Sleep did not come for Jasper that night. Whenever he dared close his eyes, the images of the villagers’ tortured and flayed bodies marched in front of him in a macabre parade, while their wailing children lined their streets, their faces twisted in agony and accusation.
In theory, Jasper knew that the villagers’ fates weren’t his fault. It was the reckless cruelty of the men of Mut-La’is̆, cruelty that put to shame even that of the Brotherhood of Yas̆gah, that was to blame, but Jasper couldn’t entirely write off the feeling of guilt that haunted him. It had been his decision, after all, to travel with the rest of the durgu, despite knowing that the village was under attack. If he had simply cast Spectral Wings, he could have reached them sooner and maybe even arrived in time to save a few of them.
Of course, if he had done so, he would have also delivered himself directly into the assassins’ trap; perhaps the only thing he would have accomplished is that he and Tsia would have joined the horde of shades waiting for S̆ams̆ādur's arrival. If anything, the situation proved that he was right to be cautious but, unfortunately, feelings weren't obligated to be rational. He tossed and turned on his bed, sweating despite the cool of the night as the images of the sacrificed villagers and the cries of their wailing children filled his mind.
After several hours of fruitless attempts to fall asleep, he gave up. Rising, Jasper put his armor on before exiting the tent. The durgu had set up camp just outside the village, with the children sleeping safely in the one undamaged cottage, while the durgū’s tents were arrayed in a protective shield around them. All was silent in the camp, with everyone else apparently able to sleep save for himself and the handful of guards they'd posted at the edge of camp.
Slipping past them with a nod, he wandered into the countryside, heading for the lazy river that snaked through the nearly ripe wheat fields that surrounded the village. Ignoring the well-traveled paths, Jasper waded into the fields of thigh-high wheat until he reached the banks of the river. There weren’t many large trees on the open western plains, but as often happens, the rich alluvial soil and copious amounts of water created a microclimate around the river, allowing for a small, but dense, patch of forest around its banks.
Pushing his way through the underbrush, he found a spot beneath a willow and plopped down. Then, he pulled his boots off and dipped his feet into the river, sighing as the cool, sluggish waters wiped away the dirt and heat of the day. Leaning back against the tree, he gazed up at the sky, where a thousand stars blazed with light, the grand celestial court gathered around its eternal queen, Lady Selene.
The moon was mesmerizing, its pale face larger and brighter than it should be, and he found himself transfixed. Even after meeting Kas̆dael, religious faith did not come easily to Jasper. Decades of doubt could not be overturned so quickly - plus, they weren’t exactly his gods, after all. No matter how quickly he’d adjusted to living in Corsythia, he still didn’t think of it as home - he still hadn’t abandoned the idea of someday returning to earth. Yet, as he gazed up at the celestial queen, he found himself understanding why they worshiped her.
The words sprang to his lips unbidden, half-spoken muttered to himself, and half aimed at Lady Selene. “Did I do the wrong thing? I just wanted to fulfill Kas̆dael’s quest…to protect S̆ams̆ādur from those assassins…and to run off by myself like an idiot. But how many died because I held back?”
“I…” He trailed off, words failing him as he stared mutely at the river. The moon shone brightly in the sluggish waters, its face so large that the reflection seemed to stretch from one riverbank to the other.
He watched it without really seeing, his mind so lost in thought he did not notice as the bright visage of the moon slowly morphed into a luminous face. Starlight gleamed in the sapphire eyes that opened, worlds and galaxies trapped in her lustrous orbs, and the water rippled and darkened around her face until it resembled the writhing locks of her jet-black hair.
“SLEEP.” Jasper didn’t stir as she spoke, but her word, though spoken at a whisper, was born aloft by the wind. The reeds swayed, the boughs shook as her command washed over him, and he slumped against the tree in a dreamless sleep.
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With a start, Jasper opened his eyes and stared up at the endless, starless sky. The bitter, almost hungry, cold of the void pressed down on him, and he rubbed his arms absently to generate warmth, although the cold no longer bothered him as it once had. Rising to his feet, he glanced around in confusion at his surroundings. How did I get here without meditating? And where in the void am I?
Ever since the first time he’d reached Kas̆dael’s temple, S̆uhruru, he’d woken up there whenever he’d meditated, but that wasn’t where he found himself now. Of course, I didn’t meditate either, he realized. Instead, he seemed to have spawned in an abandoned courtyard beneath the boughs of a long withered tree.
A sea of dead leaves lay around it, so old that they disintegrated into dust as he trod on them, spinning around as he searched the courtyard for an exit. High walls surrounded him, covered in thick white plaster that had crumbled away in many places to reveal the solid stone and topped with a row of sharp iron spikes that, despite their age, had somehow failed to crumble into rust. There was no exit, however, save for the single door that led into the adjoining home, and he hesitated a moment, unsure if he wished to go in. After all, with Spectral Wings, the walls were no true obstacle.
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After a second, curiosity won out and he headed for the door. The bronze handle was frozen with age, and it took a few solid kicks before the door begrudgingly swung open, revealing the inside.
Thick layers of dust caked everything in the home, so long abandoned that not even spiders still made their home within its walls. Enough of the furnishings though remained untouched, the wood turned to stone with the passage of time, for him to tell that the manor had once been a place of great wealth, though the odd shapes and dimensions of the furnishings suggested to him that the owners had not been humans, nor any other similarly sized humanoids.
He scouted through the downstairs quickly, finding nothing of note save for a few scrolls which crumbled beneath his fingers and decided to pass on heading up the stairs, not trusting the ancient wooden slats to hold his weight. Besides, he had no desire to tarry in the void any longer than necessary.
He was forced to kick down the front door too, and found himself on a wide avenue in the abandoned city of Al-dāru. High above him, across that cursed bridge, he spied Kas̆dael’s temple. It stood out against the darkness of the void like a beacon, aglow with the soft light of a thousand candles, but, unfortunately, he was in the lower depths of the side. Breaking into a jog, he headed for the bridge, hoping he would not be forced to endure the specters a second time.
The last time he’d visited her, he’d noticed a few changes in the city - spots of light that suggested that some habitation had been restored - and this time he saw them too. On the eastern flank of the city, a small circle of lights pushed back the darkness, though he couldn’t tell if there were any living souls there. He was tempted to detour, but decided against it, unsure what dangers the dead city might hold once one ventured off the main thoroughfares.
After an hour’s jog, he reached the base of the bridge, finding it just as he recalled - a flimsy bit of rope and plank that stretched hundreds of feet across a chasm so deep that its depths were permanently hidden from view. Twin statues guarded its approach, grotesque dogs with four eyes, bared teeth, and an unnaturally long tongue whose gaze seemed somehow threatening, despite the fact that their eyes were made from cold, dead stone. He ignored the impulse to flee, and took a tentative step onto the bridge, praying he wouldn’t hear the voices again.
Silence greeted him, and he stepped fully onto the bridge, pausing again in expectation. When nothing happened, he began to inch his way forward, trying hard to keep from looking into the yawning chasm below. He wasn’t afraid of heights, or so he told himself, but when the only thing standing between him and a five-mile plunge was a bit of rope as old as Atlantis, it was hard not to feel a little apprehensive. And while it was true that he had Spectral Wings, given the magical nature of the chasm, he wasn’t certain if they would actually function.
His progress slowed as he reached the midpoint of the bridge, and a cold wind began to blow. The ropes squeaked as the bridge swayed back and forth above the chasm, and that was when the voices started.
“You killed us.”
Jasper didn’t turn to look at the voice, didn’t do anything but glue his eyes to the single, narrow plank that formed the bottom of the bridge as he took another step forward.
“You were too afraid to save us.”
The bridge was bobbing in the wind now like a ship caught in a storm, but Jasper didn’t care. Picking up the pace, he stormed over the rickety old planks, pursued by the voices screaming in his ear.
“Coward.” “Weak.” “Shameful.” “It’s all your fault.”
The ropes burned his hands as he fled, too afraid of the swaying wind to lift them, but the voices would not relent.
“Enough.”
A different voice spoke above the rest, a gruff, deep growl that stilled the others.
“Stop and look at me.”
Jasper’s legs failed him, his body stilling at the speaker’s command, and dread filled his heart as he slowly turned to face him. But what he saw was not what he’d expected.
Instead of the flayed body of the villager, a middle-aged man waited a dozen feet away from the bridge, comfortably standing on absolutely nothing. He wore…normal clothes, earthly clothes, Jasper realized with a start, though he was far from a pillar of fashion. The man wore a simple pair of jeans, a slightly rumpled white oxford, and a mid-length tan overcoat. His face was that of a middle-aged man blessed with good genes but prone to vice; deep set lines and a leathery face clashed with the pearly white of his teeth and a full set of rambunctious brown hair.
“Running again?” Scorn dripped off the man’s tongue as he shook his head. “I was beginning to think you might rise above your weakness, but perhaps I was right all along.”
The man lapsed into silence, seemingly waiting for Jasper’s reply, but he was slow to speak. There was something familiar about the man, but he struggled to put a finger on it, and the man snorted. “Whatever did she see in you? This is a waste of time.”
“A waste of time?” Fire surged in Jasper’s belly as the man’s identity finally clicked. “What would you know about that? You never spared me a moment of time in the first place.”
“And why would I? Even now, with the aid of not one, but two, goddesses, you are weak,” the man snarled. “Now turn and face your demons - face them and destroy them - or Nergal help me, I shall sever this bridge.”