A short section from the manual of Draxian Bureaucrats

Remember, Three times we document, three times we note, and three times we file. The great machine we call civilization operates on a steady diet of paper. Go out and feed it.

The sun is close to setting by the time I get to the manor. The angle of the light fills the city with wild shadows. They writhe out from innocuous places like barrels, lamps, or open windows, each shadow becoming an amorphous creature of imagination. It gives Everwall an almost sinister appearance.

I may only think this because of my destination. There is something daunting about going back to the manor after what had happened last time. Despite my injuries and mental exhaustion, I’d rather take on a horde of shadow monsters than speak to my mother.

Three of the four guards at the entrance to the manor perk up when they see me, with the last one leaning against the gate and puffing away at some sort of cigar. Each of them wears the armor of Everwall, a cobalt blue piece of cloth that would generously be called a tabard over a mixture of leather armor. For the first time since the change, however, the armor looks sturdy and useful. Overlapping strips, fastened together by metal rivets, cover their torsos, reinforced shoulder guards reach down to the middle of their arms, and their legs are protected by a series of interconnected pieces. The armor looks like it could take a beating and still keep its wearer protected.

Of course, their more impressive appearance is offset by the looks of awe that they give me as I walk up to them. The closest guard calls out to me as I approach. “Cael! Welcome back sir.”

I wince. “Just Cael. No need for the sir.”

He nods his head vigorously. As I begin to walk past them and through the gate, he reaches out with his hand and, almost as if questioning his own decision, pulls it back after a second. I slow down and turn to him, raising an eyebrow in question.

“Sir – Sorry, Cael. We were just wondering … were you really the one who taught The Angel?” he asks nervously.

I stare at him blankly. “The Angel?”

A gruff and smoky voice answers from behind. “The romantic idiot’s talking about Joselin.”

The guard turns beet red and looks over my shoulder. “Shut up Greg”, he whines. Turning back to me, his voice now filled with worship and adoration, he continues. “I respect her too much to call her anything less. She’s a saint. An angel. Healing us without asking for anything in return…”

His voice trails off after a few seconds, as if he’s lost in his own memories, and then he snaps back, smiling sheepishly at me. “So … is it true that you taught her?”

I feel caught in a bind. It’s obvious that these men, minus the smoker in the back, revere Joselin. If I tell them the truth, then the most likely outcome is that the myth surrounding me will get even larger and that’s the last thing that I want. Unfortunately, I can’t lie because our training was obvious and in the open.

Reluctantly, I nod my head, not saying anything. The man’s eyes widen and tear up slightly, glistening with emotion. He falls to his knees in front of me and tries to grab my hand. I pull them back but he looks up at me, a few tears pooling on his eyes, and says, “Teacher of the Angel. I don’t know what to say. I’m only here today because of you.”

He continues talking in this manner as I uncomfortably nod my head and step around him, walking past and trying my best to ignore the looks that I’m getting from the kneeling guard and his friends.

It takes me a few seconds but I manage to get past them and through the gate, although it fills me with a deep sense of unease. The mythos surrounding me had been getting worse but I never expected it to get to the point where people would be so awed that they fell to their knees in front of me. Had training Joselin really made that much of a difference or was there some other influence at work?

The thoughts follow me as I walk down the stone path and into the manor, pushing open the front door. It smoothly slides open, not making a sound, and exposes something that shocks me to my core.

With a bottle filled with some amber liquid clutched in her right hand, my mother sits on the floor, her back leaning against the couch, and looks up at the ceiling. Her hair is unkempt, small strands going off in their own random directions, and she isn’t wearing any makeup. I can see dark bags under her eyes, which stare into nothingness with a haunted expression.

“Mom!” I yell, dashing over and kneeling in front of her. The words shock her out of the stupor and she shakes her head. Her eyes focus in on me as she begins to sob, choking out a few nonsensical words before fully devolving into tears.

In all my life, I’ve never seen her in this kind of a state. She had always been the stoic and stalwart anchor of my family, never showing more emotion than was necessary, even if she cared. The idea that something could bring her to this state … frightens me.

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“Mom what’s going on? Are you okay?” I ask, gently taking the bottle out of her hand and placing it on the coffee table, a few feet away out of her reach.

She struggles through her words, obviously drunk. “You’re alive … thank god … sent my baby boy to die … after a fight … terrible mom … I’m so s-sorry”

I try not to show it but I’m completely taken aback. Not once in my entire life had my mom ever displayed or admitted to her emotion like she was now. I’d always known that it had existed underneath the stoic exterior but this is a rare glimpse into the inner workings of my mother.

And I’m discovering that despite my infallible mental image of her, she’s just as human as any of us.

Hiding my stump, I put my right hand on top of hers and whisper in a comforting tone. “It’s all right Mom, it’s all right. I’m alive and I avenged Marc. The man isn’t going to hurt anyone else anymore.”

She freezes, looking up at me. “He – He’s dead?”

I nod and she begins to cry again. This time, however, they are tears of relief. The burden had obviously rested on her shoulders for a long time and had taken its toll. Hopefully, this will help lessen the load. Tears falling down her face, she whispers, “I’m so sorry Cael, I almost ruined everything.”

“What are you talking about?” I respond gently.

“The command … I don’t know what came over me. I’ve been regretting it ever since. I could barely leave the house and then when you didn’t come back …” She sobs at the thought, “I thought you’d been killed like Marc. And it was all my fault.”

I squeeze her hand with all the love that I can impart. I’d always known that she’d placed unreasonably large burdens upon herself but never to the degree that she is admitting to right now. In a way, it reminds me of how I used to be, especially right after I came back. I’d put the responsibility for everything that happened upon myself, even if I didn’t have the means or ability to change those circumstances.

It was only through a combination of Octavian’s words, training with my team, and Peter’s death, that finally taught me the lesson that I’d been struggling with for so long; it’s impossible for one person to control everything. Every person has agency and is able to make their own decisions. I can’t control their choices. All I can control is how I react to them.

“Even if I had died, it wouldn’t have been your fault Mom. It was my decision to become a Candidate, not yours.”

She sniffs and gathers herself for a second. “But I made it w-worse. I don’t know what came over me … I just … I never let myself deal with how I felt and it all just came out.” Taking my hand, she pulls it towards herself and grips it tightly, looking at me in the eyes. “I’m so sorry, Cael.”

Any anger or frustration I had felt towards her melts away at this moment. It’s hard to remain upset with someone, especially your family, when they show that they are truly sorry.

“It’s alright, I forgive you.”

We hug for a few moments and then spend the next hour just making small talk. It’s obvious that she’s still in a fragile emotional state but I know that she’ll recover quickly and bounce back to what I remember her as. That’s just how she is.

After about an hour of talking, I excuse myself from the situation and leave the manor. The scent of the sea carries itself over the breeze as my steps take me down towards the docks. I travel by the main road, lost in my own thoughts as I try to figure out what my next steps will be.

It’s while I’m walking down this road that my eyes narrow and I notice something that’s been fluttering around the edge of my awareness. A soft blue glow surrounds me in a strangely familiar way and it’s only then that I notice that a series of posts have been raised all along the road.

Each light originates from its own tall pole on the side of the road. The poles themselves rise ten feet off the ground like the lampposts of our old world. A thick base quickly slims to a thin center and then widens as it reaches the top. They appear to be forged from a burnished iron, but it is the light at the top that really gets my attention.

The blue light, which looks strangely similar to my own Mana, emanates from a small sphere placed on top of each of the poles. Upon careful inspection, I realize that the spheres seem to be built from the metal that Alejandro had found. And that’s when it hits me. This is why Alejandro hadn’t been able to come with me.

He had been working on bringing light to Everwall.

Spinning around in glee, I can’t help myself from feeling an immense welling of pride within my chest. No matter what I had managed to accomplish in the Primus Trials, my teammates and friends were making an even larger impact on the life of the average person. Joselin with her healing, Hakim training the guards, and now Alejandro with his technology. They are all contributing in ways that I never could.

Fully intending to praise Alejandro the next time I see him, I follow his lampposts down to the docks and quickly walk out onto them, staring at the choppy water just a foot below me. There’s something beautiful about open water. It’s peaceful and chaotic, a harmonious duality whose match I’ve never found.

I quickly gather a dozen planks of spare wood and strap them together with ropes made of Mana. Placing it on the water, I watch it bob up and down for a few seconds. Once I’m sure it won’t sink, I take out the man’s head from my pack and place it down on the hastily constructed raft. A gentle push sends it drifting off on top the water. The only sound is the lapping of the waves against the dock, a consistent but soft crash as they wash around them towards the shore.

“I hated you, you know that? Marc would be alive and well if you hadn’t come back. But I also sympathized with you. No one else here could understand what it was like. The fear of not coming back. The terror of being on another world. In a way, I understand what happened to you. So I just want to say this before you’re gone forever …. I forgive you. I won’t parade you around Everwall like some trophy. The least I can do is give you is a private send-off. Rest in peace”

Having said all I want to, I snap my fingers and the Mana holding the raft together instantly transforms into vicious fire, engulfing the wood and the head placed on it. I turn around and walk away, my steps lit by the orange glow of the funeral pyre.

Now to plan for the Tournament. But before that I need to figure out what to do about my hand.