‹ Prequel: Ninety Days of Water
Status: Active.
Tundra
Chapter XXIII – Fire and Ice – Part I
The rain was icy needles. They stung Eiron’s face as he climbed up the sheer cliff, drawing blood and replacing sweat with frost. Rocks tore at his skin, rending his hands numb. The sensation there dulled, and his arms and legs gave up protest, until finally only aches were drawing him up. Redness smeared his ragged clothing.
Below him, the ground had become a world of smoke and mirrors. The surface of a lake, fringed by barren oaks and evergreen pine trees, was a cryptic reflection of the sun and the snow. It sparkled blindingly, so that the Seafarer could not look at it for long without risking a fatal fall. Mist lifted off the water's surface, coiling in tendrils and masking the land around it. The layers of cloud that crowned the various summits of the ranges further obscured the lower highlands, so that solid ground might have been a mirage, or a figment of dreaming. The truth of it was irrelevant now, for Eiron might never see it again. For the short remainder of his life, he was determined to get further away from it. All that was left was climbing, and then there would be the descent into the elder’s new nest, from which, he had to allow the possibility, he might never emerge. But he was brave, he reminded himself. His words to the mage had not been wholly in jest, but if a magic man cast out by his peers could lead, then why could the Price of Seafarers not lead from exile also? He would be the one to reach the infected elder, he knew. It was more than a responsibility. It was his fate.
His picks chewed into the side of the pinnacle, ripping out chunks, until eventually he reached the peak. Exhausted, he sprawled onto the upturned face of Fire.
Fire kissed the sun at the top of the sky, where it burned hottest. Fire was a red-rock totem pole of incineration, scorched by heat and death. It was the candle that counted down humanity's remaining millennia. Fire was charred, blacked mouths for tongues of flame. Fire was hell boiling up like bile from the pit of the earth. It seared Eiron’s flesh, stinging his face, cauterising his wounds and turning his softer skin to blisters.
Despite all of these things, Fire was conquered. Eiron had gone as high as he could go. His body would be burned away, at least metaphorically, and the things that made him up in the eyes of creation would slough off his skeleton. Eventually, that too would break down, and he would be liberated. Then, he would begin climbing Ice.
Alone on the pyre, Eiron closed his eyes.
Below him, the ground had become a world of smoke and mirrors. The surface of a lake, fringed by barren oaks and evergreen pine trees, was a cryptic reflection of the sun and the snow. It sparkled blindingly, so that the Seafarer could not look at it for long without risking a fatal fall. Mist lifted off the water's surface, coiling in tendrils and masking the land around it. The layers of cloud that crowned the various summits of the ranges further obscured the lower highlands, so that solid ground might have been a mirage, or a figment of dreaming. The truth of it was irrelevant now, for Eiron might never see it again. For the short remainder of his life, he was determined to get further away from it. All that was left was climbing, and then there would be the descent into the elder’s new nest, from which, he had to allow the possibility, he might never emerge. But he was brave, he reminded himself. His words to the mage had not been wholly in jest, but if a magic man cast out by his peers could lead, then why could the Price of Seafarers not lead from exile also? He would be the one to reach the infected elder, he knew. It was more than a responsibility. It was his fate.
His picks chewed into the side of the pinnacle, ripping out chunks, until eventually he reached the peak. Exhausted, he sprawled onto the upturned face of Fire.
Fire kissed the sun at the top of the sky, where it burned hottest. Fire was a red-rock totem pole of incineration, scorched by heat and death. It was the candle that counted down humanity's remaining millennia. Fire was charred, blacked mouths for tongues of flame. Fire was hell boiling up like bile from the pit of the earth. It seared Eiron’s flesh, stinging his face, cauterising his wounds and turning his softer skin to blisters.
Despite all of these things, Fire was conquered. Eiron had gone as high as he could go. His body would be burned away, at least metaphorically, and the things that made him up in the eyes of creation would slough off his skeleton. Eventually, that too would break down, and he would be liberated. Then, he would begin climbing Ice.
Alone on the pyre, Eiron closed his eyes.