[Mkguild] Divine Travails of Rats - Pars V. Ascensum (o)

[C. Matthias]

Here is the final section of Pars V!  I will 
begin posting Pars VI after I get back from the 
TSA-Bash next weekend.  Pars VI is the final part 
of this mammoth story that Ryx and I have been 
working on for the last two years.  I really 
hope  you have all been enjoying it!

Metamor Keep: Divine Travails of Rats
by Charles Matthias and Ryx

Pars V: Ascensum

(o)

Saturday, May 12, 708 CR


The next terrace was all a road of stone rising 
upward at an angle even steeper than the last. 
The stone was shaped to offer little steps and 
landings on the way up around the mountain, and 
now Charles could see through his Master's eyes 
that the path definitely curved about it. The 
mountain itself was finally narrowing.

Along the rock at the base of the cliff wall lay 
men in women in boundless number. They lay face 
down with their arms prostrate before them. Their 
lips moved to speak but no other part of their 
body seemed capable of motion. His Master walked 
well clear of each of them as they ascended the 
path. Charles could feel the edge brushing 
against the shadow and the depth beneath them 
should they fall. And yet he knew that they could 
not fall. Those who ran below had never tripped 
and hurtled downward. It was not possible for the 
souls here to ever go back; they could only go 
forward and so it was for Charles and his Master.

As they slipped past the prone figures Charles 
felt their words touching the ground, and through 
the shadow felt their shape. It took some time 
for him to distinguish between the voices for 
they did not speak in rhythm. Rather each spoke 
at his or her own pace, which garbled the words 
into what seemed a senseless morass. But 
eventually, focusing his feelings on only parts 
of the shadow, he was able to make out what it was they each said.


Adhaesit pavimento anima mea

Adhaesit pavimento anima mea

...


As he made himself listen to the words and try to 
make sense of them, an image other than what his 
Master showed him flowed into his mind.

He peered into the deeps of a cave set in a 
desert hillside, where only a feeble lantern 
brought light. A cold night was without, the 
heavens sprinkled with stars. Within the warmth 
of animals and their stink pervaded. Straw rested 
upon the stone to give them a meager bed. Wooden 
slats had been arranged to keep them from 
escaping. A man and a woman reclined within, 
their faces filled with a rapturous joy. 
Something small stirred within the feed trough 
filled with bundles of coarse wool into which 
they gazed. In the distance song filled the air.

Charles felt an ache in his heart and a fire in 
his flesh as the scene slipped away from him. He 
knew the story, and he knew he had loved the 
story. But it was gone and he held only scraps. 
Why could he not remember any of these things 
anymore? What had happened to him?

The rat burrowed deep within himself to find 
whatever he had lost. And yet, just as there was 
a wall in his mind to keep the pain tearing his 
eyes apart from overwhelming him, there seemed 
only to be empty shelves were once his memories 
had been stored. His journey had been long, and 
each step had crowded out more and more of what 
had been there before. How far had he come? Where 
had he even begun? He knew he had not always been 
climbing the mountain. He knew he had seen 
friends in terrible anguish before this. Their 
names? Wes... no, it was gone too.

But there was one thing he knew he could find. At 
the core of his being it still remained, a fist 
clenched tight and marked with a sword. Perhaps 
all that he had forgotten lay within its grip.

False. He...

The word came unbidden and startled Charles. It 
had not come from his Master. The voice was different and yet familiar.

He scampered through the shadow, concentration 
destroyed, and stared out through his Master's 
eyes at row after row of people. Men and women of 
all shapes and sizes muttered their prayer into 
the ground. He could feel their want, their 
desire, their groping and grasping need for 
something, anything. It fixed them more firmly 
than any bindings could upon the ground, faces 
turned from the light that did not burn their backs.

Charles pondered them for only a moment before 
sinking back within his own thoughts. He touched 
each of the empty shelves where memories had once 
been stored. Nothing had changed. The journey up 
the mountain was all he could find, and even then 
details were uncertain. How long had he been 
climbing? There were only three terraces more but 
how many had they already ascended?

He felt his Master's presence filling him and 
with it the determined focus and purpose to which 
they had undertaken. Charles lowered his snout to 
the shadow and snorted hot steam against the 
stone as he crawled up the stone path. The cries 
of the people sounded now like moans through his 
paws and through the shadow film. The view of the 
path grew in clarity with that presence, but this 
time no words were shared. Charles wished he 
would hear some. Any words at all. They had once 
mattered so much to him, but now he did not know why.

Does Núrodur need them for this?

I... I do not know, Master.

They will return. Be not afraid. Abide in my 
shadow and you will be safe, Núrodur Nuruhuinë.

He remained on all fours and allowed himself no 
thoughts for a long time even after the presence 
of his Master receded from his mind. There was 
nothing in it to find anyway. Only the hand 
remained there for him to inspect. It seemed to 
him that it was sinking into a well where it 
could no longer be seen. The rat, turned his 
thoughts from the vision of the path and the 
people strewn across it and let his arms and legs 
move him forward but nothing more.

The clenched hand. The sword. These he pondered. 
What were they? Why had he born them in the 
center of his being all his life? Questions and 
questions circled his thoughts until even they 
were lost in a maelstrom of insensibility.

Beware.

The vision of the path receded to a single mote 
of light. All that existed was a plain of endless 
darkness surrounded by walls of stone that 
stretched to the heavens. In the midst of that 
plain was a single well with a single rope 
descending into its depths. A small, brown rat 
circled the rim of the well, gazing downward at 
the clenched hand marked by a white sword that 
rested at its base. The rat gripped the rope in 
its tail and claws and scrambled down into the 
damp well that stank with putrescence.

A miserable sheen of slime coated the bottom of 
the well, and the rat rubbed its paws back and 
forth to rid itself of that muck. It scratched 
its ears with a hind paw, and brushed out it 
whiskers until it felt an acceptable measure of 
cleanliness restored. And then, curious at the 
brightness of the hand, it nibbled at the fingers 
and clawed with its little nails to pry up even a sliver of flesh.

A light, warm and crimson exuded from beneath the 
fingers. A sound like a drum throbbed within. The 
rat pulled and bit with all its little strength until something slipped free.


The sun-warmed man garbed in purple robe kept one 
eye on the boy as he spoke with the father. The 
father bore an unpleasant moue as he attempted to 
arrange his wares on the demonstration table for 
the people in the small fishing village south of 
Glazebrook. The boy tried not to look like he was 
paying attention to the affairs of grown-ups by 
staring at the mighty towers of Glazebrook and 
beyond them the southern reaches of the low-lying 
Amrigane mountains still green with mid-Summer trees.

“How long, Master Matthias, has your son 
demonstrated such remarkable strength? He carried 
this table by himself. He should not be able to do so at his size and age.”

The father grimaced, his brown mustache twitching 
and his arms trembling with the urge to rush the 
robed man away. “He's always been a precocious 
lad. Now if you'll excuse me I...”

“Just a moment more, Master Matthias. I do not 
mean to be a burden to you. But I must ask, does 
your son have difficulty controlling his temper?”

The boy scowled at the suggestion and then turned 
his head to watch the fishermen prepare their 
boats for the evening on the nearby wharf. The 
robed man, the Sondecki, had been watching him!

The father scoffed, “He has a temper, but many 
boys his age do. No I must insist...”

“Forgive me but I have another question. Does your son like to fight?”

“Of course! Of course! He has silly dreams of 
being a knight one day. Now please!”

The boy cast a quick glance back and saw that the 
man in the purple robe had lifted his hands in a 
calming gesture. “I will take up only a moment 
more of your time, Master Matthias. I would like 
to ask something of your son if you would permit me.”

“Fine! Fine! But stay out of sight of the wares; you'll frighten my customers.”

The robed man slipped behind the table and smiled 
to the boy. “Do you know what I am, young man?”

He liked being called a man and so smiled. “You 
are one of the Sondeckis, Mern.” The last was a 
title of respect given in those lands when 
another was not known. The boy had never met a 
Sondeckis but he and all in those lands knew of 
them; they were warriors for justice and defenders of the down-trodden.

“How right you are. Now, what is your name?”

“My name is Charles!”

The Sondecki took the boy's hand in his own and 
held it gently. “Well, Charles, I would like you 
to do one thing for me. Close your eyes and 
imagine your heart. Can you do that?” The boy 
nodded and closed his eyes, picturing his heart 
beating in his chest. “Now, put everything you 
know and love into your heart. Imagine everything 
filling it to the brim. Fill it up, leave nothing 
outside of it. Everything you are, everything you 
know, and everything you will should be inside this heart.

“Now, enclose the heart with a single hand. Close 
it tight and let nothing escape. Can you do 
that?” Again, the boy nodded, willing everything 
he could think of, and everything he loved, his 
father and mother, their horses, their wares, the 
green trees, the grass, the mountains and rivers, 
and all the stories he yearned to hear about the 
evening fire when his family shared its nightly 
meal. Everything went into his heart.

“Now I want you to put a mark on that hand. You 
choose the mark. Have you done that? Good. Do not 
tell me what it is just yet. Keep the secret just 
a moment longer. Now... open up the hand.”

The boy did as he was told and a smile crossed his face.

“Do you feel calm?”

“I am, Mern. I feel calm!” For the first time in 
ages he felt no anger or frustration, no sense of 
disquiet to make him anxious or disagreeable. He 
was calm like a morning lake touched by fog. He 
was as still as the mountain rock. He did not 
even yearn to boast of this joy to his mother or 
father to whom he had always told every little triumph.

“Very good. I am glad to hear it. Now, Charles, 
tell me... what mark did you choose for the hand about your heart?”

“A sword! I chose a sword, Mern!”

The robed man smiled and stood, patting the boy 
on the head. He turned back to the father and 
coughed to get his attention. The boy's father 
grimaced beneath his mustache. “You should be 
proud of your son, Master Matthias. He is of the Sondeckis!”


Charles blinked and willed the hand to close 
tightly again. The well and plain were no more. 
The pinprick of light swelled back until he felt 
as if they were his own eyes. The walls pressed 
tight against his mind and he felt his limbs 
sloshing through the shadow as if wading in an 
ankle-deep pond. He blinked open his real eyes 
and for a moment saw light fill them. There was 
the mountain path and its parade of prone bodies 
all moaning their sins and their prayers into the 
rock. The shadow touched none of them.

His Master stopped and turned to face him. Núrodur... are you all right?

But Charles ignored the question for a moment, 
his eyes, his true sight, marred by the cloud of 
ash, nevertheless beckoned him toward the figures 
of men. One in particular called to him. The 
sound of the voice, rough and impatient, the 
blonde of the hair now gone white at the edges, 
the mustache filled with gray, the arms once 
thick from lifting and carting goods from village 
to village now weak and empty, all of it was known to him.

“Father?” Charles called to him, turning in the 
shadow to stretch out a hand toward the man who 
he'd only known for seven years. “Father? It is I, Charles, your son! Father!”

He does not hear you, Núrodur. Núrodur! The shadow!

But Charles could not hold back. He jumped out of 
the shadow to where his father lay prone, eager 
to touch him one last time. Eager to tell him of his love one last time.

And then writhed on the ground, his flesh a 
living flame and his scream echoing in his mind 
until all he could hear and think was the 
shattering of glass. Brilliant crimson plumes 
engulfed him and then everything went black and 
all went silent and only the flame abode in him.

Núrodur?

Flame! Pain! All is dark!

Núrodur? You are safe again. Listen to my voice.

He did not move so much as shift, awareness 
following the voice back through a maze of 
flaming walls on every side. But the flame gave 
off no light; it was too hot for even that to escape the burning.

Núrodur Nuruhuinë. Follow my voice. Follow me. 
Abide in the shadow. You are safe there and only there. Come, Núrodur.

And he did. Núrodur followed the voice, the 
command, the call that he received. He knew the 
path beneath him again. He knew the sensation of 
bodies prostrate against the cliff wall. He knew 
the pool of shadow beneath him. He knew the sound of his Master's voice.

It is only a little further, Núrodur. Your son awaits.

Yes. That he knew too. His son. He followed 
after, his touch scorching the stone black and 
sending up rivulets of smoke. His voice hissed 
and wheezed, his mouth hanging agape. All else 
had been effaced. Núrodur Nuruhuinë followed his Master.

----------

Wednesday, June 23, 724 CR, Early Evening


To Charlie's astonishment, his father crumpled 
atop the saddle blanket and bale of hay, tears 
streaming from his eyes. The golden horse stabled 
behind him lowered its head and nudged him with 
its muzzle. Charlie set the empty goblet aside 
and took the few steps to where his father wept. 
He knelt and put a hand on his father's shoulder. 
“I... I'm sorry. You saw... you saw your father there...”

Baron Charles Matthias let out another gasp and 
then shut his eyes tight. He rubbed his hands 
across them, fingers trailing through the scarred 
rent over his right eye. “I did. I saw my father.”

Charles looked up slowly, anguish writ plain upon 
his rodent muzzle, whiskers backed and ears flat 
while the golden horse brushed its broad nose 
against the back of his neck. “Until that moment 
when I raised my eyes and saw him as he had 
become, I never realized that I had forgotten 
what he looked like! Charlie, I had forgotten!” 
With a shaky hand Charles rested the pad and claw 
of one finger against his temple. “But, to this 
day, I have only to close my eyes and I see him 
as I saw him in that moment. Not the man who 
stared with anger at the Sondeckis who took me 
from the market stalls, but the frail man of age 
and weariness. And I wonder; did he know what 
became of me, Charlie? What became of his son?”

He lifted one arm to pat the horse on the snout 
and then pushed himself back up. He offered 
Charlie a feeble smile. “I had not seen him since 
I was seven years old. In the Southlands, when a 
child with the Sondeck is discovered, they are 
sent to Sondeshara for training. Some families 
will go with them, but mine did not. I never saw him again. Nor my mother.”

Charlie had seen into the dreams of many a Keeper 
who had lost father or mother to war, accident, 
or illness. It was a misery that always drove him 
to find a good cup. He had never imagined his own 
sire suffering from so bitter a loss.

“Have you never searched for her?”

But his sire shook his head. “If she lives she is 
somewhere in Kitchlande. That country is vaster 
than the Steppe. It would take me years to search 
it and I have not the time. Nor can I leave 
family for it. I can merely hope and pray for her 
sake. And my father...” his voice choked up again 
but he took several deep breaths and stilled the 
tremor. “For my father I pray every day. I have Liturgy offered for him.”

“Does the rest of the family know?”

“Only your mother. Do you.. have any more of that wine?”

Charlie glanced at the cup he'd left on the floor 
and shook his head. “I can fetch more for you, Father.”

But Charles shook his head. “No, it is fine. 
There is not much left to tell. Let me compose 
myself and I will continue. Sit, my son. We're 
almost there.” Charles cast his gaze down, 
folding his hands upon his lap, and took a long 
breath. “When I was seven, Charlie, a man took me 
away from my family because of the power that was 
born to me.” Charles spoke without raising his 
gaze. “I have the Sondeck; you have the Dream. In 
that, are we – you and I – so very different?”

Charlie ran his fingers along the golden horse's 
mane for a moment as he gazed at his father. He 
did not know what to feel anymore. With nothing 
else to do, he took out his chewstick and gnawed while he sat and listened.

----------

May He bless you and keep you in His grace and love,

Charles Matthias
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