Moments later...
After much effort from a blushing Claire, Lurian was wiped down and changed into a simple, homespun gown that hung heavily on his weary frame. Finally comfortable, seated in his wheelchair, they bid farewell to Fey’thellen, and Claire slowly pushed him out into the deserted Hall.
Lost to their thoughts, they drifted through the sparsely decorated castle, sharing in the companionable silence of the moment. The faint blue shimmer of the sapphire stone was their only guide in the evening light, as they meandered through the castle’s ghostly halls.
The evening’s quiet, broken only by the rattle of a wooden wheel—well past its prime.
Within the silence, Lurian’s thoughts turned to the Towers. They—the dream of all those hoping to make something of their fate; the scattered god-given gifts from an age long past; a trial for mortals wishing to leave their mark on this world. Their purpose: to give the brave few a chance at strength and power.
And perhaps, a chance to serve something greater—greater than themselves...
He wondered what would become of him in those tall spires...
Would he change, becoming someone even he—himself—would not recognize?
Would he even prove enough?
Or would he fall, like so many that came before...
If so, then what was all his suffering for? All that pain; all his blood, sweat, and tears—all for a future that could not be his...
‘...What a depressing thought,’ he morbidly mused.
“Young Lord, are you hungry?” Claire asked from behind, snapping him free from his sullen thoughts. “We are not far from the kitchens, and it will save me the trip if we eat now.”
“I could eat,” he said, blindly reaching back and grasping her hand, using it to ground himself in the present. She instantly brightened at the rare display of affection, and he felt the weight in his heart evaporate under the radiance of her gentle, comforting smile.
“Aye, Claire... to the kitchen. I had heard one of the cooks mention something about a recent delivery of cheese and dried meats from Lawfen. So maybe we can get creative with our evening meal. The cooks’ stew isn’t bad, but one does tire of it if forced to partake each—and every night.”
Lurian just smiled as they entered the castle's kitchen. Claire parked him by the entrance and enthusiastically got to work on their meal.
Feeling a rare contentment, Lurian watched her fuss about the pantry—animatedly grabbing this-n-that as she went. He often wondered if she did it on purpose as a means to distract him from his suffering.
He supposed it didn’t much matter. Regardless of her reasons, he was thankful, as he sat there, admiring the beautiful young ‘fae as she worked.
Always so caught up in his own suffering, he often forgot just how stunning she was. There was this warm vibrancy about her. It captivated the eye, and he found himself marveling at the way she moved.
Her every step—light and unburdened—as her modest green kirtle flowed in her wake. This chapter is updated first at g.com.
He watched her flowing through the space with the grace of a dancer, and for that brief moment, he was lost in awe of her.
It was a shame her rich auburn hair did not join her in her dance, thanks to a loosely tied work-bun. It did—however—proudly expose the beauty of her long, honey-skinned neck, and her sharp elven ears—which added a delicate edge to her charm.
‘She really does brighten up my rather drab existence,’ he thought, momentarily lost in the contentment of the moment.
“What?” she asked, her smile all the brighter after catching sight of his lingering gaze.
“Nothing, I’m just watching you work. You should have been a dancer; the way you move—it’s quite the spectacle.”
Her smile turned playful. “Why, thank you, sir; it pleases me to know His Lordship finds me so entertaining,” she quipped, giving him her best attempt at a courtly curtsy. He could not help but chuckle at her clumsy attempt at formal etiquette. And imagining the look on Tilven’s face if he were to see such a sloppy curtsy only added to his amusement.
In the warmth of the kitchen, it didn’t take long for Claire to put together a modest assortment of snacks that would soon serve as their evening meal. He was grateful; he would only feel ill if he were to eat anything substantial after such intense treatment via the healers’ magic, for it had the unfortunate side-effect of draining an unawakened’s entire body, including their digestive system, leaving them nauseous after they ate.
Finished placing her spoils onto a prepared wooden tray, she turned to face him—a playful gleam in her amber eyes. “Do you want to eat here, or somewhere else?”
Honestly, he was exhausted and just wanted to go to bed... but given the effect Torvous’s words might have on Claire, he decided to indulge her. “Let’s eat at ‘The Drop’; it should be a clear night tonight, and the stars will be out in full.”
“Okay! Here, take these,” she said, handing him the prepared tray stacked with morsels.
With their scavenged supper, safely secured atop Lurian’s lap, she spun him around and pushed him towards the castle’s lift. “We will have to take the elevator. I don’t fancy getting you up all those stairs.”
He grimaced, a little overwhelmed by their sudden eager flight through the castle’s halls. “It’s fine, but do you have the mana?” he asked. “If not, we can go up to the second floor and eat in my room; no need to go all the way to the fourth floor.”
Claire faltered, but Lurian could tell she was far too eager to see what the night had in store to not take a chance. “I didn’t use much of my magic today, so I should be fine, both up and back,” she tentatively reassured.
“Very well, to the lift then,” he said, a note of surrender to his tone...
With a smile and a spring in her step, Claire swiftly pushed him through the sparse, eerie halls. And before long, they found themselves cramming into the small, rarely used service elevator; the smell of oil and dust irritating their senses.
To him, it was a fascinating amalgamation of brass, steel, and a craftsman’s intellect. A truly ingenious contraption, combined through the efforts of human engineers—seeking to merge magic and the mundane, producing something vastly greater than the sum of its parts.
It was a shame the council put a stop to the tinkers. What wonders might they have made if left to work unhindered, he mused, marveling at the brilliance of its design.
Claire, however, hated the thing; she had expressed as much on multiple occasions. To her, it was just a half-rusted cage, suspended by cables—as it hung dangerously above a vertical shaft. Much like her, everyone else avoided it, fearing that they would be the unlucky soul that plummeted to their doom the day something finally snapped.
With more effort than Lurian thought necessary, Claire slammed shut the twin sliding gates and flicked the latch—locking them in. “Here we go, pray to The Mother that we make it to the top,” she whispered.
“It will be fine, Claire,” he said, watching as she nervously powered up the sigil on the device.
He could see that the process drained her—her brightness dimming with the onset of lethargy caused by the sudden loss of Will. He felt so useless. As an unawakened, he could not share her burden, and—not for the first time—he was tempted to rip the sleeper amulet from his neck.
Yes, it would deny him his shot at the Tower. But as an awakened, he would have access to his own magic, and finally, he would free others of the burden that was he.
Entertaining such thoughts, he reached up, gently grasping hold of the amulet of the closed eye hanging around his neck.
All it would take was a sharp pull, and with a snap, he would have but a taste of freedom...
‘But no,’ he thought, releasing his hold. As satisfying as it might be, it would only undo years of effort and invalidate much of what he had suffered to get this far.
They both let out a breath when the cage began its steady, creaking ascent.
Relaxing back into his wheelchair, his thoughts returned to his coming foray into the Tower. ‘Not long now, a few weeks at most... Just a few more weeks—and I’ll be free of the least of my chains...’
And with that last reassuring thought, he relaxed into the lift’s steady, creaking ascent...
“Dealing with unpleasant people is like wrestling a pig in the slop. It is truly a futile exercise. Most of your energy is wasted pinning your quarry down, and you become covered in the filth they so enjoy. Often by then, you haven’t the strength to hold them, and they slip free, making a mockery of your struggle. Know that it is best to maintain your composure as you avoid such unpleasantness; else you risk being dragged into their muck...”
—A wise man’s thoughts on dealing with the crass and the uncultured