Reminiscences
8
JAN/22
It took Vashir longer than normal to catch his bearings, as the stars overhead looked somehow different to him than the ones he was familiar with. When he had first realized this, a brief panic had set over him – had he been transported to a new realm as a result of his narrow escape from the Thir-King, when he dropped free of that place between worlds? No, that wasn’t it. Much of the sky was familiar, but there were just another batch of stars in the sky; a new constellation just taking root in the darkness, twinkling shyly and faintly, but still brazenly given their proximity to the icy malevolence of the Constellation of the Dragon Queen. And, as the silver moon slowly arced its way across the heavens, he could swear that it seemed to shift its path ever so slightly, moving as if to avoid crossing beneath the jurisdiction of this new upstart in the darkness. What could this possibly mean? There was no time to ponder this now, however, as he needed to find his companions. If they had survived their encounter with Corga, they would undoubtedly be searching for him. And, if they hadn’t….
Unable to let that thought take root in his subconscious, Vashir flapped his giant wings and flew higher into the air, more than a little worried that he could not afford to hide his presence from the malicious glare of those shining silver eyes that blanketed the night sky, constantly watching the world below. He needed to find Gulg and his companions, but how in the Hells are you supposed to get your bearings when the celestial landmarks keep changing on you? He flew directly upward for several minutes before he finally spotted some dim lights on the horizon. Thank the Dawn! He thought, turning towards those flames and beginning the long flight, unsure as to what he would find when he got there. Had they defeated Corga and found the green gem? Had any of them died…again? As he flew he found himself reflecting on death, and his own brief – but somehow nearly everlasting – dalliance with it:
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They had waited until the ceremony had passed them by, before turning and walking through the attending crowd, which parted for their red-cloaked forms with equal measures of fear and reverence. Vashir was silent for a long moment as they cut through the parting seas of people, seething in annoyance at the spectacle they had just witnessed. Lyra, reading the mask of petty irritation fitted securely over his face, broke the stillness first. “You know, Kresh deserved those honors.” Vashir glared over at her, but she continued on unabated, speaking truth to him as only she could. “That Psion was the most powerful that we have ever come up against; she was responsible for taking out seven Templars all by herself. Eight, if we count you.”
He shivered slightly at that statement, as the memory of those ten malevolent eyes and those slashing, rending claws and that eternal descent into unending blackness flooded back over him in a hateful wave. He was silent for a moment more before responding, “Well, he didn’t do it alone, and they certainly didn’t need to bequeath him the entirety of the Quintus estates as a reward. My team found that old blasphemer, I sh…”
“You wouldn’t be here to complain at all if it wasn’t for Kresh, either,” she interrupted, the words cutting him with their sharpened truth. He couldn’t argue with that, but he could still continue to sulk; which he did for several more blocks as the pair of them walked in silence.
When the stillness finally became unbearable to him and he felt like a child for maintaining it for so long, he finally broke it, “I never properly…” thanked you for bringing me back, he thought, but couldn’t say for some reason, instead redirecting the sentence to, “…I didn’t know you could do that.”
Lyra looked at him with those soft silver eyes and answered quietly, “Me neither.”
Vashir was taken aback by that. “You didn’t know you could bring someone back from the dead?” he asked incredulously.
“Well,” she answered with a thoughtful expression, “I thought it might be possible. I’ve been around enough death to recognize…well, it’s hard to explain.”
Their conversation halted as they passed by the pair of red-cloaked Justicars that flanked the large double doors that led to the Ecclesiastarium. The two hulking figures silently regarded them through the narrow slits in their formless silver masks as Vashir and Lyra strode past them and into the building.
When they entered the practice chambers, which were thankfully empty at this time of day, Lyra continued, “You know how when you track a fugitive, you can focus in the specific hum their body gives off?”
Vashir nodded. Every Psion had a different method of explaining how their powers worked: vibration; hum; static; harmonies; focus. Each had learned to hone their senses to notice these vibrations, these sounds that comprise and emanate from everything in the universe. Psionicists learn to focus these vibrations and bend them to their will: manifesting these harmonies into blades of pure energy; explosions of sonic force; or even harnessing them to change your facial features, sprout claws, or cause wings to sprout from their backs.
In addition, though the process is time consuming, many Psion’s learn to identify and locate their quarry halfway around the world by tuning out every other sound and focusing on their target’s individual pattern amid the grand song of the universe: the way they move through the world; the way the ground shifts beneath their feet as they walk; the vibration of the wind over their skin; the beating of their heart in their chest; the sound their very thoughts make the moment they are birthed within the recesses of their mind.
Lyra went on, “Well, I know your particular hum fairly well, and when I got to your side after….” She broke off for a second, and then continued, “I could still sense you but it was very faint and far away and moving further and further away by the second. But it was still there; an echo of you, reverberating…”
Vashir didn’t speak. He was trying not to let the nightmare of that unending darkness take hold inside him again. And so he just stared into her silver eyes as she continued, “When I found your…echo…I just used the same energy I use to heal you in battle to try and reach you there. It took a great deal of Vitale but it worked.” A few stubborn tears began to form amidst the silver perfection of her eyes, and in an effort to lighten the mood she added, “And now I get to listen to you pout like a baby again, thank the Five.”
Vashir smiled and brushed the red curls of her hair aside and stroked her cheek with his hand. “Thank you.” He wasn’t sure he had ever spoken those words before in his entire life.
She responded by pulling away and manifesting a blade of pure psychic energy in her hand. “We should practice…”
When they had finished their sparring and were both lying on their backs on the hard reed floor, bathed in sweat and exhaustion, Vashir continued with their previous conversation. “Can you teach me that; that healing that you do?”
Lyra turned her head and looked at him incredulously. “No, because that’s not what you do.” Vashir looked surprised, but she powered on, “Because you are selfish.” His expression changed from surprised to hurt, and so she continued on quickly, “You are a hunter, not a helper. Your powers are tracking, escaping, fighting. You don’t learn things to aid others. None of you real Templars do. It’s selfishness borne of necessity, I suppose, but that’s why they pair you up with us.”
He tried to interrupt, but Lyra was already moving on, “Sure. You have some powers that indirectly help others, freezing them in place or making them weak against other attacks, but at the end of the day, you Templars are built for two purposes: to kill and survive to kill again. And that second one is less important than the first, since there are always more recruits waiting in the wings to take your place when you fall.”
Vashir sat up and looked at her, a storm of emotions swirling around in his head, but he couldn’t argue with anything she said. When a fellow Templar fell in battle, there was not a rush to save them; instead, he usually felt a sense of self-satisfaction at his superiority over the fallen, followed by a slight sense of relief that he would receive in their share of the spoils and glory once the battle was over. They were not a team, but rather they were weapons to be hurled at the enemy. If it wasn’t for Menders like Lyra – who were also trained to fight, hunt, and kill, in addition to knit flesh – most of these weapons would not be able to be used more than a handful of times. Hells, Lyra had healed him during each battle that the two of them had been paired up for…how many times had she saved his life with her gifts?
Vashir flushed with shame. “I want you to teach me,” he said earnestly. I don’t know what I would do if you fell in battle…I wouldn’t be able to save you as you have saved me so many times, remained the thought, but unspoken, end to that sentence.
Lyra almost burst out laughing, but then read the insistent look on his face. “Oh, you’re serious?”
Vashir bristled slightly. “I’m sure I can learn how t…”
“It’s not a matter of learning; you have the mind for it. It’s…it’s…the sacrifice.” His expression grew puzzled, and so she continued on. “Every time I heal you, I take on a little of your…pain. Of the hurt. We share it. And when I…brought you back…I took on some of your…the…darkness.”
Vashir expression turned aghast and stared at her for a long moment. He could see it, those haunted shadows that lurked at the outskirts of those luminous silver eyes. There was a pain there that he had never noticed before…how could he have missed it? “I’m sorry,” he stammered, “I had no idea…”
“How could you? I never told you.” She said softly. “Would you have been more careful – more hesitant – had you known?” Vashir started to nod but she interrupted him, “Of course you would have, and that would have made you a worse warrior. You need to believe in your unstoppability and primacy. If you falter at all, then you are of less value to him.” She practically hissed that last word; her hatred of the Thir-king was well known to him.
They were both silent for a long moment, before Vashir finally spoke, “I am sure. I want you to teach me.”
Lyra met his gaze, reading the expression on his face, before breaking into a wide smile. “Well, well, well. There’s a first time for everything. There’s actually a tiny heart beating in Lord Vashir Tenewrath’s chest, after all. Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone…”
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The memories of Lyra’s lessons had been long buried; dormant seeds laid fallow in the barren sands of his mind. But the guilt that had birthed the desire for those lessons still remained; a crawling toddler of humanity that tried – but never quite succeeded – in taking its first steps. How many battles had he relied on the largesse of others while steadfastly remaining safely out of the fray? If they were to have even the tiniest chance of persevering in this sure-to-be impossible quest of theirs, he was going to have to learn to sacrifice and be part of a team rather than just looking out for his own skin.
As the burning fires of Gulg grew into view, Vashir could swear that from somewhere deep within him, he could feel Mar’iya’s face break into a triumphant smile. Great. Just great…