peeked out the window into the distance, his face growing strange at the sight he was witnessing. After all, there, in the distance, was a pair of... oddly dressed people. No, perhaps ‘dressed’ was an overstatement. After all, one of them wore a simple, summer dress and was barefoot, while the other just wore knee-long trousers, of all things.
And yet, it wasn’t even the strangest sight--for wherever they walked, the snow and the winter seemed to give way. There was a wide path that they had carved, it felt, where dry land reigned even deep in the Cold Snap.
“I’ll be damned,” Derrek mumbled as he helped struggling Valen glance out the window as well.
“Is... is that Sylas?”
“Seems like it.”
“Why... why is he topless?” Valen asked, a strange look on his face.
“Why is he anything?” Derrek shrugged. “Evidently, Prophets don’t feel the cold.”
“Then what about the woman next to him?” Valen probed further.
“It seems... warmth of gods covers all those that are nearby. Perhaps, this is what he meant?”
Sylas watched the long line of the wagons and people staring at him with gaping jaws, and the peeking heads from within the wooden frames. Asha stood by his side, holding back from snickering; after all, they all looked at him as though he were some kind of a beast rather than a man. Sighing and shrugging his shoulders, he pressed forward and crossed into the castle, limbering toward Valen’s wagon and stopping.
“Everything’s ready?” he asked the Prince who, also, had a strange look on his face.
“Yes. As you asked. Can I--”
“You can’t,” Sylas interrupted. “Order the march, then.”
Soon after, a mighty and majestic horn blew out into the foggy and snow day, loud enough to shake the layers of snow surrounding the castle. It was the signal--the signal to begin. Under everyone’s astonished eyes, they watched the path melt open and dry, the snow dispersing like smoke in the wind. It was a sight unlike any other--for the world around them was snow and winter-laden, while the world nearby was akin to springtime, though lacking in the greenery.
Sylas and Asha were at the front, the former guzzling some wine gingerly, while the latter nibbled away at some leaves. Behind them, the main guard charged around the decoy wagon housing Prince’s decoy. It was the most decorated wagon of them all for that purpose, while the Prince’s actual wagon was very much alike the rest and was third in the line, strategically so.
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It was pointless, though Sylas never raised a complaint. This was simply how the world operated, his strength notwithstanding. Whether the Prince ascended, eerily enough, had little to do with Sylas’ actual strength. Though it would likely play part, it would mainly be up to the Prince to convince the Kingdom he would be able to lead them.
No, it will be down to the strength, in the end, Sylas sighed. This wasn’t the kind of the world where pretty and flowery words could crown a King. Even more so considering that Sylas wasn’t certain what his fate after the fact would be. If his life would end, he’d be unable to defend the Prince. And a cripple who can’t lift a dagger proper, let alone a sword, could hardly withstand the mighty winds of inevitable change.
“What do you look so worried for?” Asha asked him.
“... what will happen in the end,” Sylas replied honestly.
“In the end? You mean, the end of the world?”
“Funny.”
“I learn.”
“The end of this call,” he said, glancing back. “When the kid begets the crown, what will happen to me?”
“Are you worried you might become a mortal, at last?”
“Hopeful more than worried,” he said. “Though doubtful still.”
“Why? Are you really that angry at being unable to die?” she quizzed.
“... it’s not that,” Sylas replied after a moment’s silence. “It’s the uncertainty.”
“Uncertainty?”
“The reason why people appreciate life,” he said. “Is because they know the limits. Maybe they turn 60, or 70, or perhaps even 80 and 90. For the few, they might even cross into the vaunted three digits land. But... that’s it. Soon after, the reaper comes. Because of the knowing, they can devote themselves to living. What about me, though? I have no certainties, either way. Maybe I die right after clearing the quest, or maybe I just turn mortal. Or, maybe yet, I become truly immortal and live forever. Or there’s some other option that I hadn’t even remotely considered.”
“...”
“I’m not scared of dying or living forever,” he said. “I’m scared of nothing, really. Just... tired of ignorance.”
“... but is there certainty even for the ordinary people?” she quizzed.
“What do you mean?”
“How many wonder whether there’s another life after,” she said. “Or whether they’ll be reborn. How many are only shielded by the hope that sixty or ninety years won’t be all there is to the life? Besides, what about those that die early? A nine year old child falls sick with fever, and dies. What about his certainty?”
“...”
“There’s no certainty in anything we experience, Sylas,” she said, smiling gently. “Everyone lives with the same fears of tomorrow. It’s just that their tomorrow is soon, and yours distant. But the fear is the same--what after?”
“You sound like you’re above it.”
“Hardly,” she chuckled. “I fear many things. I fear I might not remember my heart the next time you die. I fear you might not come back the next time you die. I fear that you’ll die after the boy becomes the King. I fear that the time will wane our minds and grind them down to the nothingness.”
“... man, I thought you had some courage,” Sylas poked with a grin.
“Isn’t my greatest act of courage having fallen in love with a man who can’t die?”
“Isn’t mine having done to same with a woman who can?”
“Yes, but it’s a curse--for as long as you live, so will I. All the cards are in your hands. Not just of my fate. But theirs, too,” she glanced back at the wagon. They had been walking along for nearly twenty minutes now, and the looks of shock still persisted. “Don’t disappoint us.”
“Haah, you really are a witch,” Sylas sighed, looking up at the muddy sky. “My tiny-teeny shoulders can’t hold any more weight, you know?”
“Tiny?” she looked at him askew. “If they were any wider, we’d call them a bridge.”
“...”
“...”
“That was a good one.”
“Thank you. As I said, I learn.”
The road turned silent, at least at the front. Behind them, conversations unfurled like carpets, many of wonder and awe, questions blazing. However, there were no answers past one--’Prophet’. Every miracle was attributed to that, by wise and unwise.
Valen peeked out of the window once again and toward the front where the two were leading. It was as he promised--the journey was... smooth. In fact, he had to take off several layers of clothes as he was getting too hot. He wasn’t alone--everyone realized that the temperatures were no longer even winter-like. It was as though springtime descended in full, in sight and in touch.
Taking a deep breath, the Prince felt his lungs fill with hope. When he was banished north, he thought he would die before he would see anything besides cold stone ever again. Hope was completely eradicated from within him, and he felt hopelessly abandoned and tossed aside. And yet, like a cosmic gift from the gods, Sylas appeared--a strange Prophet, unlike any other as the stories depicted them, took charge and gave him the dream--the dream of the throne.
That dream never changed, not even when he was crippled. It stayed strong and tall and burning. And now... now they were travelling south, led by the broad shoulders of a figure that seemed taller than the sky, unafraid. He would be King, his heart was singing to him. And he would wear a Crown. And for as long as he would reign, he would have a Prophet to guide him. His heart was singing relentlessly, and even his rational mind was slipping.
I will become the King, he thought. I really will...