u/remnant_human

Located here: https://www.thedictionaryofobscuresorrows.com/tags

Each song is by progressive ambient artist The Surrealist:

1. dark_eye
2. biopolis_aeternalis
3. annihilation

Additionally, when you post your prompt, tell me the order in which these songs came to inspire you, so that I may use them in the same way to inspire me.

Inspiration: James Norbert Ivanyi—A Spectre Departed | Original prompt by user Spoon_Elemental

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A Conversation with Death

"So... you must be the Lord of Rot. At last, I've found the source of this despotic corruption. Prepare yourself, lich—I've come to slay you, once and for all. Your reign of terror ends here."

"Terror? Interesting. Is that what my existence beyond death has amounted to? Am I that horrible an affront to the nose? Surely not; the flowers that bloom around this pond should do more than enough to mask the smell."

"Enough of your wiles, demon! You are a tear in the natural order of life and death, and your powers have rotted away the life around you!"

"Have they? The waters are glassy, the fish are thriving, the trees are verdant. A trick of the light, you'd say, but you can't deny your other still-human senses. Taste the sweetness in the air, smell the orchids, hear the gentle breeze that churns the waters. Even the fact you can feel that sword in your hand is proof you've not yet decayed in very presence. No, I'd say my existence here is a boon to your environment, aspersive nickname notwithstanding."

"And yet—your campaign across these lands have turned the homes of man and beast alike into fetid swampland, teeming with the undead. Marred skeletons with putrid flesh and horrid screams scour the landscape and slaughter the innocent; this is all your doing!"

"I am more powerful than I expected, if my reach extends beyond this pond."

"Yes, your power knows no bounds, and since I have you—"

"And since I'm so powerful, what's stopping me from turning you into a desiccated corpse? If I'm this omnipotent master of death and disease, could I not cause you to vomit your entrails into this pool of pristine, glassy water? Or your eyes to boil straight out of their sockets? Should I not turn this entire world into a wasteland of decay? It would suit me better than this idyllic, disgusting paradise. After all, I'm a lich. I must court death, correct? I must relish in the demise of life and all its inheritors; such is clearly my nature. Your words are truthful to the end, adventurer. If only truth mattered when spoken with the tongue of an idiot. Now, go, fool. Leave me to my afterlife."

"You think your threats scare me? I know your tricks. You prey on the fear of mortals."

"You must not be mortal, then. That, hard of hearing, stupid, or insane. Perhaps a combination of all of them?"

"Your insults will not shake my resolve! I follow in the footsteps of Markus the Anointed! He struck you down in the last age, and now I will do so in this one!"

"Markus... that name is familiar. I remember him. He killed me in another life. A shame, really. I would say the death of his ally was needless, but I would not have died otherwise. I wonder if he's still alive. I should thank him. A thousand years sequestered away in the depths of the earth really warps the mind. His heroic sacrifice allowed me to be reborn. The Rootmother is truly an enigmatic god."

"How dare you utter her name with that vile tongue?!"

"Which one?"

"Both! They're both holy entities that deserve reverence and worship; far better than the likes of you!"

"And you think I disagree."

"Your reputation precedes you, filthy lich. I know what you are."

"Aye, that you do. I am a lich. I can't deny my existence, but you conflate my being with my behavior. The past does not entirely define me; it merely gives me the means to define myself, and yet I don't shy away from it. I am an avatar of death and illness; a living embodiment of disease and decay; an aspect of death, made flesh once more. Because of my actions in a previous life, you believe you have justification to kill me. Perhaps you do, and yet who paved your way? Whose ground do you stand on? Whose path do you follow for me to meet my end? Your mind says the Rootmother's, but your feet say mine. Look at where you are—the very lilies, I moved to bring you to me. I gave you the opportunity to strike me down, but you won't. You shriek your threats, you wave your artifacts and weapons in my face, you look down on my seated form as if you are better, as if you are a god.

"Today, in this moment, there are no gods. Not for me, and not for you. If we meet in battle, you will die. There is no other truth. I will kill you, and you will cease to be. However, I'd rather avoid having to get my hands dirty in such poor fashion. The only dirt I care to have cover these skeletal fingers is that of the soil that will bear the harvest, so—with all that said—a choice. Three roads lay before you. Tread the first road and challenge me, but you will die. Tread the second road and leave this place, but you will live. Tread the third road and sit. You'll live and maybe come away from this encounter a bit more forgiving."

"And what's to stop me from ridding the world of you right now?"

"Besides the sheer power imbalance? The lack of world experience, to start. For instance, you still think that a mere silver sword can kill a lich. That's an old wives' tale from back before your ancestors were still twinkles in their eyes of their own parents. Even if your sword were capable of doing damage to me—of killing me, if we're entertaining the thought—I'm a lich. My soul has been split into multiple fragments and stowed away in vessels across the land. I'll simply come back. To make matters worse, I'm not the one who split my soul in my rebirth, so I don't know where those pieces of me are. I am functionally immortal. A punishment, perhaps, for past transgressions. Acceptable, but the freedom to be is an interesting catch. Sorry, right, back to your choice. Make it, or it will be made for you."

"...I won't let you out of my sight, lich, but I will relent. I will sit."

"Good. Your mind is more sound than I assumed. Careful; it's giant, but still a lily pad. If you fall in, the feeling of cold water won't be pleasant to the skin."

"I don't ne—...need your help."

"Clearly."

"..."

"..."

"So, now what, demon?"

"Not much of a conversationalist, are you? You seem to like letting your hands do the talking."

"I don't speak with the enemy. There are not worthy of my words."

"Who is?"

"No one important to you."

"But, they are to you. I want to know why."

"So you can use them as a means to demoralize me?"

"So we can have something to speak about, but if you'd much rather not, that's fine. We'll speak about the cursed lands. You say they're tainted with rot."

"You would know. You made the lands that way."

"You would be mistaken. Since my rebirth, I've not moved from this spot. Of course, you would think my power far-reaching and absolute. You wouldn't be wrong in some regard; such was the reputation of my previous life. I don't care to demonstrate it in any other way than to proliferate the living."

"And you expect me to believe you?"

"Time would deem that question irrelevant. Ask a different one."

"Like what?"

"Like anything. I've existed for a millennium, at the very least."

"...why are you acting in such a disarming manner?"

"A thousand years of wisdom, and yet you still demand to focus on my behavior. We've been over this; if I wanted to kill you, I would, but I don't. There is no grand scheme. There is no ploy, no hidden motive, no knife waiting for a turned back. We are face to face. You are face to face with something resembling death, but you live. It's not a show of power. It's something worth celebrating."

"But, why? You are the most feared being across the land. Your actions were evil. You poisoned the world and its people. You wanted to bring the land to ruin. Now, you sit here and wax contrary to all that you've wrought."

"Indeed."

"So... why?"

"Before I was a lich, I was an alchemist. I studied life and its uses, distilled my research into knowledge of how to bring ingredients together to create new concoctions. My research was in poison—not because I wanted to poison the world, but because I wanted to remove that poison. The world was infected with rot long before I ever stepped on its grounds. My hope was to purify it, but to test my research, I needed a subject to test it on. I didn't want to use another being for it, so I made a costly mistake—I decided to test my research on myself. I poisoned myself thoroughly over years of time. It was gradual—a foolish decision on my part, thinking I could develop some sort of resistance. My cures were ineffective, leaving me to deal with the symptoms of poisoning on my own. The weaker poisons eventually expired, but the stronger poisons remained.

"In my desperation, I turned to necromancy to learn how to extend my life. I pulled every book on the black arts from every library I could find, pored through their texts, discerned their inner workings, deciphered their mechanisms in the hopes I could prevent my death before it was necessary. Sure enough, I found those methods, but utilizing them would go against everything I stood for. Delirious from the poisons, I weighed the few against the many and made my choice. It was a choice I do not regret; not then, not now. My only regret was the consequence of others knowing my fate.

"I was confronted, challenged, and sealed away in a prison below the earth. Instead of being given a chance to explain myself, and instead of being offered help in my research, I was branded a threat to the living and exiled. I toiled away in that prison for a thousand years, and in that prison, I not only became angry—I became wise. Creative. Mathematical. I carried a hatred within me that spiraled into a desire for death and destruction, and it clouded my every death. As the centuries ticked away, my power increased. My knowledge of the arcane unfolded and blossomed and, soon, I was able to escape. The rest, as you've parroted rather informally, is history."

"What changed? Why do you no longer seek death?"

"Your guess is as good as mine. Your heroic Markus slew me, and his deathblow brought me here. I don't know how much time has passed. It could be months, it could be eons. I simply blinked back into existence in this very spot, and I haven't felt a need to move since. What I do know is that my mind is free and clear. There is no desperation, no fear, no hatred. My mind is as placid as the very water I rest upon."

"But, your very existence warps the world!"

"Does it? Because the land around me remains unchanged. In fact, it looks better than ever. A different me would expect some sort of gratitude, but the beauty of the world is gratitude enough."

"..."

"The rot you speak of could be of my doing, but not of my doing now. If it is my fault, I will rectify it. That was my purpose in the first place; my goal. Whoever brought me here, even if it was the Rootmother herself—if this is the meaning of my penance, then I will wear those chains and feel the most free I've ever been."

"I... I don't understand."

"Life is often hard to understand. Things occur everyday that perplex even the most intelligent, break even the most stoic, strengthen even the weakest. It is chaos incarnate."

"Is this meant to disarm me?"

"No, you have your choices to make, though you are easily influenced. Fear is a great motivator."

"I fear nothing, not even you."

"Then, why did you sit?"

"..."

"I've lived long enough and performed enough alchemy to smell the pheromones on a living being. The fear you stink of reached me far before you ever did. It's a biting scent, like onions in mosquito-infested water. Past me would love it. Current me, not so much."

"You threatened me with death. Anyone in their right mind would be scared."

"I bargained with your life. Fundamental difference. I gave you choices. You could have left here, turned a blind eye to me, given up the ghost. You might have been branded a coward, but my position would've never changed. I like it here. Yet, I'm spurred to move."

"Move? Where?"

"You mentioned lands plagued with rot. I would venture to their hearts and purify them, if possible. If you feel the need, you can keep a watchful eye on me, make sure I 'stay in line.' Truth be told, I don't know the extent of my power anymore. Perhaps my boasts were empty. Maybe you could strike me down, but the nature of my lichdom still remains. I will return, over and over again; from anywhere, from everywhere. I persist in form and thought, and I would like to do so now in the name of redemption and absolution. Besides, if this is my penance, then completing it might be the release from infinity I desire deep down."

"..."

"I don't want to be rude, but if you don't move, I will push you into the water. Remember what I said about it being cold?"

"...how do I know I can trust you?"

"You shouldn't. I'm a lich. The tales you've been told were designed to make you wary of my intentions. Words mean nothing in the long run. Actions are what shape the world. If you want a reason to trust me, you need only follow, but try to keep up. What remains of my muscles are itching for a good run."

"You don't even know where the rot infects the land."

"No, but you do."

"..."

"...do you want to make your mark, mortal? Do you want to follow in the footsteps of your idol? Live up to the legend of dear old Markus?"

"...more than anything."

"Now's your chance. All you have to do is give me a direction and a name."

"..."

"..."

"...Grey Coast. The village of Crafton."

"That's more like it."

---

r/emnants

Inspiration: Raphael Weinroth-Browne—Worlds Within (Tracks: Unending I, From Within I, From Within II) | Original prompt by user lyzzyrdwyzzyrd.

The length of time has been removed.

---

"Please... just do it..."

"I... I can't! I won't! I won't lose you!"

"I can't hold onto him much longer, Markus, please! If you don't do it now, he'll escape for good!"

"Thalia... don't make me... I can't do this. I'm... I'm not strong enough without you."

"Y—you've always been strong, my love. We wouldn't be here at the end of this if it wasn't for you. Your... your conviction was enough to keep us both going. Don't let it falter now. We have means to deal with him f—for good. Look at me. Markus, look at me... you know what must be done."

"..."

"There's no other way."

"I'm so sorry, Thalia... I love you."

"Oh, M—Markus... there is no world vast enough to—Ngh!—to contain the love I have for you. It's... it's ti—"*

The nightmare was always the same. Markus found himself in the Crucible of Blood, staring into the eyes of his wife and eternal partner, Thalia, who had just taken the entirety of the Lord of Rot's spirit into her being long enough for Markus to deal the finishing blow. The two had been inseparable since childhood, growing up together and taking up the mantle of protecting the world. Where Thalia had gone the path of the cleric, Markus had traveled the way of the paladin, each sworn to Meinra, goddess of justice and might. Each embodied one of her values—Thalia with her talismans and rotes, and Markus with his sword and shield.

For years, they had tracked the Lord of Rot, heading his forces off at the pass at every opportunity. They were not alone, however. They had lost many friends and allies along the way, each death a growing burden on their consciences. Thalia, steeped in her faith to Meinra, did not sway from her convictions, but Markus wasn't so steadfast. With every loss, the pain of holding on grew heavy on his shoulders. The only reason he continued on was because of his love for Thalia, and now, she joined the rest in death.

Markus awoke in tears, his forehead bathed in the amber light of early morning. The pain in his throat had not yet subsided before he rose and sat bedside, wiping the streaks from his cheek as he stared out the window of his modest home. Outside, a small bushel of seeds sat waiting next to the fallow. He'd left the soil unplanted for a full season to rectify the mistakes he'd made since starting to farm, and now it was time to plant the seeds.

Thirty minutes had passed before he was outside, fully dressed, and got to work. Hoisting the bushel to his side under one arm, his other hand awkwardly tilled the soil with a pitchfork, aerating the cold ground just enough that the seeds would be able to take root once set. As he did so, his hands trembled. The grip of the pitchfork felt too familiar, like that of a sword. His mind went dark again, like it always did. The fog started to settle in, clouding his awareness.

Markus found himself in the Crucible of Blood once more. Thalia smiled at him, her own blood seeping through her teeth in a pained expression. The visage of the Lord of Rot—skeletal, wrapped in exotic cloth, and spewing forth myriad maladies that corrupted the very air around him—hung behind Thalia, looming like the shadow of death that does so over all of man. Markus could feel himself scream as he watched Thalia's body rapidly decay in front of his very eyes, her wails like that of all their friends combined.

"...us...rkus...Markus!"

When he came to, Markus was doubled over on the ground, openly weeping and gasping for air. His heart, once stoic and firm, was beating wildly in his chest, his entire body flooded head to toe with a deep dread. Thalia's name left his lips not in reverence, but desperation, his voice echoing through the crisp, morning air. At his side was his neighbor, Rosalyn, an older woman who Markus had come to know from a distance.

Rosalyn was considered the 'mother' of the community. Wise beyond her years, she often gave advice to those who sought her out. Long white hair fell in curtains on either side of her face, a lasting look from her years as a former alchemist, and a crooked nose and deep wrinkles put her at the forefront of the region's witch hunts for quite some time. Eventually, forced to flee from persecution, she sought refuge in the quiet farmlands outside the reach of any kingdom. Trust was difficult to earn, but once it was gained, the community learned of her true nature. Alchemy was how she healed the sick, but she learned there were some sicknesses too difficult to cure.

She pulled Markus into her lap and cradled his head, wiping the sweat from his brow with the sleeve of her worn, beige robe. The material felt rough against Markus' skin, a distraction that would prove to draw his attention away from the dark recesses of his mind. As Rosalyn whispered to him, bit by bit, Markus' breathing began to slow. His heart, once beating so fast as to leap out of his chest and take his life with it, was calmed and made tame. The dirt in his hands fell in grains from his loosening grip. Somewhere in his side was the pain of awkwardly laying on the pile of seeds that fell from his bushel, another welcome distraction. He hardly shifted. He invited the pain.

"Markus?" asked Rosalyn. "Can you hear me, dear?"

"Yes," Markus croaked quietly.

"Are you alright? You were screeching like a banshee, son."

Before his journey with Thalia, Markus was the picture-perfect definition of stalwart. His taciturn demeanor was impervious. Even if there were problems in his life, his unchanging expression of unbreakability often inspired those who looked up to him. In the back of his mind, he was plagued with wondering how many of those people took up the sword because of him—how many had died, foolishly, because of him. How many had to break their oaths like he did.

"Markus?" Rosalyn inquired again.

"...No," he answered, his voice cracking.

"Oh, dearie," the alchemist softened, brushing Markus' unkempt blonde hair away from his cheek. "Do you need someone to listen?"

"Yes," he answered again, his voice nearly inaudible.

Rosalyn ran her fingers through the man's hair. "Come on, hon," she responded, lifting his head. "Let's get you inside. I'll make you some tea and you can tell me everything."

Minutes later, Markus sat at his table, his upper half slumped onto its surface. Quietly, he watched the old woman move about his kitchen and through his house, searching for ingredients. The way she moved reminded him of his wife. Thalia loved cooking. She often made meals for the two of them when they sat at the campfire. They were nowhere near as professional as those made in a kitchen, but they were just as—if not more—delicious, and Markus ate them gladly, even the rations.

As Rosalyn re-entered the kitchen from outside the house, carrying a small sack of leaves with her, she glanced over at the near-despondent Markus.

"Talk to me, love," she suggested with a sharp and velvety voice, removing a few leaves and placing them into a kettle. "Tell me what's on your mind."

Markus continued to watch her, following the bucket of water as it poured into the kettle. He contemplated the effort of speaking on his pain, how much it would take to even burden another with such a thing. As he did, Rosalyn moved toward the cooking pit and made a fire, hanging the kettle on a long rod over the flame, then proceeded to join him at the table. Markus' body moved for the first time since he sat, raising up and sitting straight in his chair. Still, his eyes were fixed on the surface of the table, avoiding eye contact, his fingers picking at themselves.

"Markus," Rosalyn attempted to gather his attention. When his eyes shifted to her face, she continued.

"It seems like you carry a lot of pain, dear. You're too full. The things that can make you happy, make you whole again—they can't find space in your heart with all that you hold inside you. If you want to heal, you have to talk to someone. You have to let it go. Only when you've emptied yourself of the agony can you find the space you need to let the healing begin, but the burden of letting go rests with you. I'm here to listen, Markus. Let an old woman like myself take some of that pain."

Markus' fingers felt slightly wet. He looked down and noticed the blood pooling from a small wound he'd absentmindedly made with his nails. Anything to help, he thought to himself, his eyes sliding back up to meet Rosalyn's face. She was right, and he knew it, but was it really that simple? That easy?

"I..." Markus started, his mouth hanging slightly agape as he searched for the words. "...I killed my wife."

The admission hung in the air, accompanied by the sounds of nature outside and the quiet whistle of the kettle beginning to heat up. Rosalyn's face remained unchanged.

"Was it out of anger?" she asked, her fingers lacing together in front of her. She leaned on the table now, half of her face cradled by the sunlight outside.

"No," Markus answered, his gaze averting. "I didn't want to kill her. She... she told me to do it."

"Told you? Why would she do that?"

It was the question he didn't want to hear, the key that opened the gates.

"I... We were fighting the Lord of Rot in his lair. He was a powerful lich. We had found and dismantled his phylacteries before challenging him directly, but even then, everything we'd done had no effect. His body was incorporeal. My sword passed right through him as if he weren't even there, and her rotes found no target in his ghostly form. Everything we had prepared, everything we had learned, everything we had done—and there we were, no closer to the end than the start.

"But, she... she had one last trick up her sleeve. A rote she prepared without my knowledge. It... it must have been while I slept. I was never told, and when she performed that rote, she offered her body as a vessel and dragged the Lord of Rot inside, sealing him in her flesh temporarily. She knew what I didn't; the Lord of Rot needed a physical form to destroy in order to fully die, and he had one, then and there."

"Is this Thalia?" Rosalyn asked, the whistle of the kettle growing louder behind her.

Markus nodded. "With the lich inside her, Thalia, she... begged me to kill her. It was the only way to destroy the Lord of Rot for good. I... I didn't want to. She was the only person I had left. I lost so many friends to that damnable lich, and now he was to claim my one and only love? I pleaded with her, told her I'd rather let the world burn than lose her, but she wouldn't listen. She just kept smiling at me. She kept telling me it was okay, but... but..."

His voice grew harsh and louder. His hands, a little bloodier, reached up to grip the table as his body began to sway back and forth in the chair.

"It wasn't okay! It wasn't supposed to happen like that. I shouldn't have lost her... it should have been me, damn it! IT SHOULD HAVE BE—"

The kettle called out with a high-pitched howl, cutting Markus off as billowing steam rose from its opening. Both Rosalyn and the man turned to face the cooking pit, and the alchemist rose from her place at the table to lift the kettle from the rod.

"Where are your cups, dear?" she inquired with a smile.

Silently, Markus point to a shelf on the far wall, and Rosalyn retrieved two wooden cups from its surface. A few steps later, and she returned to the table, one kettle of tea heavier than before. She carefully measured out two cups of tea for herself and the troubled man across from her, then set the kettle aside, offering Markus' cup to him. Without a word, he hesitantly took the cup, feeling the warmth through the wood.

"Let it cool, then drink it," Rosalyn softly commanded. "It will help."

Markus set the cup aside, watching the steam wick off in spiral wisps. Rosalyn set own her cup on the table, her eyes never leaving Markus' face.

"Tell me about her," Rosalyn continued. "Tell me about Thalia."

"What do you want to know?" Markus questioned.

"I want to see what you saw," she answered. "It's clear she was important to you. I've never seen anyone agonize over someone the same way you have, not even those who have lost family like myself."

"You didn't mourn your family?"

"Oh, I mourned them plenty, but I was never close with them," Rosalyn chuckled. "They didn't approve of my curiosities with nature. I was raised in a wealthy family whose proclivities were all about mixing and mingling, building connections, establishing a path to power. To me, the greatest power is nature. Without it, we have nothing, so I became a student in alchemy. In a way, I respect nature more than most. My family didn't like that and tried to force me to change. When I didn't, they disowned me. I've been on my own ever since."

Markus frowned a little. "I'm sorry to hear that. Being alone for so long must have hurt you greatly."

"Oh, honey," Rosalyn smiled warmly. "I'm never alone."

Markus reached over and took the cup into his hands, raising it to his lips. The tea was still hot, but not enough to burn his flesh as he drank. The first thing he noticed was the bitterness; far more than that of normal tea leaves, but rather than spit it out, he powered through. With a grimace, he set the cup down, earning another laugh from the alchemist.

"Bitter, huh?" Rosalyn asked. "You'll get used to it."

"What kind of tea is that?" Markus asked, coughing lightly.

"Tarma leaf," Rosalyn answered before taking a sip of her tea. "Acrid taste, but it has the ability to soothe a troubled mind. Now, tell me about Thalia."

Markus sat quietly and searched for the words to say. Strangely, the once-fragmented pathways of this mind were slowly starting to come together, piece by piece.

"I grew up with her in the fishing village of Crafton, bordering the Palatian Sea. Life was quiet, and us children had to make our own fun. Not many did; they took up after their parents and learned to fish to provide for the community or strike it rich or what have you. Thalia and I didn't do that. We played. We pretended to be other people; heroes and villains, really. We'd take turns on who would be who, but every time, the hero would always win. Late at night, we'd talk about what we would do when we left Crafton, and one on particular night, we made a pact."

"What was the pact?"

"We would go, together, to the monasteries of Meinra up north, where they trained people to become devoted to the goddess of justice and might. As kids, we weren't really faithful to a god; we didn't know what the concept of a god meant, but as we grew up, life put things into perspective. We started to question things more and wonder about the worlds outside our own. I guess curiosity got the best of us, because we held up our silly little pact and went north together. We spent ten years in those monasteries, and when we left, we were closer than ever.

"She took up the role of a cleric. With her knowledge on the faith and her expertise in the divine rotes, she was capable of dealing with supernatural threats that were too powerful or cunning to take down physically. I, on the other hand, claimed the role of a paladin. With my sword, I could drive back the armies of the damned and mete justice out to the deserving. Both of us were bound to our oaths, and over the course of our travels, we both broke those oaths only twice."

"Twice?"

"Once, when we gave in to our desires for each other, and the last time—when I was forced to take her life."

"I'm sorry, hon," Rosalyn regretfully expressed. "I can tell it's taken its toll on you."

"I've had nightmares every night since," Markus continued, his grip tightening just a little upon the cup in his hand. "When I sleep, I see her dying face, trying to convince me that it was okay, but it's hard to reconcile the loss of someone you loved."

"I know that all too well," Rosalyn agreed. "I've had my fair share of loves lost."

"Who was it for you?" Markus queried.

"In my former home, there was a great tree that was cut down and used to build out the interior of the lord's castle. That tree provided shade and comfort to not just me, both many others. There was wisdom in those roots, a thousand ages of a life lived—silenced in a week."

"I... find it difficult to love a tree the same way you would a person," Markus countered.

"You'll find that the people of the world can love all things in their own way, Markus," Rosalyn volleyed back. "Just as you loved Thalia deeply, so, too, do I with nature, as does one with a pet or the smell of rain or a painting. Love is one of many facets, and each one expresses itself in equal parts quiet devotion and brilliant spectacle."

Markus thought about those words carefully. He'd never considered love in any other way than that of another person with whom he'd spent his life with. The kisses in the night, the way their limbs joined together, the warm glow of her face in the morning sun, the laugh from her throat when he gently poked his fingers into her stomach—each and every one, its own kind of love. The thought brought his eyes to the cup of tea again, and he took another drink.

"And Thalia," Rosalyn continued, reaching out and placing her thin, vein-marked hand on his. "She loved you, too; greatly. She wouldn't have done what she did if she didn't. She gave you and the world a chance to live again, and you can't love without living. Her sacrifice was not in vain."

She turned and gestured to the spilled seeds outside.

"Those seeds will eventually grow and become food. The tree I mourned will eventually return. It may be years after I'm gone—after both of us are gone—but the love we as people give to the things around us can do amazing things. Even you, being here, are a testament to that. It's okay to mourn her, Markus; she meant a lot to you, but there is plenty to love in this world, plenty of reasons to keep living and carrying on in her stead. Take this little community we have, for example. I love this community so much that I would fight for it, and I know they would do the same for me."

Markus watched the conviction in Rosalyn's voice light a fire in her eyes. It was hard to be skeptical, to rebuff her words of hope.

"It's hard to let go of her," he contested weakly.

"You don't have to," Rosalyn opposed. "It's the pain that must leave you."

Not much else was said after that. Rosalyn took her leave a little less than an hour later, earning a half-hearted wave from Markus on her way out. He was alone with his thoughts again, as he was all the days before, but the alchemist had left the sack of tarma leaves for his tea, just in case.

That night, Markus fell asleep, expecting the same nightmare to plague his mind as it did every time since Thalia's death. Instead, he was visited by a new dream.

---

"Okay, your turn."

Thalia sat across from Markus at the campfire, early in their quest to depose of the Lord of Rot. They had just left the city of Sunshale that day, having stocked up on resources for the journey. Beneath a head of shaggy black hair rested two dazzling emerald green eyes that glowed in the firelight. Thalia's arms curled around her legs, her head resting on her knees as she waited expectantly for Markus' answer.

He was staring at the sky, face twisted into an expression of amateurish scrutiny. Scanning the vastness of the aether, his eyebrows raised and his finger shot straight up to the point into the stars.

"There!" he exclaimed with a grin. "The Rootmother."

Thalia looked up in the direction of his pointing, looking at the stars. Sure enough, there was a cluster of stars that vaguely resemble the Rootmother's visage—an airy spirit resting atop a perfect sphere of stone. She chuckled to herself, covering her mouth with her hand as she lowered her head.

"Alright," she relented. "You win. I don't think I could find another constellation."

"What is that, three times in a row, now?"

"You don't have to rub it in, you big meanie!"

Markus laughed in response, clutching his stomach. "Okay, alright, I won't gloat."

As the laughter died down to the crackling of the fire, the two remained silent, watching the stars, until Thalia suddenly spoke up.

"Markus, I... can I ask you a question?"

When Markus looked down, Thalia met his gaze. There was no smile to be found. What Markus could discern was a lingering fear.

"What's wrong?" he asked, confused. "Is everything okay?"

"No, everything's fine, it's just—" Thalia faltered, but regained herself. "Do you... is there... anyone you found yourself attracted to back in Crafton?"

"Attracted to? Like... physically?"

"No, stupid, like with magic," Thalia giggled, playfully chucking a ration at Markus, which he promptly dodged. "Of course, I mean physically. Or, you know, just in general. Someone that you just couldn't get out of your head."

Markus scratched his chin. "I mean, yeah, I guess. There was Ms. Vaban, our old teacher."

"Ewwww! You liked our teacher?!"

"I was a kid, Thalia, I didn't know what it meant!"

Silence followed. Thalia asked again. "What about anyone else? Anyone you were close with?"

Markus hesitated to answer. He met Thalia's gaze again, but the fear in her face was no longer there. What existed was a determined, questioning stare, one of curiosity that he always admired about her.

"Yeah. There was," he admitted without detail.

"Who was it?"

"There was this girl I knew. She had the most beautiful eyes, like jewels, and whenever she looked at me, I couldn't help but feel weak in the knees. She was always curious and intrepid and never let the world get her down. When people around her were sad, she did everything she could to cheer them up, and it always worked. She was loved by everybody, but the not same way I loved her. And then, she suddenly left."

As he spoke, Thalia slowly rose to her feet. "Where did she go?" she continued to inquire.

Markus laughed, wiping the sweat from his brow and looking at the ground with a grin. "She ended up setting off on some journey with an idiot, I forget his name. I just remember that he was way out of her league, even as friends, but she stuck around him anyway for some reason. He couldn't hold a candle to her ferocious belief in the good of the world, and yet she dragged him along anyway. Maybe she saw something he didn't. Maybe she knew things."

He could hear her footsteps getting louder, but he refused to look up. Her voice followed suit, softer than before.

"Do you think she knows?"

Markus didn't answer immediately, watching her boots enter his field of vision. Thalia's shadow danced against the light and shrunk as she lowered herself to her knees. On instinct, he spoke.

"If she does, I doubt she feels the same."

"How would you know if she's not here?"

Her hand reached up to his cheek, her skin silky and inviting. Beneath her caress, Markus' skin was set ablaze with an intense heat that could rival the pit of fire that sat behind them both. He looked up and into her face, itself haloed by the backdrop of light. In that moment, he felt small in comparison, as if he were in the hands of the goddess Meinra herself.

"Do you think she feels the same?" he asked, searching her eyes for a silent answer.

Thalia's mouth remained closed, and she leaned in, tilting her head to the side to press her warm lips against his. Markus froze on the spot, feeling the bristles of his trimmed mustache shift to and fro against her face, each prick a sensation of intense anxiety, yet he didn't move. As Thalia pulled away, her eyes looked down upon him, misty and yearning.

Markus stammered out a weak defense. "Thalia... we—we can't. We took an oath."

Thalia smiled and cupped Markus' face with both hands this time.

"Love breaks no oaths," she replied, and leaned in again.

---

Markus awoke in the amber light of the early morning. He was in tears yet again, but the feeling of panic and dread was strangely absent. As he shifted to bedside, instead of staring out the window and onto the farmland, his eyes drifted to the sword in the corner of the room, bloodstained and forgotten. The memory of killing Thalia resurfaced all over again, but something felt different. He was no longer tortured by the bleeding visage of his love. Instead, his focus was pulled to her dying words, whispered lovingly into his ear.

"I forgive you."

An hour later, he was at the nearby river in the forest that flanked his home, carefully steeping the sword into the stream. He watched as the running water peeled his love's blood from the steel in flecks, slowly washing the last of her life away. Markus drew in a long breath, feeling his heart quicken, and closed his eyes. The sounds of nature flooded his ears—chirping birds, the babbling of the river stream, the whisper of wind that danced through the leaves. The cool breeze against his face dried a single tear that fell down his cheek and, before it could consume his every thought, his heart had relented, ceding the victory to its owner.

By the time he'd opened his eyes, the sword was clean, from the pommel to the tip of the blade. He stared into the water and examined the steel, running a single finger across its surface. His mind started to drift into placidity, the turbulent waves of his trauma subsiding, if only for the time being.

"How do you feel?" a voice croned behind him. Markus turned to notice Rosalyn watching from a distance, the same warm smile on her face as was yesterday. Her clothes were far more green now, almost reminiscent of Thalia's eyes.

Markus stood to face her, sword in hand.

"I haven't held this sword in so long," he remarked. "Not since that day."

"Something must have urged you to take it in hand," Rosalyn replied, gesturing in his direction.

"I think it was the talk we had. I thought about your words, and I dreamed about her again."

"The nightmare?"

"No," Markus denied. "A different dream. A memory. A pleasant one."

Rosalyn nodded sagely and took a few steps forward. "It's good to hear that your pain has lessened. Letting go and accepting what has happened is a difficult road. It won't happen overnight; the nightmare will return, and there will be times when it all becomes overwhelming, but if you have faith, you will conquer the dread inside you. You will become whole again."

As she spoke, Markus' hand began to vibrate. His attention was immediately drawn to the sword in his grip, which started to lightly hum against his skin. The morning light seemed to dodge each tree in the forest line, landing almost perfectly on the sword and bathing it in a golden glow. Awestruck, Markus examined the sword intensely, and as he did, he could hear Rosalyn's voice in the background.

"Fear and dread chokes the world around us. Very few have what it takes to stand against that dread, to refuse the weight of disaster and shoulder the burdens of defeating evil. Very few can exist in the world with such conviction and come out the other side strong. Even those who fall into despair can pull themselves out of the depths of darkness. All it takes is love—love in the world, love in those who share it, love in yourself—and love breaks no oaths."

Markus' head shot straight up to meet Rosalyn's gaze in disbelief, only to find her gone. He spun around, searching for her within the treeline and across the river, but there was no one beside him. The sword still hummed within his hand, vibrating against his skin, but now it seemed to almost imperceptibly pull in a certain direction. As Markus noticed, his eyes met the treeline yet again, then flicked upward to the canopy. High above the forest top, a column of thick black smoke pierced the sky. Instinctively, he broke into a dash, noticing the direction coincided with the farmland.

He hadn't felt this spurred on in ages. His reflexes returning with each step, Markus dodged tricky gaps and jagged stones, weaving through the innumerable trees that separated him from home. As he moved, his thoughts immediately went to Rosalyn; surely, she was somewhere nearby, but if she had returned back to the farmland—at a speed he couldn't possibly fathom—and she was in trouble, he had to help. It was the oath he made all those years ago, side by side with Thalia. His pleas to Meinra had dried up long ago, his voice hoarse from calling out Thalia's name, but it seemed that, even now, Meinra was keen on second chances. Yet, Markus couldn't help wondering—was it Meinra that came to him?

The answer was forced to wait as he burst through the forest line and into the open grassland, met with flames that scorched a few acres of farmland already. Quickly, his eyes scanned the horizon in front of him, honing on a roving band of small, green creatures that he could easily assume to be goblins. They carried a red banner with symbols foreign to him, but all the same, the purpose was known—this was a raid.

The sword pulsed in Markus' grip, a heartbeat strong enough to match his own. Kindred.

Markus looked at his hand—briefly seeing another hand that wasn't his in place of the sword—then to the growing devastation in front of him. Once more, purpose flooded his veins. The epiphany sent goosebumps throughout his body. This was what he followed Thalia for. She believed in the good of the world, in loving what existed within it, and now that love had found him. He was ready to accept his role yet again.

Tightening his grip on the beating sword, Markus set his determined gaze on the goblins in the distance and broke into a sprint, the winds of change and mercy at his back, guiding him forward into a future unseen.