Monika rolled her eyes. “Right, go on,” She said, and nothing else.
He continued, “I made friends with her after awhile, after we apologized to each other,” He said, not really wanting to explain about her calling him a balnor, “And then we were good friends for some time until our fathers had a feud,” He said, again not explaining what had happened to between their fathers, “And so we broke it off. We were apart for many years, seeing different people in that time, but I think that we were still in love with each other until that fateful day, last Suma, when we met each other again, and kissed for the first time ever.”
“Kissed?” Monika said, looking up. “You had not kissed anyone before then?”
“I had,” Basha said, crimsoning as he did not want to mention Iibala’s name at that point, when he had hated her so much once. “But this was the first time that Jawen and I had ever kissed each other, even we were friends we did not. But I felt something in that moment…” Basha said, trying to grasp that moment in his mind, to recall the sort of feeling he had when it was so long ago, and he felt like a different person then.
“I was there, and yet I was not. I was inside myself and I was letting go of something bigger than myself, something more furious and ferocious when I was timid and scared, and I was alive, Monika, for the first time ever. I wasn’t scared anymore. I could feel my breath race inside and outside my body, I could feel my heart pounding like the ocean overflowing the shore, and it was fantastic, Monika. I was so alive and so happy then that I could roar, and leap up into the air if I wanted to, and I wanted that moment to last forever. I wanted to be with her forever, Jawen and me…we were so happy together.” He sighed. “So happy.”
“Good. Glad to hear that,” Monika said, smiling weakly before she turned and walked away from him. “Good night, Basha.”
“Good night, Monika. So happy,” He murmured, shaking his head, not turning around to watch Monika’s departure as he could not bear to see it. He had to avoid her, from now on, if he wanted to stay strong on his quest, on his purpose to retrieve Tau’s Cup and bring it back to Jawen. He hated to abandon his quest, which he had started and could not fail in now, especially after all that they had gone through, all that they had lost, and what had to lie further ahead for them, because of him, he feared. He did not want to see the horrors of the Wastelands, the traps set out for him by the minions of Doomba, but if every step took him closer to the truths of the Tigora’l, the tiger of light, his mother Kala, or even the Knights of Arria with their Swords, perhaps he could stand the rest of the trip, and the falls that they might have to take along the way, especially if…they were together.
He stared up at the moon, and wished that it would not fade away this night. He could not face the dawn by himself.
Far away from Coe Wina, a man sat alone in a chair by the fireside in his private study, sipping a glass of wine and quietly reading a book as a clock ticked away the minutes and hours on the mantelpiece. He sighed to himself and shook his head as he flipped over onto another page. He couldn’t quite understand everything that he read, although he supposed that was the author’s choice and purpose in how she compsed her work, to confuse the reader as much as possible and give them a sense of disquiet and discomfort as they questioned the material.
Occasionally, some details interested him more than others, and he might have spent weeks deciphering some of the clues and hints she teased at her readers, if he felt so inclined, but other parts just had him shaking his head and pressing on, deciding that it wasn’t worth the bother to think about when there was more ahead, and it probably had little or nothing to do with him, his affairs, or time period even. He paused a moment in his perusal and stared at the inscription on the next page: The Tiger Prophecy.
He frowned to himself, staring at those familiar words, which he had long ago memorized when he had first come across this obscure prophecy, embedded in the pages of this obscure book, The Writings of Wintha the Wanderer, which he had discovered in the dusty pile of tomes that made up the Royal Library. He had no clue at the time whether or not there were other extant copies of the book that still remained, although he suspected there had to be some other remnants of it somewhere, fragments embedded in other books if not copies of this particular volume.
Wintha the Wanderer had been a very popular figure in her day over a thousand years ago, maybe even over two thousand, and there were bound to have been hundreds of copies made of her book at the time, if not thousands. Despite the immense age and physical deterioration of the original copies, there was bound to have been recreations and reproductions made of her volume dozens of times since then, one of which he held now, not an original copy, but as close as one could get to it thousands of years later. Wintha the Wanderer’s words had real staying power, it seemed, a timeless quality as, more often than not, her words seemed to apply towards future scenarios that she could not have possibly forseen so long ago, and yet here he was, staring at one of her prophecies that might come true, if events so ran in that direction.
Of course, he was opposed to the potential outcome of this particular prophecy, despite having discovered it so long ago as a young man, as he knew that it might mean the end of his career as a Follower of Doomba when it would be the end of Doomba himself. He could not allow it to come true, he could not, and yet he admired the quality of the writing itself, the craft that Wintha the Wanderer had shown in composing her prophecy, if not in the prediction itself, as he saw how close her words came to achieving immortality, for having lasted this long and yet sustaining their meaning, value, and exigency. Not even Doomba could say the same thing about himself.
Doomba was deteriorating, it was a well known fact amongst his Followers and Servants, and he had been for a long time now. Most of the legions of Servants he had could not march out of the Wastelands without being noticed by humans and heavily opposed, possibly wiped out, by them in the process, so the Servants could not take over Arria on their own without human, or Follower, interference. The gruelmoffs and Black Wolves could slip out and wander across the continent without being noticed by humans, although they were certainly no match for a human army, and could only perform menial tasks. All of Doomba’s Followers were in hiding, most of them not in very powerful positions or ineffectual, and there were too few Followers to really make an impact on the outside world. Nothing about Doomba at this particular time spoke of exigency, emergency, and power to the outside world, aside from some vague fear or notion of him, not like he was at the beginning of the Dark Ages.
At the beginning of the Dark Ages, despite his obsession with getting into Coe Pidaria, which had created the Wastelands surrounding Coe Pidaria’s magical shield in the process, Doomba’s forces had been massive, and had spread all across the continent, taking over nearly everything, including Arria, but the human resistance had been strong enough that it had outlasted the invasion force, and the Servants of Doomba had eventually crept back into the Wastelands about a thousand years later. Still, the promise of Doomba, while it had been squandered in the past and remained weak to this day, offered a tantalizing hope to Followers such as himself, the chance to gain power beyond what most earthly institutions could offer; the chance to become a master over the earth itself. Lord Crow, as he was so called amongst other Followers of Doomba such as himself, wanted such power, and would do anything to get it, as he had so proven in the past to Doomba and himself, but the words that Wintha the Wanderer had written challenged that notion for him.
The words that Wintha wrote never changed, despite whatever interpretation, translation, or mistake was applied to them. They remained steadfast while everything else shifted about them. Their meaning might change or the mind might misremember, enlarging or belittling certain facets about them, making the words greater or smaller than they were, but what remained, after such illusions, delusions, and disillusions were taken away from them, would at least be intelligible and decipherable, perhaps even understandable, to those who chose
to read and heed them.
Well, he had chosen to read and heed these words, their message about the tiger of light and the dragon, and so he had passed them along to Doomba, although he now wished, all these years later, that he had not. Perhaps, if he had been smarter, he would have kept ‘The Tiger Prophecy’ and The Writings of Wintha the Wanderer a secret to himself, and waited to see the result. That way, Doomba would never have known that such a threat to his security existed, and thus would have done nothing to prepare for it, until the day came that the tiger would surprise him. But then again, perhaps Lord Crow should not wish for that.
Perhaps he, Lord Crow, should not have even read the book in the first place, when it had ruined so many surprises for him and might have ruined his life as well. Perhaps, if he had not read the book and passed the message on to Doomba, he would not have gotten so wrapped up in the business of oracles and prophecies, obsessed with finding out more about the future and what it meant for him. That way, his family would have stayed together, single and whole, not dispersed, fragmented, or dead. And, of course, he would have known nothing and done nothing and gained nothing in the process.
Maybe he would not have become such a powerful Follower of Doomba as he was now, if he was not known as the Follower of Doomba who had discovered ‘The Tiger Prophecy’ and had passed it along to Doomba so many years ago. Such loyalty and dedication counted for something, even amongst Doomba and his Followers, right? Perhaps he might have remained a reject then, a lowly minion unworthy of notice from Doomba himself, if he had not so boldy stepped forward with ‘The Tiger Prophecy’ in his possession, as he did; then he had been able to negotiate his way into the high echelon of the Followers of Doomba, who took notice of him now and his association with Doomba. If he had not been so bold to read the book and pass it on, then he would not be in the position that he was in now, to take control of Doomba’s throne if Doomba was deposed.
Of course, that did depend on whether or not ‘The Tiger Prophecy’ proved true, if the tiger would depose Doomba. Lord Crow wanted Doomba’s power more than anything else in the world, and yet…the words of Wintha the Wanderer would have to prove true, then. Doomba would have to be deposed, Lord Crow would gain Doomba’s power, and then Lord Crow would truly be in danger, for Wintha the Wanderer’s words, the power, immortality, meaning and exigency of them, would prove true, and then the next prophecy after The Tiger Prophecy might very well prove to be about him. There was no escape for him then. He would prove to be the next Doomba if the current course of the prophecy held.
Coming Soon:
Power Over Death
The Legends of Arria, Volume 3
“It goes without saying,” Oaka snapped back at her, staring, “that we cannot always accept things at face value. We have to keep looking, digging deeper and further into the other person or thing, trying to understand who they are, what they want, and what will stop the screaming?” Oaka asked, turning around.
The others looked up as they heard several different people screaming, not far off from them on the other side of the door into the training room, and then they heard running footsteps, scattering in different directions, with one tread heading straight towards them. The group braced themselves--Basha, Monika, and Oaka reaching for their Swords as Gnat ducked down behind them--just as the door was ripped off of its hinges and thrown aside by an invisible hand, back towards one of the corridor walls. Gnat shrieked in fright as she covered up her head even more, but the others remained stalwart in appearance, though they trembled inside.
Servants and Followers (The Legends of Arria, Volume 2) Page 41