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When Ali the Wise opened the door of his house in Nardah, having been interrupted by the sound of persistent knocking, nothing could have equipped him for the sight awaiting him on the other side. The figure who stood before him – who had not stood before him in millennia – was decked in the nostalgic regalia of a long-defunct priestly order, complete with the pronged headpiece that would have marked his distinguished status. Though his robes were badly in need of mending, his bearing was stern and proud.
“Good afternoon,” said Azzanadra. “Wahisietel, is that you?”
Wahisietel – that was his real name, although he had not heard it in a while – could not have hoped to find the words for all he wanted to say. Instead, what came out was:
“Come on, get inside. You can't be going about in the open like that, not these days.”
He dragged his guest into the small house. Then, with a snap of his fingers, he dispelled his human disguise, returning to his natural form as the door clicked shut behind both of them.
“So, what happened?” said Azzanadra.
“I could ask you the same,” Wahisietel replied, incredulous. “How did you even get here?”
“I walked.”
“Obviously not what I meant.”
Azzanadra made an impatient gesture. "Some human got me out. A treasure-hunter or something. Searching for diamonds? Anyway, not important. Tell me what I've missed.”
“Ah.” Wahisietel winced. He had expected this to happen, once, back when he had thought this day would come at all. “This... isn't going to be pleasant.”
“Unpleasant or not, I demand to know.” Azzanadra’s tone was firm.
Seeing no recourse, Wahisietel sighed. Then, he dug out his old maps and scrolls, replenished his inkwell, and prepared to launch into an annotated play-by-play of the Zarosian Empire's downfall.
Some time later, the two were sitting side by side, hunched over the mess of parchments that had gradually accumulated atop the small desk.
“We managed to push the enemy partway to the foot of the mountain,” said Wahisietel, tracing an arrow on the map of Lassar, “but took heavy losses once their icyene reinforcements arrived. We had no choice but to retreat into the fortress.”
“Once you regrouped, did you attempt a sortie?”
“There were two divisions of icyenes, Azzanadra. We struggled enough with aerial dominance even before the Betrayal, and that was when we still had the vyres.”
“But you had the sixth legion, did you not?”
“What remained of it, and the enemy had captured our tribunus.”
“The sixth legion could have done it. They were capable of anything.” Azzanadra picked up his quill, about to demonstrate. “Look, if you had–”
As they argued, Wahisietel was reminded of what made Azzanadra such an effective leader. Azzanadra had believed in the soldiers, from the lowest legionaries to the upper brass, and his belief had inspired them to push on against all odds. His utmost faith in them was a natural extension of his faith in their cause, which had in turn come out of his faith in Zaros; and that – needless to say – Azzanadra had considered to be wholly self-justifying.
Then there was the matter of his unparalleled strength as an individual combatant; his mastery of blood and ice and so on, which had conferred upon him an almost legendary status. Even as the tide of the war inexorably turned, as throngs of icyenes and centaurs and Avernics flooded in from the farther planes, it had seemed unfathomable that the Zarosians could lose while they had him on their side.
“You may have been right,” said Wahisietel. “Not that it matters now.”
The mood in the room grew steadily more sombre as Wahisietel recounted the events of the last desperate battles, fought in the dying centuries of the war. Azzanadra listened quietly as the hours passed, and if it took effort to maintain his impassive countenance, it did not show.
But when the largest of all the maps was unrolled, and he caught sight of the neat, all-too-familiar lines of its buildings and streets, something snapped. Abruptly, he wrenched his chair away, turning his back to Wahisietel. All of the energy seemed to drain out of his frame.
Seeing this, Wahisietel paused. “We could skip this part, you know.”
“No, please continue,” replied Azzanadra, staring at nothing. His voice had taken on an oddly strangled quality.
So Wahisietel carried on, through the long saga of the fall of Senntisten. Though he kept his eyes fixed on the parchment in front of him, he noticed the exact moment when Azzanadra's forehead pressed against the wall, the broad shoulders beginning to shake.
After the narrative drew to an end, both of them remained silent for a long time. Wahisietel watched as the last rays of sun slowly traced their way across the room, casting shadows in their wake. He picked up the parchments one by one, returning them to where they belonged. Finally, when he was reasonably certain that Azzanadra had had enough time to compose himself, he spoke.
“In hindsight, I can see the places where it went wrong. I should have made better decisions.”
“What?” Azzanadra turned to face him, eyes blazing with an undecipherable emotion.
“I will not try to deflect responsibility, or hide the ways in which I failed. I apologize unreservedly.”
“You have nothing to apologize for. I will not tolerate it.” Azzanadra's voice was commanding despite its hoarseness, and Wahisietel felt compelled to listen. “I know you would not have made the decisions you did if there had been any other option. You did everything you could.”
Any other member of their race might have struck down Wahisietel where he stood, and it would have hurt less than those words. In the face of the total collapse of their civilization, he could have understood fury, recrimination, hatred. He did not know what to do with forgiveness.
His response slipped out before he could stop himself. “You were the one who held all of us together,” he admitted, instantly hating how pathetic he sounded. “Galvanizing the legions, conveying instructions from Zaros. I had no idea what to do without you.”
An expression of intense guilt spread across Azzanadra's face, and for a second it seemed as if his composure might crumble again. But then he closed his eyes, seeming to centre himself, and when the former Pontifex Maximus spoke once more, his voice was resolute – filled with the sense of purpose that came from being needed, and the determination that he would sooner die than let down his lord and his allies again.
“This cannot be how the story ends,” decided Azzanadra. “I see it falls to me to rectify what has transpired. I will make for Senntisten as soon as possible, to see what is left of the old temple and its portal. If connection can be reestablished, then that – that solves everything.” He stood up, reinvigorated.
Meanwhile, Wahisietel peered outside the window, at the cold desert night and the countless stars. He reflected on the concept of distance – the vastness of time, the endlessness of space. The cruelty of separation. Then he looked back at Azzanadra, who was preparing to leave, and felt a familiar ache.
“It's late,” he said. “You could stay the night, and head out tomorrow instead.”
“Why? Did you miss me?” quipped Azzanadra, bemused.
Wahisietel froze, staring at him in wounded disbelief. “Fine,” he spat, his expression turning to ice. “Don't bother, then. Get out of my house.”
“What is this about, all of a sudden?”
“Do not mock me, Azzanadra. Not for that. You were gone for almost five thousand years, not that I should care.”
“I am aware, and yet it feels to me that I last spoke to you two or three weeks ago. You must understand that I had no sense of time passing.”
“Well, good for you, because I did, and I was convinced I would never see you again.” Wahisietel's tone was bitter. “Now please leave me alone.”
“It occurs to me now that I may have done rather enough of that,” said Azzanadra, seeming apologetic. “Nevertheless, I respect your wishes. I will go if you insist.”
The ensuing silence was enough of an answer.
After a few seconds, Azzanadra settled back into his chair. “Well then, what would you like to discuss? I have ideas about how to restore the portal. We could formulate a plan.”
“I don't care about that, not now.” Wahisietel's voice was quiet as he gave up on trying not to plead. “Just... be here. Stay with me for a while longer.”
“Of course,” said Azzanadra. And he did.