The sun had risen twice in under two hours. My spells were returned to me. I could feel the question in the air, the next spell waiting and ready to be written.

What was going on?

Had the separation from the rift damaged time itself? At the current rate I’d be dead in three or four years from old age even if the dungeon didn’t kill me. There was no sudden growth I could notice. My fingernails and hair were... well, to be fair they were as long and strange as they’d been since I’d found the druid stone. I wasn’t sure how fast they were supposed to grow, how I would tell, or if they even did grow.

My life sense hadn’t noticed anything either however. No sudden lurching of growth of roots or mosses. Surely I’d see something if a day’s growth happened all at once. Unless time was simply moving twenty or thirty times as fast, in which case, would I notice a change in the size of any plants? I wasn’t sure. Maybe if there were flowers I could see them opening and closing, but then again, if there were flowers I could just watch the sun. Or suns.

I wasn’t about to record my new spell just yet, not while I had my sword- unless...

I briefly considered recording the clothing spell while manipulating my swords but ultimately decided against it. My master would have whipped my hide for that spell. Not only were combination spells like that much harder to write, but they were basically impossible to scale. They were dangerous too. It was very easy to lose control of the plethora of simultaneous events, or be caught off guard by an unexpected interaction between constituent elements of the spell.

On top of that, spells could only target the caster or anything else. It was possible to cast spells on spells, or record spells being cast while recording spells and get around that limitation, but it required starting recording before casting the spell not after.

Instead I sent my invisible twin blades ahead to lift the portcullis. Floating lights, bright as candles, marked their passage. Together they were able to lift the wooden portcullis, though not without difficulty. This was due more to getting a proper grip on the gate and coordinating the lifting to be simultaneous rather than due to the weight of the gate, but that said, I wasn’t sure if a single blade would have been able to lift the gate on its own.

A long hallway awaited me. It was perhaps a hundred or so feet long, with a passage to my left and a doorway about four fifths of the way down its length.

I ignored the door and check the passage first. A continuation of the hallway which split almost immediately to my left and right once more. The right hand path was a doorway, the left hand path a long hall ending in a panelled mechanism of some sort. Standing at the junction it became clear that the two halls stretching ahead of me were parallel in both direction direction and length. The room had a secondary entrance, a secret one.

The door closest to me was wood, and the other was stone. I elected to go through neither for the time being. Instead I made my way down the second hallway to the mechanism at its end. It was a simple counter weight attached to some ropes leading into the walls and ceiling. A short tug on one of the ropes caused the stone panel to swing back towards me, revealing the room I’d just come through.

A new door way, trap free, and easy to open. I could rest a bit easier without my swords. Plus, I still had two sword spells available to me. I wasn’t used to thinking in terms of my spells refreshing this often. I could afford to be more cautious. I’d survived days without water before. A few hours delay would be nothing.

I stood in silence, spellbook and sword in hand. When I moved, my clothing and gear moved with me. When I ran it ran with me. Jumped and it was the same. We were inseparable in that moment. A moment which lasted an hour. When the hour ending, my clothing was still on me.

Clothes’ Hanger: The caster’s gear remains on him and follows him wherever he goes for an hour. At the end of the hour the clothing remains on him.

The spell nearly slipped from my grasp as I was adding the final flourishes to the rune. It was a good thing there were no other Magi about to read the rune from my corpse. I’d never live down the embarrassment of being killed by failing to inscribe such a ridiculous spell. The power to direct the whirlwind and I was using it to hang clothes on myself I was already wearing.

I was being facetious of course. Such spells were actually quite common when trying to get a specific effect. Sometimes a mage might spend weeks preparing the component parts of a spell before they all coalesced into a spell of flight, or one which could build a house on the spot, or drill a well complete with winch operated bucket. But the even for those masters the jokes about their component spells never ended, and they never stopped feeling a little silly about it. It was part of the wonder of magic.

***

Magic Swords

The wooden door had been stuck. Had been. It now sported a wizard sized hole. The hole carving had gone surprisingly smoothly. Far from the normal crashing as I tore through a door, this had been quieter than a lumberjack splitting wood. The loudest part of the hole procedure had been when the bottom of the door had fallen free from the rest and clattered to the floor.

A sliding door. One which slid up. I guess that explained the lack of hinges. I’d been wondering about that.

I sent my lights in to light up-ah.

The downside of the operation going so smoothly and quickly was that it was over before I’d had a glimpse beyond the door. It didn’t help that I’d been standing at the far end of the hallway to do so, just in case I triggered any traps.

The entire room was to the right of the door, which only afforded me a basic view of the place from afar.

A treasure chest, directly in front of the door, plainly in view. Not a travelling chest or clothing chest or anything of the sort. Jewels spilled from the top of the bronze plated surface, and gold coins patterned the floor about it. Fit for a king or the hoard of a dragon.

The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

Beside it was a grand wall of text boldly proclaiming “The Spear of Despair shall be destroyed when blades pierce the sky and the Golden Gate opens.” Which had the ring of prophecy to it. You know, vague and only useful in retrospect.

It was when I drew closer I noticed the well, which promised salvation, and its guardian, which did not.

I was really starting to get sick of running into the Mushroom-King.

Oh, it’s you. Leave me be. I can’t deal with you right now. Too much. Too much. Never a moment’s rest.

His voice sounded off, even in my head. Morose. Strained. He sounded exhausted. Even stranger, now that I was paying close attention to him, I could see he was flickering. Sudden bursts of green in my life sight.

Just lie down. Go away. Leave me alone. Just a moment to myself and I’ll be fine.

I could feel the words worming their way into my head. Pushing me. Influencing me.

“Stop that.”

I sent one of my swords in a sweeping blow through his cap. The blade skidded across the surface, lightly scratching him, but doing little else. I stepped back, startled. How strong was he?

Despite the ineffectiveness of my blow the mushroom king twisted and writhed like I’d pierced his heart.

No! Please. Please! Not today. Not today of all days. Why is it always on the worst possible day? I can’t think straight. Can’t think straight enough to explain why. But I’m right. I’m right! Why doesn’t anybody trust me?

He was still doing it.

“Stop trying to control my mind, or the next blade goes through your eye.”

Golden tears welled in those same golden eyes.

I don’t-I don’t know what to do. What do you want from me? Why is it always what you want from me? What about what I want? The whole world is so selfish so... please don’t stab my eye. Please. I just... I just want a moment’s rest.

The sun rose.

The Mushroom-King didn’t react. I tried not to. He was on edge, clearly. Sudden actions would not be in my favour. People caught in throes of anguish didn’t tend to like surprises. I doubted mushrooms did either.

“I won’t be a moment. I just want to fill my bags from the well. Shouldn’t take more than half an hour. Plenty of time to rest after. Could be done faster if we don’t have to argue.”

After. After! It’s always after. Just do this and then you can rest. Just do that and then you can rest. There is always something else. Always a new demand. Why me? Why am I the one who has to serve the endless tides of other’s demands? On and on until I die.

I recognized this line of thought. I’d had it myself at times. Moments in my life, sometimes lasting years, where everything went wrong and more importantly, nothing went right. Even friends and family abandoned you or were abandoned. The difference could be hard to tell. A proffered hand left you flinching, so used to the strike.

I wracked my brain for what to say. For what I’d have want said in those times. All words were poisonous barbs when you suffered, all comforts were false and shallow. When you were in the grips of despair, people didn’t want you better, they wanted you to stop bringing down their mood. Selfish all the way down.

At least, that was how it felt.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

I regretted the words the moment they left my mouth. I knew what was coming next.

You can leave me alone. I just need a moment to catch my breath. Please.

The problem with asking is you got answers. And the problem with helping, was if it was genuine, you had to respect them. I could say I wasn’t going to do that, and trust of me would be broken. I could say I didn’t think it would help, and the Mushroom-King would ‘be proven right’ that I didn’t trust him.

I could say “I couldn’t do that, because I need water”, but I’d offered to help him. He’d immediately see that my offer had come from a place of selfishness, and he’d be right. When you didn’t give a person what they requested, you were telling them "I know better than you". You were making “fixing” them more important than their autonomy. It was dehumanizing. De-mushroomnizing. Whatever.

I now had a choice. Prove the Mushroom-King right, or leave, and trust him to recover.

I left.

Once I could no longer sense his weirdly flickering presence I let myself think about the situation. I didn’t trust him, but he was clearly able to read minds to a certain extent. I could come back later and attempt to... kill him? Threaten him into submission? I could barely hurt him. It hadn’t been a full powered swing, and perhaps his cap was strong than the rest of his body, but another mistake might be my last. I remembered how easily the first Mushroom-King had sequestered me, and dominated me, mind and body.

Plus I didn’t want to kill someone in cold blood. I didn’t even want to think about it, but he had water and I didn’t. If he was so burdened he was of no use to me alive... I didn’t like where that thought was going.

He’d not been kind to me before. Cruel even. A tyrant. A slave master who wouldn’t even let me die. But it was hard to think of the various aspects of him as the same entity. The harem Mushroom-King had been right about that. Different reflections of an unknowable core.

I suppose that meant even if I “killed” the mushroom I wasn’t actually killing the underlying structure. Maybe it was giving him brain damage. Maybe it was more like killing a thought or a dream.

I hadn’t forgotten the message on the wall. Blades piercing the sky. The spear of despair. It meant something. My magic blades and the Mushroom-King’s despair. Almost certainly. There was no sky in the dungeon however. Even Elysium hadn’t had a proper sky and I had no idea how to set about piercing it. As for the Golden Gates? I’d heard stories about the Golden Gates, or a place called such. They guarded a well of annihilation. The history of any object which fell into the well was undone, and the universe changed to match.

There were two major problems if those were indeed the gates. Firstly, they sounded like gates which should remain closed. If the nature of the universe could be rewritten such that something had never been, then nothing would ever be. Everything would eventually find its way into the well. Secondly, they didn’t exist. They were a story. A thought experiment. A parable.

If the spear was metaphorical, perhaps the gates were too.

No further insights came to me with that thought. Without further inspiration I wasn’t going to get past the Mushroom-King. For now, I’d try the stone door I’d passed on my way over here. Perhaps there would be some sky on the other side of it. Then, once my spell ran out, I’d see about writing a new one.

I didn’t bother with the handle. Not while I had my swords available. I just sent the blades to batter against the stone.

The door withstood my assault, but the housing for the bar shattered. I moved until the door was no longer visible, hopefully out of its arc of fire, and then used my blades to push it open.

The noise didn’t go unnoticed.

Claws on stone. Scratching. Skittering. Squeaking. Gnawing.

The rats had returned.