There was a mockery there somewhere. Fallen were known to rise from fallen sky stones (Asteroids), and here his people were being killed by stones—frost or not, they were stones in the end.
And I am afraid of pain? Ron was protecting him with his life, burning, and yet Merrin was afraid of the aching. What was his pain to theirs? They died; he lived. They died; he lived. Always.
"Then what do we say to it?" the inner voice asked.
Not today!
Merrin was taken by the pain, soaked in it. Breath was meaningless; it calmed nothing. The world was a mash of colors. What was he doing? Something surely. He was saving them. How? Whatever it was, it hurt. He wanted it to stop, but he didn't allow it. He wanted to rest, but he chose not to. What was a man who chose pain over peace? What was a man whose tears steamed in fury so others didn't have to cry?
He was El'shadie. Merrin reminded himself. I am El'shadie. I am the sunBringer!
And now he saw. For a moment, he saw. Davos stood to the side, his head buried in his legs. Stones fell around him, but a wave of sudden wind battered them away. A moment later, froststones burned with a mad brilliance in the hall, blinding in their intensity. Davos slowly rose. A woman was in front of him, trapped under a stone. He reached for her, looked up, screamed, and jumped away. She was crushed by fallstone. Dead.
Merrin cried within. More pain. But he held on. Save those you can. Save anyone. Anything. Save. Save. This was what he had to do. But he would remember. He vowed within that he would never forget. Not once. Not ever. He would remember the time he could not save them all, and he swore never again would it happen.
Ron fell beside him, and the boulder tumbled to the side. Where it went seemed important, but not in that moment. Merrin felt the air knocked out of him. Ron. Ron. Ron was down. He was silent, breathless, motionless—just a slab of flesh. Muscular, but still flesh. Dead flesh.
Merrin's thoughts went silent, and a primal urge roared within him—he felt it in his fingertips, in his toes, in his eyes. His body was screaming defiance at what lay before him. Ron, dead? What a joke. What a cruel, worthless, stupid joke.
Merrin whispered against the chaos, "I refuse."
But the body symbols could not be casted; logic battered him. Humans could not be cast with such power.
"Then he won't be human!"
Merrin recalled the fur beasts of Saitan. Those powerful, resilient creatures. They were nonhumans. They were strong, and they lived despite the heat of the world. A beast is what I need!
The world greyed before him, blurring into that swirling mass of incomprehensible shapes, words, and light. He cared for no weakness. He rejected it. He cared nothing for the resistance of the symbols. Let it all be damned. All that mattered was Ron. Moeash was gone… not Ron. Never Ron.
It was said the symbols were events—situations, occurrences. Forms of moments. Now he wanted such a moment for Ron. He imagined a creature. A vast, towering thing with red, strong legs and thick skin against the roaring fire. Red eyes to see the darkness. Massive. A maw to bite through all things. A mighty creature. One that would not die.
I am El'shadie. I can create mountains from nothing… so now must I create again.
Something beat in the greyness, like a heart. He was unsure of it, but it was violent. It rippled red through the grey. It was power. It was vermilion. It flashed past him and fell into Ron. The giant's eyes snapped open. For a moment, they were scarlet, then they were not.
Merrin was glad, but then a warmth settled in the despair as he realized a fragility. A fault. He had done something wrong. What it was, he didn't know, but he felt it. Ron touched his own body, confused, with a slight fear in his eyes.
I have done something to the kind man.
More screams filled the cave, and Merrin accepted the distraction. He stood, stumbling. Ron grabbed hold of him and whispered something, but his words were a growl. Not that it mattered, not then.
Now? Merrin opened the complete dam of force, watching it tide through the greyness. All things were dominated by it. The wind listened attentively. Most were protected already; he achieved this while fueling their stones with force. No more deaths. Those who burned suddenly stopped; there was startlement in their actions. Confusion. They looked around, still inflamed, but the pain hurt no more.
Merrin achieved this by stirring the wind beneath the flames. They wouldn't see it—a small barrier of air shielded them against the fire. That was good. That was enough for now. He spoke with heightened tones. "Come!"
They turned to him.
He moved ahead, with Catelyn living behind him, siding Ron. Following was the rest of the living, most burning with furious fire, yet alive. It was an eerie thing: a man leading a company of glowing men.
There was silence in the journey, and Merrin was a thing of agony. Weakness stepped closer as he moved, his force near depleted by the multicasting. But he had to hold on. Soon, they reached a stone block. He waved, and it was gone, blown away by a tempest.
Merrin stepped in and fell to his knees. He was very tired. But he had to continue. So he crawled. Step by step, the El'shadie crawled forward. He was unsure how long it had been, but a hand rested on his shoulder and a voice spoke to him: "Rest now. You have saved them all." It was a melodious tone—a woman.
It was good. Merrin felt warm to it, so he smiled, fell, and said, "I'm glad." This darkness he welcomed happily.
Several records now show the unknown complexities of the symbol. How so, you wonder? Possibility: explaining why spaceRunners have bluish hair, or why the bladesworns have pale skin and metallic eyes. There is a corruption in the symbols. The more one casts, the more the symbols infect them. This, I believe, is the reason why some symbols become uncastable after years of another—letter to the Comes of the East.
The first sound was the mourning of men—a dull whimper. There was laughter, too, a weak merriment. But the fact of its presence bred joy. Merrin was happy in the darkness. He wanted to meet them—to see his people. But the pain mocked his attempts. It laughed at him, blaming him for the current state. How simple it would have been to run, to spare himself from the torment.
He was tired of rebutting. One desire remained: rest. Glorious serenity. Yet it was eluded from him. Awareness had now become a curse. He was cognizant of all things: the chatter, the motions of rocks, breaths, and the scuffing of feet. He knew. Oh lord, he knew. This was existence. Pain and awareness—each a partner of the other. He wanted none of it. Again, he was denied that desire.
Madness, he thought. This is madness. His body was a mass of slitting pain—it was ever present, like the sure storms. From his legs to his head, he was one whole of severity. He felt cold tears on his cheek. They should have steamed by now, but they didn't. This he attributed to the froststone. Halo! He knew his people were alive. Glee burned alongside the pain, canceling it out. What a feeling.
A hand touched his skin, cold, then something else did. Chilly, wet fabric—it smelled like musk. Merrin startled, gritting his teeth as the cloth rubbed over his chest. Intense pain struck into his awareness, and he was static. His mind buzzed, and thoughts flew around, frenetic. He felt the end had come, and it had come in the form of a rag.
Almighty above.
The rag dragged over his neck, wet, moistening the open wounds. Didn't they know doing this was idiotic? Then he realized his people were simple darkCrowns. Not many had lived harsh enough lives to require such knowledge. Still, he was bitter at the pain and the doer.
Moeash was gentler than this.
Maybe they heard him, but the rag pressed hard. He wanted to die. Then it stopped, and thought returned like trickling water. Slowly. Where did they even get water from? He considered it, but was distracted by a dull humming. It surrounded him; he heard it. Many men and women circled him and hummed a tune. It was an unknown song, one sung from the throat, reverberating through the body and casting the illusion of a trembling earth.
They stopped and roared high in that deep baritone. His bones quivered, he thought. What was that song? He wondered, and then it came again. He was lifted, or felt that way. His mind cleared of the fog. Pain remained, but it was distant, as though a wall of power stood between it and him.
The song. It was magical, he thought. He hoped, but he knew it was not. But Merrin chose to accept it; the opposite would break the illusion, and the pain would return. Let it be what it was.
They continued for a while, and then there was a cough, another, and another. They stopped soon after. Naturally. Throat singing was hard enough with wet throats; how was one to achieve it with a dry throat? Yet he was glad. This they did for him.
Merrin opened his eyes. Catelyn was over him, squeezing a rag over his face. Water was falling.
"Hmm?"