Work Text:
Draft of The Key to the Garden of Roses
"Once upon a star, down and down the roots of the old world tree, there was a cub. A cub rotten to its core, whose thick and dirty blood felt like chains to his feet that dragged at kept him at arms lenghs (methaporically, of course) of the cold and dampt walls of the prison cells of a brilliant and glorious human kingdom.
He was hungry and tired, but as food was precious there was none that would give a bite to a creature like him. After all, there was little to gain from a being as simple and sad as him. Even then, fate had a gift waiting to be unwrapped soon and by its course, a couple of flower blooms caught his mouth and stomach, belonging to a garden where one younger boy played with wooden swords as best as he could.
The wicked creature laughed and smiled at the poor boy."You need to fight to survive. Even if it's a losing battle, it should light a fire under you. How can you sit back like this and go down without a fight?"
Those were the words he had told the noble heir of the Scylding clan as he pushed him down the dirt. It was mean, loud and heartless. How could one speak like this to one of our dear and good-bred children? The littlest boy cried clear and crystal tears from his beautiful icy eyes, yet a slash under one of his shone bright yellow. (Wait, I thought all nobles had blue blood too? Or would it be red? But that would be too early for him either way.)
The End."
The ambience through the halls of the Universitas was somehow a half between rushed and calm. Despite the contsant flow of scholars up and down each with at least three thick tomes and at least one cup of black coffee, the silence and unmoving nature of each other seated man and woman on the building was enough to push your heart down their pace and at the very least adapt to their pace, feeling guilty over each sound your shoes made against the hard floor, that was luckily often quieted down by the whispers of some students frsutrated and helfull alike trying to find together a book or paper that might as well be turning into dust at this very moment.
The boy drifted through the corridors with an unassuming confidence and the smile he knew well to always wear on his face. After all, he knows well how far a good face and the right attitude can let you get pass. Just keep your eyes clossed as long as you can, blink and just close your eyes just keep walking and keep your eyes closed.
Clad in white plain robes that were so generously gifted by his dear new friend, a bit too big on him even when cut, but he could make due, after all, every pair of eyes that he caught landing upon him didnt last long before sliding away— by the looks of it— suddenly recalling a citation left unfinished or a theorem demanding immediate revision. Surtalogi found each case amusing.
It wasn't the first time he tried to sneak in, but then he could barely stay more than a couple minutes by the entrance trying to read the book he took from the book card before the gaze of the crowd around him got way too overbearing to stand and before anyone said a word he left, leaving the pages of the volume open behind him. Maybe this time he could get around to read it, if he had time later on after his mission of great importance.
To infiltrate the greatest congregation of scholars in Khaenriah by disguising himself as one of them felt almost insulting. He had expected wards, sentries, perhaps even relics capable of recognizing those who had stepped beyond the world's laws. Instead, he found librarians arguing over cataloguing methods and doctoral candidates, and it seemed to grow worse by each step he took far from the doors. Perhaps, he mused, knowledge had always believed itself capable of defending its own halls.
Shelves grew taller, older, their stone darkened by centuries of careful hands and candle smoke. The air smelled less of ink and more of brittle parchment, of bindings that had not seen daylight in generations and at the end of the corridor stood an iron gate worked with intricate runes, a bronze plaque beside it declaring, in no uncertain terms:
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
Surtalogi had expected seals layered upon seals, perhaps a challenge meant to test the identity of whoever sought entry—Instead, the gate stood slightly ajar, just enough for a person to slip through. His brow frowned for a minute, eyes shifting side to side, an ear to the marbled wall in hopes of hearing any voices, yet nothing seemed to make any noise, and no movement or light seemed to come from the insides.
Libraries were notorious for absent-minded scholars— He thought. —and organizations dedicated to knowledge rarely escaped the arrogance of believing their rules were sufficient. If an archivist had forgotten to secure the entrance, that was hardly his concern.
With little more than a passing glance, Surtalogi pushed the gate open. The chamber beyond was unexpectedly modest.
Square in shape and scarcely larger than an ordinary study, it possessed none of the imposing grandeur the title Restricted Archives promised. Four stone walls enclosed rows of oak shelves whose contents barely occupied a third of their space. Most of the books were practical compilations—catalogues, inventories, transcriptions of works stored elsewhere—volumes valuable enough to preserve, but hardly worth concealing under this secrecy.
It was almost disappointing. Almost, as for the few seconds he spent observing the room from corner to corner, his fingertips barely caressing the spines of each tome filled with dust until he came up to face the scriptorium opposite to the entrance left him wondering what more was there to see. After all, despite restricted, one would expect an important room as this to be cleaned, if only it was what it seemed.
Long tables occupied its center in meticulous rows, each accompanied by an identical chair pushed neatly beneath it. Brass candleholders rested untouched beside polished inkstones, quills arranged with almost ceremonial precision despite the obvious absence of scribes.
The walls displayed no paintings, no banners, no decorative carvings celebrating founders or benefactors. Such vanity seemed strangely absent from the Universitas.
Only one ornament remained, mounted upon the northern wall rested a small vishap skull. Time had bleached it to a pale ivory, every crack carefully repaired with veins of dull silver that disappeared seamlessly into the surrounding stone. Empty sockets stared across the silent room with unsettling patience.
Surtalogi approached, and his fingers traced said relic searching for any seams hidden, any inscription, runes or visible mechanism. He tilted it around and nothing happened. He pressed the jaw and nothing happened.
Then, almost absent-mindedly, he rested two fingers within the hollow sockets.
Somewhere beneath his feet, unseen counterweights shifted with a deep metallic groan and the stone scraped against stone, while the floor at the center of the scriptorium divided into perfect concentric circles. Each ring rotated independently before locking into a new position with deafening precision, revealing a staircase that spiraled upward around an impossibly deep shaft.
Cold air rose from below and without hesitation, Surtalogi began the ascent.
The staircase coiled tightly around itself, each step worn smooth. Narrow lancet windows pierced the outer wall at irregular intervals. Through them poured a pale radiance that resembled moonlight more than sunlight, silver and diffuse, illuminating the stair without ever revealing its source. When at last the staircase ended, Surtalogi emerged into the true library and for the first time since entering the Universitas, he truly felt amazed— the sort of revelation he had hoped from since the very first time he had heard about the wonders of this very institution.
At its heart lay an octagonal chamber from which eight corridors extended with mathematical perfection, each identical in width, height, and proportion.— Every passage terminated in another octogonal smaller rooms with equal branched corridors between them. A proper laberythn built by someone with a profound distrust of scholars.
Surtalogi felt the corners of his mouth smiling almost imperceptibly. "Now this… really is worth hiding a perfect cure."
. . .
The labyrinth, as to be expected, offered him no catalogues, and it barely gave any light to see, forcing him to scater around for books and fleeing to the cold light of the false moon in hopes of getting any reading done.
Most volumes concerned themselves with familiar pursuits: astronomical observations whose calculations had since been refined, philosophical disputes forgotten even by those who had won them, treatises on alchemy whose margins bore generations of contradictory annotations.
He ignored them. Knowledge that had survived into the present was rarely worth stealing and with so many hands plastered over the first papers of the room nothing would have been something to spend his valuable time with, instead it would be the most narrow and messy hidden alcobes that caught his attention. The first volume he withdrew lacked an author's name, only a few scratches on its first page, messy and half torn that hinted at a so called Stahl.
"Echoes Hallowed and Humble, Chymical Hyperoctant, between Scylla and Charybdis"
"If water loses its incisiveness, how shall it become water again?. If a tree leaves the soil, where shall it go to take root? No matter how mightily stone may strike upon metal, Humans cannot survive without water or soil." Movement 9, Stanza 37.
(…) All things born beneath the First Firmament contain within them a subtle principle of yearning, unseen by the eye yet evident through every transformation. As flame abandons wood and leaves only pale ash, so too does this hidden essence depart from living things when their purpose is fulfilled. What remains is matter bereft of desire, destined only to return to the Cavern of Wilderness.
The ignorant mistake this principle for elemental energy, yet they observe only its shadow. It is not Pyro that consumes the timber, but the release of that ancient longing imprisoned within it since the world's first dawn. Thus every fire is less a birth than a remembrance.
Surtalogi clicked his tongue. Beautiful prose, but boks like these survived because they inspired reverence, not because they answered questions. He returned the volume without another glance and continued searching. He picked the thin papers stapled together. The title, at least, promised less poetry, it could be read as an "Excerpt from On the Affliction Commonly Called the Curse of Wilderness, attributed to the Third Collegium of Physickers"
The condition does not present as a disease in the ordinary sense. Neither contagion nor inherited disposition has been observed with consistency. Rather, the body appears to surrender itself to an unknown principle, abandoning those distinctions that separate Man from the ungoverned Wild.
The earliest manifestations are subtle. Subjects complain of diminished recollection, difficulty recalling proper names, and an increasing inability to distinguish the passage of days. Appetite remains unaffected, while dreams become unusually vivid and frequently concern forests, forgotten roads, or voices speaking in no identifiable tongue.
The second stage is marked by alterations in temperament. Speech grows sparse. Social instincts decline. Patients display a persistent inclination toward abandoned places and demonstrate an irrational aversion to cultivated land. Several subjects were found attempting to uproot paving stones, claiming they had "prevented the earth from breathing."
No corruption of the flesh is observed during these stages. The injury belongs first to memory, then to reason.
"Could it be—" he wondered. He did not know the boy for long, and he had no clue of whether or not either of the systoms had manifested properly still. Should he wait and check? Wouldn't that be too late for his new friend?
He continued reading, flipping over the last two pages tied together. He could observe neither fit with the first one, perhaps it was put together when thrown up there by topic rather than author. It read:
The skeletal structure likewise remains fundamentally human, differing chiefly through centuries of pathological remodeling. The curvature of the spine, enlargement of the phalanges, and thickening of cranial bone appear adaptive rather than congenital.
Most remarkable is the nervous system. Examination repeatedly reveals no injury sufficient to explain the profound deterioration of language, memory, and higher reasoning. The body remains capable of sustaining a human intellect, yet the intellect itself is absent, as though inaccessible rather than destroyed.
And:
Every known remedy has proven ineffective. Purification by alchemical transfusion, prolonged isolation, medicinal herbs and bloodletting alike produce no measurable improvement. Subjects occasionally exhibit brief periods of lucidity when exposed to familiar songs, childhood objects, or the voices of close relations. Such intervals seldom persist beyond several minutes.
(…) If memory may be briefly restored, then it has not been destroyed.
Surtalogi read the sentence once. Then again, but nothing changed in the ink. With measured care, he folded the brittle pages back into place, his fingertips brushing the rough fibers of the ancient parchment. The manuscript seemed to have survived years of handling, revisions, and careful preservation only to arrive at the same answer even the basic understanding on the street was.
"…What a bore."
He went through a few texts on the topic more: "Ethical concerns in clinical trials of wild bodies", "Archiatri and Techne— Medicine in ancient Capitolium", "Knowledge of ethnoveterinary under Parvezravan's reign"… "Recopilation and commentary on Bathysmal Vishap Experimental Records" before his hand loosened. The folios slipped from his grasp and settled upon the floor with little more than the whisper, drifting apart, exposing anatomical sketches and faded quick notes written by other scholars.
Silence settled over the reading chamber once more and for the first time since entering the archives, the room seemed to press inward, swallowing every stray thought until only the steady ache behind Surtalogi's eyes remained. His vision blurred and the muscles in his brow protested every attempt to focus upon another line of ink.
He exhaled slowly and for what felt like the first time since entering the archives, he allowed himself to stop.
He found himself sprawled under one of the shelves, the back of his head tumbling up and down as he tried emptying his head to get back to work. His stomach answered the silence with an impatient growl. He ignored it.
Closing his eyes, he sought only a moment's reprieve—just long enough for his thoughts to untangle themselves. Instead a warm hand resting against his forehead. Gentle fingers brushed dark strands of hair away from his eyes while a quiet voice laughed beneath her breath.
"My dear little Sangacorexes..."
His mother had spoken often of the world of light. She had described it as a place where impurity could not linger, where all things existed according to their first and truest nature. Light, she would tell him, was restoration as much as illumination.
His father had never contradicted her outright.
Instead, he had smiled with the weary patience of someone who had lived long enough to distrust absolutes. "Light reveals what is broken," he had once said. "It does not always possess the power to mend it."
The memory had irritated him then. It irritated him still. What value was revelation without restoration? Priests spoke of miracles. Alchemists of purification. Yet every experiment he had heard of had ended alike. The corruption receded. Then returned. Or worse, it merely slept beneath healthier flesh.
If there existed a true cure, the world had either forgotten it... or never possessed it at all.
Something tugged insistently at the edge of his thoughts. The earliest manuscript, the Chymical Hyperoctant
Its author had spoken of the Primal Fire as more than a flame or element, but an invisible principle residing within all living things—a longing from which growth, memory, and transformation alike emerged. Not consuming but releasing what already dwelt within it. Light reminds every living thing of what it was always meant to be. The physicians had sought to destroy the corruption. But what if destruction had never been the answer? What if the missing piece was restoration?
Eye, Tooth, Fin, and Tail. Eye, Mouth, Hand, Feet, and Nose.
Speculation. Nothing more. He needed physical proof of his thoughts.
Without another glance at the forgotten treatise and rising to his feet, Surtalogi vanished once more into the maze of shelves.
The aisles gradually gave way to collections whose classifications had long ceased to make even less sense than before as if to personally torment him. Herbal catalogues stood beside epics. Children's tales shared shelves with theological debates. A treatise on dream interpretation rested between astronomical records and a volume detailing the migration of bird-like reptiles that no longer existed.
It was there, tucked between a botanical survey of Sumeru's rainforests and a collection of ritual songs written in an extinct dialect, that a weathered manuscript caught his attention with its binding repaired so many times that almost none of the original leather remained, while the title and certain lines had been rewritten by successive librarians as each preceding layer faded into illegibility: "Fragments from On the Dreaming Forest and the Persistence of Memory"
Those who approach the children of the forest believing them to be spirits mistake appearance for essence. (...)They are not dreams made flesh, as the poets insist, nor plants granted ██████, as the natural philosophers would argue, they are memories that have learned to live. (...)A Nara remembers because the mind preserves experience.
(...) Among the Aranara there exists no distinction between knowledge and remembrance. They do not learn arts as Men do, through repetition and instruction, but cultivate them as one tends a growing tree. Every memory nourished becomes another branch from which a new Ararakalari may blossom. (...)Thus power is ███ accumulated through conquest (...) To forget is to become weaker, yet every use of these gifts demands███████████in return.
When an Aranara shields the forest from corruption, mends what has withered, or carries itself across impossible distances,(...)
This exchange should not be understood as sacrifice alone, for what greater proof can there be that memory is a living substance than that it may be consumed?
The sages of old have long debated whether the first principle of life is breath, blood, or elemental essence. The Aranara propose another answer: ████. Indeed, the ████ itself appears to preserve those who carry it, while those who inherit another's memories inherit also the melody hidden within them. Thus one Aranara may awaken bearing another's gift, (...) Memory, then, is not possession, but succession.
One curious contradiction deserves mention, as though born of the forest, the Aranara fear fire above all things. (...) Even those who display little fear before monsters flee from the smallest open flame. They claim no philosophy explaining this terror, yet one cannot help but observe that fire consumes ███████ ██████ ██████.
It was an elegant philosophy. Beautiful, even. Whether it was true remained another matter altogether. He closed the book gently and returned it to its place upon the shelf and once more he found himself alone among corridors whose geometry defied intuition, where every chamber resembled another without ever becoming familiar. Time had become impossible to measure. It was then, as he prepared to continue deeper into the labyrinth, that something disturbed the uniform monotony of stone and shadow.
Far down one of the branching corridors, beyond a succession of arches that dissolved into darkness, a warm amber glow trembled faintly against the wall.
Surtalogi stopped at once as he noticed it was not the same silver light he had grown familiar by now but the unmistakable shimmer of fire.For several moments he simply watched it, expecting the silhouette of another scholar to pass before it, or the muffled murmur of conversation to drift through the passage but nothing came.
He found himself walking before he had consciously decided to do so.
The realization irritated him. Surtalogi prided himself upon seldom acting without deliberate purpose, yet his feet carried him steadily along the corridor with a certainty that seemed to arise from somewhere beyond conscious thought. As he reached the room he let out a breath he didn't realize he was holding still. It was simply another small empty room, if anything, it had less books than others, with its walls mostly empty, except for a few unput together papers in the tabletop.
Suspended from a bronze chain fixed to the ceiling, it swayed ever so slightly above the center of the room, its glass reservoir filled with clear oil through which a quiet golden flame burned with remarkable steadiness. Surtalogi glanced instinctively toward the door behind him, then circled the chamber once, examining every alcove and every shelf with practiced care.
No second exit revealed itself and embarasingly he realized it might have been his own headache that made his miss the only true light source in the building.
Drawing out the nearest bundle of folios, Surtalogi settled into the vacant chair beneath the hanging lamp and unfolded the first page. Across the brittle parchment, in a careful hand whose ink had browned with age, was written a title that drew his full attention before he had read another word. "On the Consecration and Evolution of Wicked Beasts."
Men have witnessed the horns of a consecrated crocodile or the crystal growths upon a vulture's wings and imagine ascension. Careful observation demonstrates that the phenomenon invariably follows the consumption of flesh belonging to what the ancients termed Greater Lifeforms—those beings whose vitality surpasses the ordinary limitations imposed upon beasts and Men alike.
It has often been proposed that Consecrated Beasts acquire elemental abilities by absorbing the essence of their meal. This conclusion mistakes consequence for process. (…) Unable either to digest or expel it, the beast survives only by accommodating what should have remained forever foreign to its body. Bone envelops bone. Organ yields to organ. Muscle reshapes itself around an intruder that neither decays nor departs.
After hours spent wandering the library's chill corridors, where the air had remained unmoving and cold as subterranean water, the room possessed an almost domestic comfort. The stiffness in his hands eased almost immediately. His tired eyes welcomed the softer light that made considerably easier reading the new papers. Only then did he notice the fragrance: Dried herbs. Resin. A sweetness difficult to identify, softened by the faint bitterness of crushed leaves. The aroma reminded him of an infirmary he once was taken to after passing out on the street, and he felt his appetite soothed by the new stimuli.
Several dissections have revealed that the foreign tissues continue to exhibit properties inexplicable under ordinary anatomy. They neither rot nor scar. Even when separated from the host, they display an astonishing resistance to corruption, hardening over time into mineral-like structures whose composition resembles certain sacred deposits found where gods once fell. Evolution rewards those fortunate enough to discover advantages before their rivals.
As he read he didn't seem to notice as the fragrant smoke continued, almost imperceptibly, to gather around the flame.
. . .
The first sensation was warmth. It drifted across his forehead with impossible gentleness, fingers brushing damp strands of hair from his face in the same absent-minded way one might tend to a sleeping child. The touch lingered only for a moment before withdrawing, leaving behind the faint scent of old parchment and smoke.
"...Daikengyou." The voice reached him as though spoken through deep water.
Surtalogi stirred. "...Daike..."
A chuckle answered him. "No, no. You're babbling."
He frowned, fighting against the heaviness pressing upon his limbs. The word lingered at the edge of his tongue, strangely familiar despite belonging to no language he consciously recognized.
"...Daikengyou."
"There we are."
His eyelids reluctantly parted. The stone ceiling above him rocked with the slow rhythm of waves, refusing to remain still no matter how fiercely he blinked. Shadows pooled in impossible places, while the lingering perfume of burnt herbs clung stubbornly to the back of his throat. Every breath tasted sweet enough to make him dizzy.
He then saw a figure sat beside him. First thing he saw was a black eyepatch in his right eye. Old. But might be rude to say. He had red-ish curly hair, messy and with a careless beard. His arms felt strong but somehow soft.
Surtalogi stared without recognition. "...I saw him." The words escaped before he understood why.
"Oh?" The old man raised an eyebrow, but his face didn't seem surpsied at all—marely amused, if anything. His smile deepened and he let out a low breathy laugh.
"And what, exactly, did those keen little eyes of yours see?"
His brow furrowed. "There was..." He lifted a hand weakly, tracing a shape through the air that dissolved before he could finish it. "...a whale."
"Hm.” His voice was barely more than a whisper. ”An exceptionally large one?"
"No. It was..."
The image slipped. "...far away."
"Five hundred narwhals guarded its left." His hand drifted slowly to one side. "And..." His other hand followed. "...five hundred humpback whales sang to its right."
The old man nodded as though taking scholarly notes. "A most respectable escort."
"They weren't singing." Surtalogi's eyes remained unfocused. "They were..." He hesitated. "...the song."
Silence settled between them.
"There were jellyfish."
"Priests?"
"No."
He frowned. "...servants. They carried stars." Another pause. "It swallowed them."
"The stars?"
"...Everything."
The old man's thoughtful hum suggested none of this struck him as particularly unusual. "Curious."
He tapped the end of his cane lightly against the stone. "I recall reading in some old notes, many years ago, that some fool attempted to catch one of those celestial gluttons by baiting a hook with fragments of fallen stars."
His eyes sparkled. "So tell me, boy..." He leaned forward just enough for Surtalogi to meet his gaze. "...have you decided to volunteer as the next lure?"
"...What?"
“What?”
The question lingered stupidly in the air. Then the dream vanished. Only a vague impression remained, as though he had once known something profound and forgotten it before waking.
His gaze sharpened. "...Who..." He rubbed at his temples. "...Who are you? What are you doing here?"
"Oh?" The old man laughed quietly. "Me?" He spread his hands in mock innocence. "Merely another admirer of the world's darker and more inconvenient secrets." His eyes wandered toward the reading room beyond the open doorway. "You, however...appear to have made the acquaintance of a considerably less agreeable companion."
Surtalogi followed his gaze. The faint thread of fragrant smoke still escaped through the doorway. "...The herbs."
"So you noticed. I found you face-down on the floor."
The old man shrugged as though it had been a perfectly ordinary occurrence.
"The room was thick enough with burning flowers and powdered spices to make a yaksha question reality. I thought it prudent to drag you outside." He gave Surtalogi another once-over before suppressing another smile. "Though, judging by the state I found you in...I'd say the damage had already been done."
"What did I do?"
"Oh, nothing particularly dignified. You spent the better part of an hour muttering at the ceiling." His smile finally broke into a quiet grin. "Every now and then you'd let out the saddest little whimper." He tilted his head thoughtfully. "Like a cute mechanical Meduzoa.”
He stands “I just came to have my share of quiet time alone to write but a little bird told me instead I would find a little boy here. Care to explain what someone like you is doing here? After all you dont seem to fit the scholarly type, no offense.”
Surtalogi frowns “Aw, don’t look at me like that. I would have remembered you if you were one of the students here. You have really pretty eyes, has anyone told you that before?”
“Shh, don’t try standing up so fast, you will lose balance.”
He steadied the boy until the dizziness subsided, only withdrawing his hands once he was satisfied Surtalogi could remain upright on his own. Even then, he lingered close enough that another stumble would have found support before reaching the floor. "There," he said with quiet satisfaction. "Much better."
Surtalogi instinctively took half a step back.
"You look as though you're expecting me to demand an explanation."
"...Aren't you?"
"For what?"
"Sneaking into the restricted archives."
Hroptatyr blinked once. "Oh." Then he laughed—a warm, unhurried laugh entirely disproportionate to the confession. "So that's what's troubling you." Surtalogi gave no further comment, an so he continued. "Little one, if the library wished to keep you out, you would never have found your way in."
The answer settled uneasily in Surtalogi's thoughts. He had expected reprimand, sharp questioning— guards, perhaps, not mere indifference. Unless the old man simply didn't care. Unless he already knew.
"You've been reading quite diligently," Hroptatyr continued, as though the matter required no further discussion. "Archiatri and Techne, Scylla and Charybdis, the Persistence of Memory... and I imagine you couldn't resist Evolution of Wicked Beasts."
"You know those books?"
"I've argued with them often enough."
Surtalogi frowned. "Argued... with books?"
"Naturally." Hroptatyr folded his arms. "A good book should disagree with its reader every now and then."
That... was an odd way of putting it. He thought.
"The Aranara manuscript," the old man continued, "contains one of my favorite propositions. If stone may be worn away by water, and flesh nourished by bread, then perhaps memory too belongs among those hidden principles through which Creation sustains itself. We perceive only its effects, mistaking them for the thing itself, much as the ignorant mistake smoke for the cause of fire.”
How can you remember that whole wall of text? Does that come with age? Or am just as stupid as that mean guard said? Surtalogi's expression remained unconvinced. "It's elegant," he admitted, "but it proves nothing."
"No?"
"It assumes its own conclusion."
Hroptatyr's eyebrows rose with genuine interest. "Go on."
"You can't observe memory as a substance, nor can you be sure any of the information it gives is actually true, by the looks of it it doesn't seem like the author even understands the creatures he’s writing about well enough for the conclusions it gives. And it clearly lacks any acknowledgement of other plausible explanations." Surtalogi spoke more confidently now, the lingering haze steadily. "You can't isolate it, measure it, reproduce it. Every argument in that manuscript depends on metaphor. Songs, dreams, remembrance..." He shook his head. "None of it demonstrates causation."
"Ah." The old man nodded slowly. "So you are one of those.”
“What does that mean?”
Hroptatyr's smile broadened. "An admirable complaint."
"No need to be condescending, sir. I... expected you to disagree."
"Oh, I do." The old man laughed softly. "Just not for the reasons you imagine." His gaze wandered back toward the darkened doorway of the reading chamber, lingering there as though the scattered folios still lay open before him. "Tell me, when you reached the physician's reports on the Curse of Wilderness... what did they offer?"
"Descriptions," Surtalogi answered without hesitation. "Then treatment recommendations."
"Were they effective? The prayers? The medicines? How about the Light purifications?"
"They just delayed it." His voice grew quieter. "None of them cured it."
"And yet you continued searching."
Surtalogi lowered his eyes to his hands, unconsciously rubbing at the ink stains left upon his fingertips. "There had to be something they'd overlooked."
"And you wanted to be the one to uncover the mystery?" Hroptatyr's smile softened into something almost paternal. "How noble of you." He studied the boy for a long moment, with a tinge of mockery. "But I cannot help asking myself..." His head tilted slightly to one side. "Why would it be you, out of every scholar before you? After all, tell me, how old are you? Ten years old— maybe eleven?”
“I’m thirteen! I’m just… smaller than the average, that's all.”
"Hm." The old man nodded as though the distinction were perfectly satisfactory. "Tell me, have you ever heard the term Chaos Permeation?" Surtalogi shook his head. "I thought not. It is not a subject the Universitas advertises."
He stood still but with his feet he drew over the thin layer of dust coating the stone beneath their feet.
"The Seven elements are only stable expressions of a deeper order. The text you have just read about the consecrated beasts should have—even if briefly—mentioned the usage of consumption of not only decaying meat of old gods but the power contained in the marrow bones of each one as well. You will find echoes of the same principle elsewhere, if you know where to look. The shamans of the Masters of the Night-Wind carve ritual instruments from the bones of ancient beasts. Certain reptiles appear to have diverged after generations spent nesting among draconic remains in such beings as oceanids, the faerical development studies in the Old Kietzh and as we speak, several scholars working under my direction are studying a rather... exceptional specimen. All of these remains and bones of usually a draconic or serpentine nature that fell into their natural opposition, darkness, can produce regions of negative elemental pressure.”
His eyes briefly flicked toward Surtalogi to ensure he was still listening and by seeing Surtalogi's puzzled expression, Hroptatyr finished drawing a circle in the dust.
"When water rushes downhill, we say the valley draws it." He pushed a little deeper. "Chaos may be made to behave similarly. A carefully woven abyssal formula consumes local elemental equilibrium without destroying it outright. The surrounding elemental light rushes inward to restore balance, just as air fills a vacuum."
"And that's... Chaos Permeation?"
"The simplest expression of it, yes. If corruption clings to flesh because the flesh cannot exchange energy freely, then forcing a more perfect circulation may achieve what prayers cannot." He shrugged. "Or it may kill the patient."
Almost absent-mindedly, his hands came to rest upon Surtalogi's shoulders, his thumbs working small circles through the stiff fabric as though easing muscles that had tensed during the conversation. The familiarity caught Surtalogi off guard. He should have stepped away. Instead, he merely stiffened for a moment before allowing it, uncertain whether to feel comforted or wary.
"You don't know?"
"No."
Hroptatyr's smile became almost mischievous. "Do you want to see it done?" His hands ceased their gentle motion, though they remained where they were.
"What do you mean?" The old man answered only with the same sly snicker and no further word.
Before Surtalogi had time to question it further, the old man's hands shifted. One settled lightly behind the boy's shoulder, the other found the hollow just above his collarbone. He frowned. "...What are you—"
There was a sharp twist, then a sickening crack rang through the quiet chamber. Pain exploded across his shoulder and neck and the boy cried like a wild animal "AH—!" He stumbled backward, clutching uselessly at his shoulder as tears welled unbidden in his eyes. "N-No, no, no!"
"W-WAIT!" His breathing hitched into panicked gasps. "I'm sorry! I wasn't being disrespectful! Please!"
Before he could lose his footing, Hroptatyr caught him with surprising ease, drawing him gently against his chest so he would not collapse.
"Shh..." The old man's voice remained calm, almost soothing. "Shhh... it's all right, you little butterfly."
One hand continued supporting Surtalogi's back while the other rested carefully over the injured collarbone. "See?" For a brief instant, the color of his eye brightened in a sort of amber color right before warmth began to blossom beneath his palm.
A gentle orange radiance spread through his fingers, fire enveloped the injured shoulder—slow and deliberate the heat carried flesh until the agony that had left him trembling gradually began to unravel. His breathing steadied and his tears stopped.
"There." Surtalogi stared down at himself in disbelief, flexing his shoulder cautiously. It still hurt but as a distant pain and he could move perfectly fine.
"You wanted physical evidence," Hroptatyr said gently. "Not another philosophy. He brushed a stray lock of dark hair away from Surtalogi's damp face. His hand rested briefly against the boy's shoulder once more. “But you were a brave boy and could stand it so well, and now you know something no manuscript could have taught you."
"Some truths must be felt before they can be understood."
He paused, a familiar smile returning to his face. "You should be going now," he said, dusting off his sleeves. "If the archivists discover you wandering these halls much longer, they'll insist on making paperwork out of the occasion. Though... it would be poor manners to send a guest away empty-handed." Turning toward one of the overflowing stacks upon his desk, he rummaged through the untidy piles of parchment until he produced a freshly bound volume. "Here." He placed it carefully into Surtalogi's hands. "The very first copy of my latest completed manuscript."
Surtalogi glanced down at the cover. "...A children's book?"
"Precisely!" Hroptatyr beamed. "I'd say it suits you rather well. I'm sure we'll see each other again soon enough and you can tell me what you thought of it, hm? What do you say?"
. . .
"Thus, within a matter of weeks, two boys came to stand beneath the banners of the Royal Infantry Militia under the tutelage of Instructor Haden.
One, ten years of age, did so by birthright inherited by blood, being the young heir of the Scylding Clan.
As for the other, at age thirteen. No noble petition accompanied his name, nor recommendation from any military household. Instead, beside the official seal of the Crown appeared a second signature.—The personal decree of the President of the Universitas Magistrorum and Chief Royal Mage.
(Wait, is that all?)
The End."