Sixteenths. Verse 1/16, Compiled.

This is is a mirror for the forum adventure, 'Sixteenths', currently ongoing at the Eagle-Time fora. Reader commands are paraphrased here; you can read the original thread by clicking here.

Verse I

The hamlet is saved, and you are in exile. The midwinter winds slice at your cheeks.

You are a visionary doctor.

What village exiles their only healer? You saved more lives than you sacrificed, in the end.

You are going to the battlefield.

No matter. Esgil's soldiers appreciate your talents—or at least they know better than to question them.

You have been travelling for four years.

After four years of it, on and off, you're accustomed to eviction. Sometimes it's lonely business.

You have been alone since Eloa.

Your only ever companion lives countless miles and three exiles away. You hope Eloa's forgiven you.

You parted under tragic circumstances.

You shake your head, grounding yourself. You'd rather not recall your tragic separation.

"Just keep walking."

You are exhausted beyond description.

Despite your resolve, your body protests, and your muscles burn with every step.

You doubt yourself.

The shadows hum. Somewhere, somewhen, exists 'you' who knew better than to embrace them. You envy him sometimes.

You find a woman in a snowdrift.

A snowdrift trembles in the distance. Then a woman emerges, uniform crumpled, wobbly on her feet.

You attempt a greeting.

"Hello," you supply, after some awkward, mutual staring. The shadows stir hungrily under your skin.

She has no face.

Aha. Her face has vanished.

"Don't—"

Yet she glides through the snow and to your side.

She is your victim, and your kin.

She caresses your cheeks. Her hands are cold; smooth; lifeless as porcelain.

You're too tired for this.

She carries your supplies.

"Carry these." You drop everything but the compass and a case of crystal vials. "We continue North."

You encounter the Crossroads.

You travel through nightfall, until the Crossroads find you. The shadows delight. Your compass bleeds tar.

You fear nothing.

"I'm tired," you tell the coalescing fog. "Not now."

"You're hungry," It replies, in Eloa's voice.

You won't be swayed.

"Wʜᴇʀᴇ ᴀʀᴇ ʏᴏᴜ ɢᴏɪɴɢ?"

Eloa's face fades into focus, spun from mist and memory. Your eyes harden when a body completes the illusion.

"The battlefield."

"Aʜ." It reaches for your arm, but you jerk away. "Tᴏ ᴄᴏɴsᴜᴍᴇ."

"To atone," you snap, louder than you wanted, as if shouting makes it true. You breathe hard. The case of crystal vials weighs on your arm, and your soul.

Not-Eloa's shark-toothed grin reaches Its ears.

"Tʜᴇ ᴘᴀᴄᴛ ɪs ɪʀʀᴇᴠᴇʀsɪʙʟᴇ." The shadows seep into your bones, swim in your veins. "Yᴏᴜ ᴄᴀɴ'ᴛ ᴄʜᴀɴɢᴇ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ ᴀʀᴇ, ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ'ᴠᴇ ᴅᴏɴᴇ--ᴏʀ ᴡʜᴀᴛ ʏᴏᴜ'ᴠᴇ ꜰᴀɪʟᴇᴅ ᴛᴏ ᴅᴏ."

The truth twists daggers into your gut. You glance at your faceless, shivering aide, and the fractured compass in your palm.

You remember Eloa's goodbye.

'Keep it,' she called after you, while you stared at the floor. You couldn't bear to see her bedridden. 'Travel the world. Eat good food. Find that mudyak an' show it what for. And—'

Her voice broke, so you turned around. The rot had painted caverns under her cheeks. You'd have stripped the soul from every man, woman, and child in town to save her, but she wouldn't allow it. You'd lost enough of yourself on the battlefield.

'Find peace, and think of me sometimes.'

You throw Not-Eloa a fierce stare. When It cups your face, mocking you, you swipe Its spindly arm away. Someone with nothing to lose has nothing to fear.

"I'm going to the battlefield," you say, "to finish what I began."

That, at least, is possible still.

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