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“Though you robbed him of life, he will be born again... Perhaps many years hence... but he shall be reborn!”
These are the words that replay in Oliver’s head over and over as he stands at the exit of Perdida, the one that leads to thick clouds of miasma and smoke and despair, and stares at the black, looming castle in the distance.
Dark and foreboding, it sticks out of the skyline like a sore thumb, only just visible through the haze of purple mist. He traces bright orange lines zig-zagging up it, reaching up spires and spikes that otherwise look like shadow against the mountain range backdrop, somehow looking more like liquid than the lake in front of it. If he closes his eyes and listens, under the birdsong, he can find thunder from the permanent dark clouds above the lake, threatening and sinister.
What’s Nevermore like? he’d whispered to Drippy once, during their turn to watch the camp. He hadn’t run out of questions about the world until very late into their journey, and even then he seemed to uncover something new to be asked about once a week, but the difference was that this question was one asked out of fear. Drippy had been hesitant to answer, grumbling under his breath in that way he does when he’s stalling, until he’d finally admitted: I never got in. Never even got close—he had barrelled his way to Autumnia like a man out of hell and been caught by Shadar just outside the Miasma Marshes. They’ve already gone further than he’s ever seen.
Although Drippy’s guidance even through areas he allegedly knew like the back of his hand had always been sketchy at best, the fact he has no knowledge at all is still frightening. No one does, after all; with the miasma hanging over the lake and the kingdoms still with animosity for each other, everyone who has ever attempted to reach Nevermore never returned—Alicia included.
Oliver stares at the shape of it in the mountains and wonders if navigating it will be easier than they think.
If he closes his eyes, he can almost see it take shape on the back of his eyelids, shadows crawling in the corners, molten rock pouring from crevices—the throne room he found inside of the Soulsnare was just one piece of the puzzle, he knows, but it sets the frame for something bigger. He can feel dizzying staircases, carpet beneath his feet, stone walls collapsed in on themselves in the redecorating process. Outside the window, holed up in the throne room, he can see over the lake; Perdida and the Tombstone Trail visible from the top of the castle, mountain range surrounding the basin its in.
He had said to Drippy, as they got closer, as they reached the base of the mountain, that he thought he could feel Shadar—the feeling had only intensified as they had trekked through the marshes, something strong emanating from up ahead. Drippy had given him a proud-if-terrified smile and said it was typical of strong wizards, that great sages could do the same, sense strong sources of life force around them; it’s the same way magical creatures know when to run. The fact he could do it from so far away was just testament to how much he’d grown as a wizard. (Underneath, Oliver could tell, was the implication: or maybe it’s testament to how powerful Shadar is.)
Now, he stands at the top of the mountain with the faintest of it burning in his chest, and wonders if he’s come as far as they think, or if it’s something else that threatens to reach up and strangle him. The wind up here makes his cape billow gently, the breeze cold on his face, and he sucks in a deep breath as he looks out over the lake. If he focuses, if he squints his eyes, he can almost see the faint thread of connection between him and the top of the castle, bright blue and gold against the purple below, but he blinks and it’s gone—so maybe he’s imagining things.
And maybe, just maybe, he’s entirely imagining things. The conversation he had witnessed between Alicia and Shadar had been slightly overshadowed by what came after it, lost in the strike that was the reveal, his brain turning blank and foggy not long after. Who’s to say if he’s remembering it correctly, that he had understood the implications perfectly? It’s not true, he can almost make himself believe.
But if it wasn’t true, would he be standing here? Awake and ready to face it?
He breathes in again, taking cold air into his lungs, deep and desperate to ignore his mind. But...
Sitting there, in that bedroom, staring at the wall for days on end, the thought of going back out to defeat Shadar was crushing, like it made a weight appear on top of him. But that weight had been made just slightly lighter by the idea that he wouldn’t be coming back. It would all be over if he just got up and did it—no matter the outcome, he will not exit Nevermore alive. In that bedroom, it had been calming; at the beginning, he had thought he could endure this just until he got his mom back, until Alicia was freed. Now, he can endure it just until the world is saved, and then...
Well, he won’t have to endure anything.
The sun is setting, twilight slowly turning to dark; pretty soon it’ll be cold enough to see his breath on the wind. All their preparations are complete; their bags packed, left in the inn room, a final day of relaxation before either everything changes or their little revolution is extinguished on the wind. Oliver stands at the top of the mountain and looks out over his fate one last time; one more chance to run that he won’t take.
A little longer, and he’ll be gone; a little longer, and he’ll be with his mother. For the good of the world, he tells himself, and the fear sets in after the cold calm.