Of course, many simply believe the cost of using such raw power of Gia and Shade to be caloric in nature. This is true, to an extent. The rest of the cost comes in the form of exhaustion. Not the simple kind where one can rest, but only the kind that can be had from sleep. Something about dipping into the unconscious mind allows that certain something to replenish itself. This is why, when one is early on in their training, they may summon a vast amount of Gia only to wake hours later. Perhaps that is where my strength comes from, for it is such a challenge to sleep. His voice seldom lets me do so.
Dorian woke with a headache the size of the Monastery Mountain. It throbbed in a way that made him shut his eyes, wincing from the jagged light only caused more throbbing, however. Though it was a challenge, he relaxed the muscles of his face. The throbbing lessened but didn't disappear.
Someone grabbed his head with strong icy fingers, prying his eyelid open, Dorian instinctively swiped the hand away.
“Well?” Came a choppy voice. Dorian recognized it.
“He'll live.” Replied a monotone voice.
Curious, Dorian half opened one eye to see someone he didn't recognize, at least not up close. He was Grand Master Flint, the great head to the healers. Dorian would have gasped if he weren't in so much pain.
“What does that even mean? Good, he'll live, but how long before he's fit?”
Turning his head slowly, Master Flint addressed Brother Michael without inflection. “four to six months should be sufficient. His head will ache, and he should avoid excessive pressure to his vascular system. Try not to overstimulate his adrenal system either, this type of healing can also ruin his central nervous system as well.” There was a coldness to his voice, a certain nothing that Dorian couldn't put a finger on.
“To his what?”
“I would explain in further detail, but I do not answer to you. Let him rest for a few months. The youth recover quickly enough. You may need to pick an alternative candidate.”
Dorian wasn't sure if Brother Michael was sighing or growling. After the noise subsided, there was a long breath before Michael said, “he can't miss his training. We are on a strict timeline, and that's directly from the Grand Elder himself. We need to use the seventh ring.”
There was a long moment in which the air seemed to still. The tension was palpable, like the thin layer of ice over a pond shortly after the first freeze. Dorian squinted, seeing little more than Master Flint's back, his dark robes billowing as he turned to stare at Brother Michael. There, on the man's face, an icy stare that made Dorian want to shiver, if not for the fact that it would undeniably draw the attention of that stare in full force.
“You are aware, Brother Michael, that going so deep isn't possible unless he is using his own Shade.”
Brother Michael didn't back down an inch. “I'm aware. He can.”
Still lifeless, Master Flint's voice echoed throughout the stone chamber with the monotone that made Dorian think of the word “doldrums.” Something about the man was absolutely dead inside, it was galling. Dorian wanted to flee, to leave, anything but be in this room with that soulless man.
“Have you brought this to the Arcanum?” It was a simple question, but the way that Brother Michael's shoulders dropped, one would assume he had just lost a loved one.
“It is a recent development, considering his age, I haven't decided yet. Besides, he doesn't fall under my tutelage. He belongs to Sister Brenda, she is his closest.”
“As he is now a contestant to the tournament, I believe he falls under your responsibility. No matter. If you wish, I will allow access.”
Master Flint picked something up off the table, scribbled something down, and handed it off to Brother Michael. “I expect a full report before the tournament. Ah, that reminds me.”
Dorian shut his eyes as he saw the Master move his direction. “He hasn't placed his bid to the lottery, has he?”
Dorian heard movement, Master Flint handing another parchment to Brother Michael. “As I'm sure you know, make sure not to touch this with your skin.”
Without farewell, Master Flint turned on his heel, long robes billowing behind him as he left the room.
“What a dick.” Dorian croaked, though he knew he might get a scolding for it.
Brother Michael looked sidelong at Dorian, smirking. “You were awake the whole time?”
Dorian was going to shake his head but thought better of it. “No, but I heard enough. What's the Arcanum?”
The bone-tired weary sigh that escaped Brother Michael was a masterpiece. It conveyed how far beyond frustrated and exhausted he felt, even if Dorian didn't have the first clue as to what could leave the energetic older man so drained.
“Are you good enough to move?” He asked, short and to the point.
“Not unless Kressor and three lesser Gods were chasing me.”
“I'll get the chair.” He said, sounding at the end of his rope.
When Brother Michael handed Dorian a bucket, he felt rather confused. When Brother Michael implied that he'd need it shortly, he was doubly confused. As Dorian stood for himself in the brief moment it took to get from bed to wheelchair, everything came clear. It was a barf bucket and little did Dorian know that they would be well acquainted before the end of their mutual journey. From Dorian's perspective, it was all confusing. Sitting still was fine, but the moment they started moving, he simply couldn't manage. It was like he was exempt from the ever-turning world, like he could see it shifting but was no longer a part of it. The rooms spun as they passed, and though he had some clarity earlier, that vanished as his reptilian brain took hold. Finally, after an unknown amount of time passed, Brother Michael had begun speaking to him. It was comforting, even if Dorian didn't recognize the speech. They were still from time to time, only then did Dorian return to himself long enough to understand.
“Dorian, I need you to create a barrier around yourself, like you did in the courtyard.” Michael’s tone was firm, but there was no mistaking the worry beneath it. He exhaled a weary sigh. “Boy, I’d slap you if you weren’t so damn hurt. There’s too much on the line here, we need to get you patched up before you fall behind. The Valley needs you.”
Dorian tried to respond, but his throat felt thick, his mind sluggish.
Michael muttered under his breath. “Brenda is going to have my, well, never mind that.” He snapped his fingers in front of Dorian’s face. “Summon your Shade. All the way around yourself. Come on, Dorian. Move it, Hook!”
That last bit finally cut through the fog in Dorian’s head. Instinct took over.
Pulling on his Shade was as natural as breathing. It came from somewhere deep inside him, like the exhilarating drop in his stomach before a fall, a sensation so intoxicating he feared he might grow addicted to it.
He pulled, and his Shade enveloped him completely.
Then he was falling in earnest, crashing through thin walls of ice in rapid succession, one after another, until, finally, he came to a stop.
The next half hour involved Brother Michael cursing as he pulled Dorian, soaked to the bone, out of a running spring. It stank, like that of mildew and damp. A place untouched for a very long time. Finally, after gasping for breath, beaten, concussed, and vomiting, Dorian slipped away from consciousness and was utterly grateful for it.
He was running through the wood, fear filling him to the brink. He was being hunted, hounded, bayed. There is something utterly unnerving to the sight of the wood on a moonless night. There is a primal fear instilled in every human since the dawn of sentience, it was this kind of fear he ran from. The brush that pulled at his shins, the thorns that scraped him, the low hanging branches that he had to maneuver away from, all of these things were challenges, but what held him in the grips of terror was the unerring darkness that seemed to swell like so many cascades.
His breathe was short, the sweat rolling down his face began to blind him. He could taste the salty runoff of his own steaming head, but these were little more than distractions. The leaves that rustled beneath him was just another piece of the collage. The terror, the terror was all.
That breathing blackness swelled, it was fury and outrage, it was madness, it was the sweet relief of vaulting into the abyss.
“It's okay, Dorian. If you need me, all you have to do is ask.” Came a feminine voice.
“Me too, but I come at a price. One you can afford, though you may not wish to pay it.” Sounded another feminine voice, this was articulate and calculating.
“Damn 'em both, Dor. We don't need them, we can do this with or without, because you already got me.” Said a young man as a hand cupped his shoulder.
“Don't forget our deal, or our bargain, little Dorian. Metae smiles upon those that fulfill their obligations, and Kressor gifts those willing to play at chance.” Said a twisted voice, rocks grating.
“He'll do no such thing, Kressor's blessing or no. Stand up straight, Dorian. Chest out, that's a boy.” Said Sister Brenda.
“Back away from my son, you hussy. Bad enough you almost stole Rand.” Said an older woman.
“Stole? My beloved, my heart had been stolen from the moment our eyes met. Your sister was never really in the equation. Now, do we have enough firewood? There's bread to be baked, and it wont get done until these ovens are hot. Where is that boy...”
His dreams came and went, his ability to stay awake somehow gone. He would come out of his pitched dreams but only for short stints. Just long enough to chew something and wash it down. He would fight the urge to go back under, but it was useless. His eyes would barely adapt to the poor lighting, then he’d be down again. He’d wake to seemingly random people, though from time to time it was someone he recognized. Clarice was one, Sister Brenda another, Brother Michael, even Master Flint. Other initiates, though from an older class. He vaguely remembered sponge baths and the taste of some kind of bitter mushroom. Every time, however, the weight of sleep seemed to push down on his mind, and he would be dreaming once more.
There was a light, a small thing really. Just a glimmer, a hope. The darkness saw it too, and Dorian moved with every bit of himself towards it. His bulk was ungainly but his will unbending. He dived towards it.
He was standing again, a group of his peers before him shouting something. There was a pool, a warm spring. The steamy fog drifting upwards from it. She broke from the crowd, gripping his face. As she did, her hood fell back, her long flowing hair and her blue eyes entrancing. She leaned in and kissed him. His eyes bulged for a moment, but he melted shortly thereafter. His light dimmed, but his heart swelled. He felt accepted, like he had passed some test. Still holding his face, she leaned back. Dorian wasn't capable of thought at that moment, so it had never occurred to him that they were falling until the pool came up to meet them. They were going to...
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Dorian sat up, gasping. His head throbbed, but not as harshly as it had before. His mouth was parched, saturated with a layer of dried spit that accompanied a long night of deep sleep. He coughed, which made his head reel once more. He took a long shuddering breath, trying to bring the world back in to focus.
A door opened. The brilliant light was too much, so Dorian put his hands up as he turned his head away.
“Bright.” He croaked.
“Oh, sorry.” The door closed shortly after. “How are you feeling?” Asked a soft voice.
“Thirsty.” He choked out.
“Oh, right. Let me give you a hand.”
In the dark, it was hard to tell what was going on. Instinctively, he summoned a bit of Gia for his eyes. It was odd that it was becoming so natural to him, but it was. He couldn't recall the last time he'd even bothered using his primes.
Looking over, he could see the woman's outline but wasn't sure who it was. She offered him a mug and he took it without hesitation. It could have been pure alcohol at that point, he just needed something wet.
He drank deeply, after two long drinks he left enough in the bottom to rinse his mouth out and spit.
“Gross.” The young woman commented.
“No, gross was the taste in my mouth.”
A snort followed and she took the cup and set it down.
“Lets try again, how are you feeling?”
“Like the most ragged set of robes in the Monastery, after they'd been stripped down to rags, and used to clean the stoves.”
There was a pause before she said, “that's... descriptive?”
“My head feels muddy. Where am I?”
“You're back in the training grounds. You're in the over-sized bed of your personal chamber.” As she said this she leaned against one of the tall posts towards the foot of the bed.
“Are you a healer? My head feels like a squished orange.”
“It was a squished orange for a bit there. I've never seen so much blood.” She tapered off at the end.
“How long have I been out?” Dorian asked as he realized he must have fallen behind.
“Technically? A few days, but only to me. For you?” She shrugged, “a few months.”
Dorian shut his eyes tightly and pinched the bridge of his nose between his eyes. “How does that even work?”
“Brother Michael took you somewhere, somewhere much slower than here. I'm not very good with time bubbles, the dangers aren't worth it, but I do know that Brother Michael wont be coming back for a while. Here, let me see if I can help with that headache.”
A series of waves began to pulse from her hand as she reached out towards him. Through his sight, he could see a surge of Gia starting from her core, running through her hand, and inching towards his head. When it met him, there was a harsh sensation, like when you held two lodestones the wrong way. After a bit of pressure, they flipped, and for the briefest moment he could feel her. The feeling was so startling that Dorian dropped his Gia. He heard her gasp.
“It's okay, Sorry. I... I just didn't know. I'm good now, try again?”
Tentatively, she raised her hand again. This time, a slight prickling sensation ran through his body, top to bottom and up again. It settled at the back of his head. It was odd, but he could feel his body knitting itself back together again. After a moment, she stopped.
“That should help, but you might need to sleep.” She said, sounding rather drowsy herself.
“Okay.” He replied, as eloquently as he could. His body felt heavy again, his eyes wanting nothing more than to shut.
“I'll go get you some more water.”
“Okay.”
“I've stolen your pants, and I intend to sell them at the Grand Tournament when you win.”
“Okay.”
“Go to sleep.” She said, command in her voice.
Without the will to fight it, Dorian began drifting.
He dreamt then, a twist of things he could vaguely recall on waking. Some kind, others, not so much. He had dreams about fighting and losing, fighting and winning. Dreams of storybook endings where he valiantly saved the day, got the girl, and all were better for it. Then the other dreams, the things that were closer to reality which ended in misery. He failed while all the people he cared for begged for aid. Other times, he succeeded but became crippled or marred beyond hope of repair. Sometimes he stole power, became a dictator, sometimes he became the next Grand Elder. In every narrative, he was left with a sense of possibility, in every dream there was always a thimble of truth. Every dream started with the Grand Tournament.
Dorian woke, sluggish, but grateful to be back in the real. The cup of water by his bed didn't stand a chance, nor did the adjacent jug. He was parched beyond belief, and after clearing the taste of deep sleep from his mouth, he knew he stank. He sniffed under his arm, then scowled to himself. Why do I always stink of onions?
He got up, making his way over to the privy. He had a private bath, and running water that would take his waste away. Modern miracle though it was, he still didn't understand half of the wonders of the Monastery. He scrubbed incessantly after getting out of his robes. He wondered idly who had changed him, but didn't want to dive too deep down that rabbit hole. He was still embarrassed by his own nudity, though he must have lost a stone since he had fallen asleep. No, not asleep, knocked out cold.
Dorian rubbed the back of his head, there was some scarring there, coinciding with lack of hair in some spots. He ran his hand down the back of his head feeling the scars. The worst had a small bump, he hadn't been knocked out, he realized, he had been brained. Broken against the stone, smashed like a walnut. He was lucky to be alive.
He dunked his head under the warm water, allowing his face to relax. He ran his fingers through his hair, the sides and back had all been shaven, though his hair up top seemed to be outrageously long. He finished washing but struggled to get out of the warm water. It was nice to simply soak when he could, though it always seemed as though something...
“Dorian, are you awake?” He heard in his head. He nearly lost control of his bladder.
Sitting up he said, “who's there?” His voice was odd in his own ears. Deeper than he remembered.
“Go to your robes.” The voice was feminine, the one from before?
“Fine, but you'll have to tell me who you are.”
He waited, but there wasn't a response. Sighing a sigh that only a teenager can do properly, Dorian got out and went to his stinky sweat laden robes. “Okay, I'm at my robes.”
“Reach into the breast pocket.”
Dorian looked around the room, though it was spacious, it wasn't so spacious that it could hide a peeping Tom. He mused to himself what to call a peeping female, but couldn't come up with anything clever. Disheartened slightly, he reached into the pocket and pulled out the note that had been placed in the book Malik had let him read. It was the list of rulings in accordance to the last Grand Tournament.
“Ah, you've finally found it. Well done, I'd have been furious had you lost it. Do you have any idea how much time it took to make that?”
“About as much time as it takes to copy words from a rule book?”
“No you dolt, the runes. That took me three weeks, and was my first success.”
“Wait, were you testing it on me?!” Dorian said, outraged.
“Keep it down, we aren't supposed to know about Technum .”
“I don't give a twisted nip! Were you testing that on me?! Who are you? What gives you the right?!”
Silence stretched out for a long moment, no response. Balls.
Dorian found a towel and dried himself off. He pulled at his Gia, looking through it he could see the very fine and intricate work instilled in the paper. What’s more, whomever this person was had a keen eye for delicate details. Furthermore, she could use her Gia and Shade. Whomever she was, she had to be circumspect, otherwise there would be consequences.
The thought brought to mind Brother Michael, and Master Flint. The latter made him shiver uncontrollably. For someone so bent on healing, the man barely had a soul. Gods, tell me he was the one to change me. I wouldn't care if...
The door creaked open a bit, and Dorian panicked. He grabbed his towel, covered the most inappropriate bits, then proceeded to cover his chest as best he could with his arm. He realized then that he had assumed the most iconic pose a person could assume after being walked in on. He blushed at his stupidity as the door shut, only now noticing the white linen tunic and trousers that had been placed on the floor besides. A moment passed before he took a step towards the door.
An unfamiliar voice said, “I don't know why you're blushing, not like I haven't seen it all before.”
He could have died right then and there.
After some time, Dorian finally settled, though his thoughts churned like a storm. His eyes remained fixed on the little piece of folded paper resting on a decorative protrusion in the wall.
It looked so unassuming. Yet, that slip of rune-etched Technum had infiltrated his mind, burrowed into his thoughts, sifted through his most private reflections. It was like finding out, if he had one, that his personal journal had been read cover to cover. His deepest confessions, his self-doubts, his stray musings, all laid bare to someone else.
Had his thoughts truly been his own these past weeks?
He scowled. There were moments, definitive ones, that stood out in sharp relief. Raising his staff and shouting in defiance before losing consciousness. Choosing to go to Malik’s party despite the risk of getting caught so close to lights-out. And hell, stripping down in front of thirty people. The second his tunic came off, he had felt a deep, gut-wrenching terror, the boldness that had carried him to that moment vanishing in an instant.
Had that been his bravery? Or hers?
Red-hot anger burned through him. He scrubbed his teeth furiously, brushed his hair back, and tied it into a short tail. When he glanced at the mirror in his washroom, the sight of himself nearly stopped him in his tracks.
His face looked... longer. His cheekbones were visible for the first time in his life. The softness around his jaw had thinned, revealing a sharper line beneath. A scraggly patch of hair had begun growing under his chin, ugly and uneven, so he took a razor to it, wincing as he nicked himself once or twice.
When he finished, he ran a hand over his smooth skin. He wasn’t anything to swoon over, but there was something satisfying in the reflection staring back at him.
There’s something under there, he admitted to himself. I might actually be...
He shook the thought away and turned back to the paper.
"I don’t know why you did this," he muttered aloud, fingers brushing over its creases. "But you did help me, even if you violated my privacy."
A part of him, a younger, angrier part, wanted to tear it to shreds, to ruin this person's work simply out of spite. But as his grip tightened, he hesitated.
For the first time in his life, he didn’t feel like being petty.
Whether it was curiosity, restraint, or something else entirely, he tucked the little page into his tunic.
Steeling himself, he stepped toward the door and pushed it open.
The room beyond was empty. That was odd.
He frowned, stepping into the hall. It was dark, the vaulted chamber beyond shrouded in shadow. No candlelight, no flickering lanterns.
Midnight.
And for the first time in a long while, he felt entirely, unnervingly alone.
Unfortunately, he was wide awake. He thought about exercising, getting back into shape, but running the circuit alone sounded like an awful idea. He had barely explored the halls, from the main chamber there were several flights of stairs heading upwards. He remembered being curious about them before, but since there had been little time before he hadn't checked them out. I can go back to my room, do nothing until the others get up, or...
He kept his steps light, wary of waking the other contestants or drawing unwanted attention.
To his surprise, he could channel Gia here. The circuit should have warded against it, that much he was certain of. Being able to channel Gia this close to a containment zone contradicted much of the “forbidden” knowledge he had gained by snooping about the library. The curiosity nagged at him, but not nearly as much as whatever waited at the top of the stairs.
There were breaks in the flights of stairs, a total of four floors. The second floor was another set of living quarters, though smaller than the ones below. The next floor was a bit confusing at first. The first two rooms down the hall were blank, just a few chairs and desks arranged in a circular fashion. The following room, however, defined the area as one of learning. The third room was a surprisingly well stocked library. Remembering how he felt about the massive library at the base of the Monastery, he had to inspect it.
He had to summon his maxim of Gia, which had grown significantly since he last checked, and stretched the melon sized ball out to the ceiling. On the way, it illuminated a railing. Stretching it sideways, he found another door above and a set of stairs heading towards another part of the room. The walls were stuffed with books, and he was suddenly excited as he saw no warding to any section. He couldn't make out how the books were organized, but he knew that he would have plenty of time to figure it out. His thoughts led to the little book he had stolen, the journal that made him uneasy to read.
He hadn't had the time to thoroughly dig through it, and even if he had, he didn't want to. The thoughts in that book were disturbing, though he could never remember the text itself, it sent a pang of unease through him when he acknowledged the source of those words. The Grand Elder.
He shivered as the thought of the old man writhing about his chambers ran through his head. The long night on the cold stone, the laughing, the weeping, the screaming.
Shaking his head to clear it, he went up the stairs he had spotted earlier. The quiet of the room was so ominous, the green light of his Gia showing the way, but the deep dark of the room beyond egged at his unease. The soft sound of his feet padding the carpets was the only sound echoing throughout the room, that and the sound of his own breathing. Coming to the top, he followed the wall around, reading titles as he went. Most of these were simpler texts, histories of the Valley, Kressian culture, mathematics, geometry, various studies on science, human biology, and an entire slew of introductory volumes on the various Primes. As he came to the next tall shelf he found a gap. Peering through, a short hall led to another door.
Figuring the library would be far more enjoyable with proper lighting, he made his way down the hall and pushed the door open. The wood creaked as the hinges groaned, but as he stepped into the next corridor, a wave of rich, savory aromas washed over him. The scent of fresh food cooking curled through the air, warm and inviting.
His stomach growled so deeply he feared it might wake the others.
There was a light down the hall, and he guessed that it must be close enough to dawn that someone was busy preparing food for the day.
Sorry, Dorian. The sled is out of commission, you'll have to haul it all by hand for the next few days.
Dorian blinked, where had that come from?
Entering the room that was lit, he saw a familiar face. He smiled.
“Would you like a hand, Clarice?” he asked, smiling impishly.