The dim light descended upon the wet forest floor in spots, sprinkled around him, lighting his way as he trudged through the ancient woods, taking support from the trees that he stepped by. Each step was soft, silenced by moss and many different berries that the forest provided to the world within and around it.
But there were no berries left. Only the rotten carcasses of some, those not picked by birds or other animals that might feast upon them. And Kanrel found himself wondering what such things ever tasted like, be they rotten or not... Did they ever have such a thing as 'flavor' or had that been just a memory, soiled by unwarranted nostalgia from times he could barely remember?
He felt the rough bark of the tall pine tree next to him, but what he felt more was another sensation. Numbness. Had his hands always felt so numb? He gritted his teeth and stepped forth.
He did not linger with such thoughts as he forced himself to focus on each step, not the one he was taking, but the one that would follow it. There was nothing more important than that. Other than food, of course, but that wasn't something that he could summon out of thin air, like water. Instead, it was a thing, perhaps an animal he might come across, or a mushroom that was yet to rot away; whichever it might be, it would be something that he would have to just come across. Such things had to present themselves; he had neither time nor reason to wander aimlessly in search of what might not exist at all.
He knew that it was unlikely that he would come across something like a bird. They must've flown down south long ago. But perhaps a deer, a wolf, or a bear might step on his path, and become unsuspecting prey to a priest who would feast upon almost any living creature that stepped on his path.
Not because he desired to, or even because of true desperation, even if such a feeling existed somewhere within him, but because of pure need. A man can go for only so long without food, and hunger was a feeling that he would rather not live with.
Sure, in his little satchel, he once had food, but there was simply none of it left. Maybe a crumb or two, but that wouldn't earn him even a heartbeat of extra life when he found himself on the forest floor, starving until death would claim his soul.
Such a possibility might've existed, and it might as well be the most likely outcome to this march of death, but in his books, he had survived such walks before. Starvation mixed with the almost pointless walking had become like a unified friend, one that he would greet more often than anyone would ever want to.
He stumbled. But quickly regained his balance. His journey took him further into the forest he had entered many times before, though long ago. When would the trees be the same that he had met, touched, and marked, as he scoured through these woods, in search of something he ought never to have found? When would there be a path walked by not only the animals or the ants of the forest, but also by curious humans in search of berries and mushrooms during the many stages of autumn?
... Or what about the ruined temple? Would he find something there? More cultists he'd have to kill? The same labyrinth he had traversed through; the same pit, now filled with new remains of sacrificed men and women for a god who never existed?
He shuddered at the thought—or was it because of the cold?—and, with the help of another tree, found himself taking many more steps forth, as the forest around him grew dimmer by the second. Kanrel could only go forward, for what else was there to do in a world such as this?
There is... calm within the mind. A strange plane of nothing. An even existence wherein no panic arises, even though it ought to. It was a cold grip that smudged the corners of his perception, of his mind. A weight that followed every thought.
Yet somehow, calm.
There was no fear. No anxiety. Just existence through the lens of emptiness. A hollowness that persists even after things, like memories, try to fill the mind with emotions, with grief, and longing. It all felt more nothing than before. Even the suffering had become... muted. Silent.
There is no silence. Or so Kanrel had thought; it was something he earnestly believed. There was no absolute silence; not from thoughts, not from emotions, not from the world around him. There were always sounds. Even the most seemingly full silence had these faint, hidden sounds placed within it. Be it a heartbeat... or the constant tormented screaming of your own deluded mind.
He stumbled again, or perhaps it was the thousandth time by now? Who cared? He didn't care. No one did. Why would anyone care about things that no one else could perceive, not even him, through the potent fog claiming the space in the temple of his mind; taking what has been left for far too long unattended by anything worth believing or remembering; filling the emptiness of it all, with just the hollowness that now persisted.
He had no strength to be rid of it. It was there. So let it be there.
Another tree, another blunted sensation, another step, and again his hand departs, even that momentary sensation of numbness. He shivered, he shuddered, he couldn't stop moving, shaking, aching. It was cold. By now, he was sure of it. He was so cold.
He could make it stop. It would be so easy to do. Just a few codes and nothing more, to create warmth to cover him. But what if he did such a thing? What would it fix? Would it not only allow the existence of other, more terrible sensations? Like the hunger that would arrive? Which would a man prefer: the hunger or the cold?
Clearly neither, but he would always end with both, lest the cold take him first.
Numbness. Numbness. Who would ever wish to feel so insensate? Be it physical or mental. Is there an existence worse than this? Do we not need sensory illusions to give us a sense of reality? Do we not need our minds, with all their quirks, emotions, and thoughts, to offer us a sense of personality? A thing that has such a thing as perception in the first place? Or are eyes enough? Is that which you see enough to form the delusion of existence? Like a thing that is always seeing, but can never form a memory of it.
At least he wasn't so far gone. Not now. Not yet. But maybe, given enough hours, even he could reach such a state of horror. A form of inexistence masked as existence.
He could not feel his hands. He would lift them and place them against a tree. Surely, this living thing had bark. He could perceive it as such, but he could not feel it. He could see his hands, but were they really there if he could not feel them? Had they, in truth, fallen off? There was scarcely any feeling at all. Only the painful cold.
Through his barely moving lips, he let out a long sigh. He had to be rid of this coldness. He had to allow hunger if it meant that he would no longer be so cold.
And even though his mind felt blank, a canvas without even a speck of color, magic emerged through him. It came as automatically as breathing did, and so, around him, now circled warm gusts of wind that slowly chased the deadness from his limbs, but left his mind untouched; a hollow, unfeeling space. And as he set these codes in motion, he felt it. The familiar, ever-present disgust bore into him. It pumped through his veins, it reached his heart, and from there filled his lungs and his brain with this sensation. Unnatural. Unholy. Inhumane. Accursed gift of gods not worth believing in.
Willful enslavement for a man who had once been free. For a boy who had once been warned of this and what it would be like. Bless his mother, for only she was truthful enough about the ailments of priests. If only the foolish boy had believed it; if only he had not idolized it. Pity that there exists such waste.
As it got even darker, almost too dark to see, Kanrel produced another code, this one a bright light to be his guiding star through this vast space of shadows of trees. The pulse of false-light was even, and its glow highlighted the world around him... but the world past the light was unnerving. Each shadow was as if an arm stretched toward him, a figure from the Veil, ready to take him, to merge with him, so as to remove his existence, allowing only the torment of a billion dead Sharan.
Quickly, he found himself dodging dark figures: the trees that stood in his way, the moss-covered boulders that became like sleeping giants or bears that he might awake from deep slumber, and even his own shadow that cast itself behind him. Always following, always reminding him of the burdens that he now carries. He could not scathe it away; he could not fully accept all of it. Not yet.
How long had he walked? Surely just hours. Let it be even days; it did not matter. Only that his hunger would grow, only that his feet would give way, but at least he was no longer cold.
The only breaks that he had were short, just moments during which he would summon water; drink just enough to not feel so thirsty and empty. Enough to fill him, and to make his body believe that food was never a thing needed; instead, just another sensation that anything could create. Enough to pretend that he wasn't starving.
He walked until he no longer could. He walked until a stumble became a collapse from which he could not arise. He was left lying on the damp moss. It felt so soft, like a bed he could never fully enjoy. He felt so warm, and his eyes felt so even. Even with the pain that throbbed through him, he slowly fell deeper into a strange trance, until he could not open his eyes anymore, and reality mixed itself with a dream...
- - - - -
I lie beside you, my hands around you as you caress me. In warm silence, entwined, hearts beating moments together, and your love fills me to the brim, and I never spill over. For you, I am boundless. For you, I am naked.
But moments pass by, like flowers, they wither and die; and in just minutes, you are different, and so am I, yet we are stuck together, even when we only pretend that there still remains a notion of warmth.
You turn into dust, and I am left alone. I rise to my feet and try to perceive where you are, and where you went; why did the memory of something so sweet choose to die, when twenty-two million moments were yet ahead of us?
For a moment, the darkest light blinded me, only to reveal a moment of understanding. For you now stood before me, in eighty-eight million versions of yourself. All somehow different, yet somehow still the same.
There I wondered, just how many times had you lived and died over? How many deaths had you survived to live until this moment? And how many years did it take you to recognize that the you who is now, isn't at all how the you that was ten thousand days ago was? How many moments is that?
Is there somewhere within me a pile of yourself, where lies almost ten million versions of whom I can no longer distinguish even one? And just how small and innocent was the original, the one no one remembers, the one that has no memories of itself?
Then, one by one... the ashes of your existence turn into nothing. These moments go by, faster and faster; like grains of sand they pass through time, until we reach a moment where there is just I. You are no longer here, for I cannot remember, or perceive how you were, nor how you felt. I cannot even remember what you looked like.
A tear falls as true understanding emerges... And I now know.
Through change, the passing of time, each moment, and each altering effect these moments have upon me, I am an already forgotten copy, whose original no one remembers.
There are many versions that came before me, for this conscious experience is never the same as the previous one. Rather, only a clone that reproduces itself to a point where it no longer can recognize what it was, not wholly. Only the previous step or two can I remember, and only forth can I evolve. Only another copy will be born. Each passing moment, I alter, I change, I am different.
I forget who I was, as I slowly become someone who is like me, but isn't the exact same. Though its skeleton remains, and from the outside, those looking in will all perceive, mostly, that I am still the same that I was; and so will I perceive myself as the same that I was years before. But this perception is faulty.
The copy is more real than who I was a thousand days before, or even who I was at the first conscious moment of personality, and wherein a conscious existence that can perceive memory first introduced itself in childhood.
Yet... I long for you, O forgotten self. And I wish to find myself at your grave one night, and let tears burn my eyes as they leave a streak of pain, where once was the mask that you wore much better than I.
I lie down beside where you once were, my hands around just myself, and I let them caress what there is left of me. And in this cold silence, my heart yearns for entanglement. And a violent shiver runs through me, tears me from where I lie, as light forces itself onto me. It hurts, it burns, like the first frost of winter.
- - - - -
Kanrel opened his eyes. Somehow, he felt, that within something had died again. He saw the frozen moss just past where he had fallen the previous night. The space beside him felt vacant, as if there should've been someone to keep him warm. His gaze fixated on it as he trembled in this new morning, where the sun pierced past the tall spruce and pine around him, projecting a hue of red onto him.
He didn't want to get up. He wanted to sleep, just a moment longer. But he should not. Sleep would not fill emptiness with anything other than nightmares. But at least they were quickly forgotten, turning into the morning mist and dissipating with either the cold or the warmth of the coming day. Whichever it chose to be on a day like this.
He pushed himself up, back to his feet, only to find himself leaning against a tree, for his body was too tired and cold to hold itself up so easily. A moment later, he had produced another code to warm himself up. He stood there for a minute or two, wondering why the morning was so red, but no answer could he find from within, so he continued going forth, still hoping that the direction was somehow correct; that he yet traveled eastbound.
After some time, perhaps a couple of hours or more, he reached a ridge that he had to climb; it was the first time he found himself climbing up instead of going downhill since the staircase. But it was a welcome change, and besides, the vantage point that the little hill could offer him might become his savior.
The wind ruffled his hair as he reached the top. It had pushed through his codes and touched him with its cold hand, though it also welcomed him to a new sight, something different from what he had seen just before: more trees, just slightly different looking.
He collapsed onto his knees with a sigh and scratched his dirty hair, picked out a spruce needle. He spun it in his fingers for a moment, unsure if it was real, before tossing it to the side, discarding the moment of uncertainty. Then, movement. Past the ridge, among the trees. Much further ahead.
Kanrel peered at the collection of spruce trees, trying to make sense of a moment of movement, hoping that it might be something more than just a branch, softly dancing to the rhythm of the wind.
It had antlers. Pale, branching, regal. A crown grown rather than worn. In the dimness, that bone-white silhouette could almost be mistaken for something holy wandering the forest.
An angel... it was exactly what he saw. Blessed he had been by this divine creature, who knew not to be afraid, as it leaned to take a bite of something from the ground. So graceful it was, not knowing that it had to fall prey to a being much hungrier than it, one much more unholy than it.
It was just that... Kanrel had never hunted before. He never needed to learn how to. Even back when he had first traveled toward Jersten from the Academy, the thought had not crossed his mind. He had been much too naive to suspect the possibility that he would run out of food. Could he even kill such a beautiful creature?
His eye twitched.
Of course, he could. He couldn't even fool himself with a question of morality. It made no sense to. He had killed before; he had eaten the flesh of once-living things. He was hungry. It didn't matter how; the morality of it should not even cross his mind. He ought to kill the angel that had taken the shape of a deer. And. He ought to eat it.
He found himself swallowing, instinctively. He had no idea how he would even cook such a thing, but that didn't matter. He would eat it either way; be it raw if he had to, or burned, or whatever.
Kanrel pushed himself back to his feet, never averting his gaze from his prey. His mind raced with codes until one jumped at him. A thing so ingrained in him.
Multiple ice spikes began forming from thin air, all pointed at the deer, all from different angles, all from locations that the deer might not see. Suddenly, its ears perked, the deer lifted its head... It was like it looked right at him. It began to move...
Kanrel gritted his teeth. The ice spikes began to move. They flashed in the light and moved with such haste. The deer had already sprung into movement. It was already running away, the angel had taken flight... and most of the ice spikes missed it, plunking to the awaiting moss, or slightly grazing the beast...
"Come back!" the words forced themselves out from him, and he found himself back on his knees, his gaze still set toward where the deer had run off to. He breathed loudly as if he had been holding it. Had he?
Kanrel shook his head. He wanted that thing. He needed it.
He struggled to his feet and began the descent down the ridge, toward the ice spikes that might melt only when come next summer.
There was blood. A trail of it. Not just a little, but a lot of it. It was so warm, and its smell... his stomach growled, enough to hurt. Without much thought, he followed the trail. Past the tree, further away from the ridge, toward a direction that would not be the east, or the west... it might not even be north or south. He had no idea which way he was going, but that did not matter.
Somehow, his feet worked almost normally. Sure, the pain was there; it was ever-present, but it was something he could ignore only because the hunger was stronger, but more so because the idea of eating had consumed his mind.
He followed the blood, and as he stepped past a tall spruce tree, he entered a clearing, where the deer now lay down. An ice spike was lodged into its side. Blood dripping from its wound. It still breathed, but barely, yet the sounds of it were the only ones that existed in this moment. The thing was alive, even after that.
Its once-white antlers were stained red; whatever strange holiness it had carried was bleeding away with it. It would not fly ever again. It could only die. It could only be eaten, be it by the hunter that had shot it down, or by nature that would surely claim its carcass as a place for another tree.
But Kanrel could only stare at it. It was saddening. How a once majestic creature faded away. Its head was pressed against the moss, its chest rose a few more times, mist rose from its snout, but only barely... then it all just stopped. It breathed for a final time, the last of its being collapsed, no more mist rose.
It was dead.
Had he ever so closely seen how a thing, a living thing, dies? Surely he had. But this... gracefully? No. Never.
All the other times, the other deaths that he had seen or caused... they were so senseless in comparison.
This one had been so calm. The deer, had it been afraid, or did it simply accept that it would die?
Of course, it had been afraid, of course, it had fought against death. For why else would it have run away? Of course, it too would have preferred to live, even if just a day longer.
Kanrel shook his head, pulling himself away from his thoughts. The only regret he would hold from this death is that he had let the deer suffer for so long. There was nothing else to regret. Now, he would eat.