Chapter 9
Inner Vision
Whill awoke within his silken bed the next morning feeling more refreshed than he had in a long time. Hope had begun to replace the nagging dread that had been his constant companion of late. The memory of a dream came back to him suddenly. He laughed and quieted himself quickly. He didn’t know how he had slipped from it or it from his mind. It had been recent, just before he woke. It had been a dream of a memory. Whill closed his eyes as he reflected upon it. So clear was the memory that he felt a part of it.
Whill was but ten at the time. He and Abram had just left Sidnell, and the idea of being gone from Aunt Teera and the girls, warm baths and beds, had begun to gnaw at him.They followed the coast that rainy gray day, and young Whill was pulled from his homesickness by Abram.
“Are you hungry, lad?” he had asked.
Whill thought a moment. “No, sir, not yet.”
“Good,” Abram proclaimed and steered them off the road to cross a meadow of golden wheat, its beauty and vibrancy stolen by the dull day. “It is better to hunt when you are not hungry, lest you starve of misfortune.”
He stopped Whill’s horse and looked him in the eye. “Don’t ever be caught unprepared; life is always waiting to kick your arse. Life kills all of us, don’t forget. Every day lived means you were fighting, or someone else was fighting for you. Soon as you learn to fight, you learn to live.” Abram dismounted and bid Whill do the same. “Now, lad, you have been learning things of great importance in my stead. Teera says you are a genius among geniuses, so now begins your lesson in living. For a brain to work a man must eat, and for a man to eat he must hunt. Reliance on others for food and drink makes one a slave to fortune, it causes dependence which hinders freedom. Understand, lad?”
Whill nodded. He did understand, as children understand all too well the limitations of dependency, the frustration at their size and weakness and inability to exercise their own will.
“Good, then. Today we hunt.”
That had been the beginning of a decade of travel, adventure, danger, and learning.
Whill lay in his bed smiling at the memory, lost in the euphoria of nostalgia. They had hunted all day and into dusk when finally a big buck with an amazing rack of antlers crossed their path. Abram’s arrow had flown true, and Whill had his first lesson in skinning and butchering deer.
Whill recognized the pain at the edge of his mind, encroaching on the sensitive thoughts. His pain wanted to bring him along in a sorrowful remembrance of his lost friend. Whill felt himself slipping, tears beginning to form, but quickly he smiled at the intrusion.
“This is not your place. I do not need you. Go away now,” Whill said to his pain, and visualized his thought connections shifting down other paths.
“I am sorry” came a voice, and Whill jumped. “Avriel said that you were awake. I will go,” said Aurora and turned to leave.
“No, no, I was not talking to you, I was…never mind,” he said with a nervous laugh. “I was getting up anyway.”
With a smile Aurora sat back on a thick vine chair, a mischievous smile creeping across her face as the vines of the seat shifted to the shape of her form. Whill swung his legs over the side of the bed and realized he wore no clothes beneath the silken sheets.
Aurora raised an eyebrow and her smile spread. “Thinking of staying in bed?” she purred.
“Uh, no! I mean—no,” he stammered. He faked a yawn and stretched, attempting to recover. “But I am famished.” He stood clutching the sheets and looked around for his clothes. He found the leg of the pants he had worn sticking out from beneath Aurora’s bottom. She smirked at his wondering eyes.
“So am I…?” she teased and combed through her hair with long fingers. Her long, thick locks fell across her bosom and shoulder, brushing against her flesh. She wore still the furs she had worn within the arena, though they had not the dirt and blood of battle upon them.
Whill smiled weakly and went to his wardrobe. Many sets of clothes had been supplied to him. He chose loose-fitting pants and shuffled to get them on under the sheets. A breeze informed him that his sheet had fallen. A slight hum came from behind him and he felt his cheeks get hot. He tied off the pants and was pleased with their feel; they were light and airy and felt as if they were not there. He chose a similar shirt of white with light green patterns of snaking vines throughout. He found also that the sandals were very comfortable, like standing on moss.
Whill turned and raised his arms for Aurora, turning to show her the fit.
“You look like no less than a king,” Aurora sang.
Whill scowled and rubbed his stomach. A hunger pang reminded him he had to eat. “Shall we find breakfast?”
Aurora gave a small laugh. “That will not be easy; it seems you have some admirers.”
Whill walked to the balcony and the leaf curtains slid back slowly. Loud cheers emanated from below, startling him. A crowd of hundreds of elves had gathered and were cheering his name. As he walked out onto the balcony, many of the gathering crowd fell to their knees and bowed to the ground. It reminded him of the mob that had surrounded the house of healing in Sherna, after he had healed the infant.
Aurora came to stand by his side. “They worship you like a god-king.”
Whill sighed. “I wish they wouldn’t.”
Aurora appeared perplexed. “What man would not appreciate such adoration?” She seemed to search his eyes for the reason.
“A man who does not feel he deserves it,” he murmured, more to himself than to her. He looked out over the sea of smiling and cheering elves and his heart dropped. They saw him as their long-awaited savior, but Whill didn’t feel like a savior. He felt like a fraud.
“But you are deserving of such adoration,” Aurora said. “You have faced Eadon and lived to tell about it. Your deeds were known to me long before I met you. They are whispered in every village in every kingdom. You alone wield the greatest power given.”
Whill was unmoved by her words. He turned from the balcony and mentally called to Avriel. Aurora put a hand to Whill’s shoulder and he turned to face her.
“I have not known you long, Whill of Agora, but what I have seen has convinced me that you are a man of honor, strength, and courage.”
Whill tried to turn from her, not wanting to hear more of his grandeur, but she held him firm. “Listen to me,” she insisted. “You may not like the role you have to fill, few do, but—”
Whill tore away from her grip. “I can’t do it, don’t you see! I am not trying to be humble and I am far from righteous. This task is beyond me, the prophecy is a lie…”
“That may be, yes. The prophecy may be a lie. But you still possess the blade Adromida, and you are still the rightful king of Uthen-Arden. Do not waste your time complaining that you are wanted. There are far worse fates. Would you rather be wanted by none?”
“Yes!” Whill screamed and felt his rage boil to dangerous levels. He had to leave; he had to be far from her and his cursed followers. Without another word he unsheathed Adromida and flew from the balcony, nearly colliding with Avriel as she glided to meet him. He flew out over the city toward the Thousand Falls.
Whill! She called, but he did not respond. He needed to be alone.
Whill flew to the falls and landed between two of the rushing waterfalls as they spilled into the river below. He misjudged his landing and fell stumbling to the rocks and into the water beyond. He dragged himself up onto an outcropping of rock like a wet dog, cursing all the while.
“I think you need to work on your landing,” a voice called. Startled, he looked in the direction of the sound and found the Watcher meditating on a lone rock jutting out of the raging water.
Whill sighed to himself. “I was looking for a place to be alone,” he murmured, thinking the rushing water had drowned his words.
“If you were looking for a place to be alone, why did you land by me?” asked the Watcher.
Whill was speechless. He looked back toward the c
ity and thought of Avriel. He now regretted ignoring her.
“I was about to get some lunch anyway,” said the Watcher. “You shall have the privacy you sought.” The Watcher turned as if to leave but stopped. “Unless you are hungry.”
Whill’s stomach growled at the mere thought of food.
“Well, then,” said the Watcher. “At least there is a part of you that knows what it wants. Come.” The old elf changed before Whill’s eyes into a huge raven and flew off toward his small river island. Whill slowly elevated himself and floated clumsily to the island. The cottage of his youth was gone; he doubted it had been more than an illusion. In its place was a small pyramid made of what looked to be rocks from the surrounding river.
Inside, the pyramid had no walls, and Whill could find no binding element between the stones. It looked as though they had melded together.
“Do you like it?” asked the Watcher. “I made it in a dream.” He chuckled as he added two large fish to the pan upon glowing coals. “You can imagine my surprise when I awoke and saw it had become real.”
“You made it in a dream?” Whill asked, astonished. He ran his hand down the perfectly smooth, angled stone. “How is that possible?”
The Watcher regarded Whill. “How is it not possible?” he said with genuine curiosity. Shaking his head when no answer came, he went back to his cooking.
“It is amazing,” Whill admitted and took a seat at the table.
“Yes, quite,” the Watcher agreed. “I call it the house of dreams. I did not make the house to look as it did when you visited last, you did, or rather your subconscious.”
“Why that house?” asked Whill.
“Why indeed?” said the Watcher. “Ask yourself that question. Those I have brought here, or who have come to visit, have conjured up many different abodes. Some from imagination, others memory, but always it is a place of great significance.”
Whill nodded in understanding. “It shows you your dream home, then?”
“No,” said the Watcher, his bushy eyebrows nearly coming together as he scowled over his cooking fish. He looked up at Whill and his expression changed to sympathy. “When you look on the house of dreams, your deepest desires are shown to you.”
Whill cocked his head and pondered, looking at nothing. “My deepest desires are my old cottage?”
The Watcher only sighed and stood from the fireplace with the pan in hand. Upon two wide leaves he put the fish. He set marbled bread upon the small table, and poured two glasses of wine. Seeing no utensils, Whill dug into the fish, and before his mouthful was swallowed he was breaking bread. Wine washed down the fish with a fruity finish. The fish was excellent, and the sour bread added a fine balancing element to the meal. The Watcher knew how to pair food and drink. They ate for a time, and when the Watcher recognized Whill’s distracting hunger was sated, he went on.
“It is not the cottage that you dream of, but what the cottage represents.”
“What does it represent?”
“You tell me,” replied the Watcher with a small laugh. “It is your subconscious.”
Whill thought for a moment as he absently chewed his bread. Waving the piece from the loaf with his right hand, he surmised, “The cottage represents my childhood, my aunt Teera, the girls…but not Abram. He was always gone when I was little.”
“Until…?”
“Until…until I left with him.” Whill’s interest in the food was lost as he again thought of his old friend. “The cottage represents a time before my days upon the road began with Abram. A time of safety and security, a time of…” Whill stared off pensively.
“A time of innocence,” the Watcher finished for him.
“I suppose,” said Whill, and finished the last of his wine. “But what does it matter what my dreams are? All of that is behind us now.”
“Indeed,” the Watcher agreed. “Then why is it at the back of your mind? Why did you not conjure your family’s castle, or one of the many other places that you have lived throughout your life?”
Whill pondered the question as he played with his food, not meeting the Watcher’s gaze. “I do not seek my father’s throne, or any throne. I want only peace and quiet, and a simple life. One in which I might come and go as I please, invisible to the world.”
“Ah,” said the Watcher. “You wish for a life that is not your own. You hold your happiness hostage until the world changes to accommodate your wishes, is that it?”
“No, I—”
“Why not simply leave this land, then? You have the great blade Adromida; surely you can live the life you have just described.”
Whill met the Watcher’s eyes and anger found his voice. “You know that I cannot do that.”
“Why?” asked the elf.
“Because people depend on me.”
The Watcher raised his brow. “Then you care more for the people than you do your own wants.”
Whill thought for a long while, and finally answered. “Yes. I have a duty to help those whom I have the power to help.”
The Watcher smiled and resumed finishing his meal, leaving Whill to ponder what had been said. Whill finished his food also and gratefully accepted another glass of wine.
“Who are you, Whill?” the Watcher asked.
“What do you mean?”
“Who are you?”
Whill’s gaze moved here and there as he searched his mind. “I am the rightful king of Uthen-Arden, I am the supposed savior of the—”
“No, I did not ask who others think you are. Who do you think you are?”
“I do not know,” Whill answered in a near whisper.
“Good, that is a start.”
“How is that good?”
“Without labels and boundaries, there is room to grow,” the Watcher answered. “What is important to you? What would you die for?”
“Justice,” Whill answered without thinking.
“Justice for you?” the Watcher asked. “Or justice for all?”
Whill thought about it a moment. “Justice for all.”
“Interesting.” The Watcher appeared to ponder something. He nodded his head as he thought to himself. “That is quite a different answer than you gave me earlier. I thought you wanted a peaceful and simple life.”
“Before…” Whill began, trying to find the words. “Before, I spoke…selfishly.”
“Yes, you did,” the Watcher agreed.
“Ugh!” moaned Whill as he set his head in his hands and weakly clawed his hair. “What is wrong with me?”
The Watcher laughed heartily and Whill raised his head to scowl at the mockery, but he found none in the Watcher’s sympathetic face.
“What is wrong with you, my young friend, is that you were tortured for six months by a maniacal dictator. Don’t be so hard on yourself. The brain storms I showed you when last we met are the reason for much of how you feel. You have the answers you seek, but your painbody refuses to let you see them.”
Whill nodded, frustrated that he had learned so much from the elves, and yet lacked the strength to act upon his knowledge.
The Watcher became solemn and gazed upon Whill with vacant eyes and mournful words. “Eadon has shattered your mind and put it back together again. When I look upon you, I see two within one.”
The fine hairs upon Whill’s arms stood straight and a chill passed through his being that forced a shudder with the Watcher’s every word. These were words of truth, a truth that Whill knew at his core, deep within the recesses of his scarred mind. There was a beast lurking within him, one that would devour him should the chains that bound it fail.
Whill realized that the Watcher had been speaking but had stopped; the old elf now looked at him patiently. “I am sorry, what did you say just now? I was—”
“You were thinking what I was trying to explain. You can feel the…Other inside, yes?”
Whill gulped and lowered his voice as if to hide his words from this…Other. “Yes, I feel him.”
“Hmm.” The
Watcher clasped his hands across his belly and sat back. “This is good. Now you can begin to see the difference between your thoughts and actions, and this Other’s.”
“Yes.” Whill smiled, a spark of hope beginning to form as he began to attribute his moods and emotions to not one, but two parts of himself. His mind exploded with rapid thought as he began to see clearly how the Other had been feeding off of him.
“It is like a parasite,” Whill said.
“Indeed.”
Again Whill lowered his voice a bit, though he knew how silly the idea was that the Other could not hear him, considering it was privy to his thoughts.
“But doesn’t it know that I am onto it now? Won’t it try to retaliate? Or hide?”
“No, it is quite sure of its supremacy over you. Remember, it is a part of your mind; it has been with you since your violent birth. If anything, it loves the attention we give it, no matter the context.” The Watcher raised the bottle of wine. “Another?”
“Yes—,” Whill began, but then came to a realization. “No,” he said covering the glass with his hand. “I have had enough and…” He scowled at the floor and then swiftly locked onto the Watcher’s gaze. “It…wants me to.”
“Very good, my young friend!” the Watcher clapped, genuinely delighted. “When one becomes intoxicated with this particular drug, the veil separating them from their Other is weakened, too much of it, and they are possessed altogether.”
Whill’s eyes widened and he gave slow, exaggerated nods as revelation bloomed within his mind. Question then shadowed his mirth. “But you drink still when I have refused; do you not worry about your Other?”
“No,” said the elf and took a slow sip of his wine. “My Other and I have an understanding. Over the centuries a healthy relationship forms if nurtured diligently. It is only one’s survival instinct become conscious, after all, but all too often we are tricked by it to believe it is us, and we are it.”
Silence filled the room as the Watcher sipped and Whill considered. It was a comfortable silence found between friends.
Whill of Agora: Book 03 - A Song of Swords Page 8