Herald of death

Ethan wakes up with a jolt, his body sprawled across the hard surface of a marble bench. The sun beams down upon him, its warm rays piercing the fabric of his clothes and his skin. His eyes flutter open, adjusting to the sudden burst of light. Ethan realizes that he's wearing a three-piece suit. This kind of vestment is what he would typically wear, but he didn't bring any with him. 'Where am I?' he asks himself.

The heavy thud of a closing book interrupts his thoughts. Ethan’s gaze shifted across the garden to find a figure seated on the opposite side. It is Maelor, or at least the reflection Ethan had seen before. The figure wears a tattered, bloodied robe, identical to the one he had on when Ethan ended his suffering.

"Welcome, Ethan," Maelor said. His voice is calm amid the chirping of birds and the rustling of leaves.

Ethan stands up, a mix of anger and bewilderment clear in his voice as he demands, "What is this? Here to take over, are we?!"

Maelor shakes his head, disappointment etched across his face. "We are in the remnants of my mind, a memory of a safe place. A sanctuary for reflection and perhaps redemption."

"Redemption? What are you talking about?" Ethan asks, stepping closer. "I don't need redemption. I need control. Control over the mind and body you are taking from me!"

Maelor rises, matching Ethan's height. "Your hands are stained, and your soul is tarnished. I cannot simply step aside and let the chaos continue."

Ethan's face contorts in a sneer. "You think you're better than me? You are a leech who parasitizes my existence! And you're judging me?!"

"I am not to judge," Maelor replies calmly. "I am here to help you accept your sins and to help you redeem yourself. To guide you, for you to become a better man who'll build and not destroy."

"Redeem myself?" Ethan laughs bitterly, the sound echoing on the garden's walls. "To whom? For what? The murderers, thieves, rapists, terrorists, and other scum I killed?!"

Maelor's expression softens. "To yourself, Ethan. For your own peace."

"I'll be at peace when my father’s murderer draws his last breath. When I retire on a nice little private island with the millions I made." He lunges at Maelor, but his hand passes through the figure.

"And when you die, your soul will roam, dragged down by the weight of your regrets," Maelor cautions.

"What tells you I'll have regrets? I've got none," Ethan retorts.

"You will, the day your actions cost the life of an innocent. Or each time you stood idly by when you could have saved someone’s life. And that day will be soon, seeing how our divergent souls tear each other apart."

"I'll expel you from my mind soon enough. No need to tune myself to your self-righteous precepts!" Ethan yells.

"Then maybe, when our souls are shattered, you will grow to take another path. A path devoid of the excuses you made for your sinful actions. A path devoid of vengeance, hatred, and misanthropy! A path upon which you put your strength at the service of the weak, the poor, and the unfortunate!" Maelor preaches.

As Maelor speaks, Ethan feels a strange sensation wash over him. His anger subsides, replaced by a flood of feelings he had long suppressed. Ethan takes a deep breath, looking around the garden to avoid Maelor's gaze.

Maelor continues, "this is your chance, Ethan. A chance to remake your life and become someone else, someone better." He stands silently, watching Ethan with a judgmental gaze.

As the sun climbs higher, its reflections on the garden blind Ethan. His senses leave him, dragging him into slumber.

The lights of a chandelier pass through his closed eyes. The wool blocking his movements scrapes against his skin. He opens his eyes, finding himself in a wide stone room. The air is musty, filled with the scent of old wood and incense. He is lying on a wooden bed, covered with a thick wool blanket that grazes his skin.

As he sits up, a stained-glass window depicting the gods catches his attention. A few hand-woven rugs cover the stone floor, their patterns faded by time. A small fireplace crackles as it consumes the last fragments of a few logs.

Russ sleeps deeply, curled in front of the fire. His pads are red, marked by recent extensive use. He doesn't hear Ethan moving around. 'He's exhausted; I've rarely seen him like that," Ethan thinks.

A ceramic jug sits on a small table next to the bed. His throat dry as desert sand, Ethan hastily drinks the water it holds. His haversack rests against the table. He checks its contents, finding everything he remembers storing.

The door to the room squeaks as it opens. Ethan pretends to be asleep, snuggling back into his bed. A figure enters and adds a fresh log to the fire. Ethan cracks one eye open slightly and recognizes Sylas. Ethan sits on the bed and asks, "Where are we?"

Sylas looks surprised and turns toward Ethan. "They told me you wouldn't wake up for at least another day."

"Who are they?" Ethan asks.

"I took you to the sanctuary we spoke of. When we found you, it seemed like you'd drained all your life force. Normally, people who go through this fall into a deep sleep for months. But the priests said your soul is unusually strong," Sylas recounts.

Russ stirs, awakened by their voices. He leaps onto the bed, whimpering and nuzzling against Ethan.

"He’s been a great help. He’s excellent at catching rabbits and fish. But he doesn't know any commands… I tried to teach him to sit."

"Russ, sit," Ethan commands in English. Russ immediately complies, and Ethan clarifies, "he doesn’t understand your language, and he’s trained to disobey everyone but me." Ethan slowly gets up, feeling the stiffness in his muscles and joints. "Now that I'm awake, I have another matter to ask them about."

"I've already brought it up," Sylas says. "They mentioned that the rector will see you once you’ve recovered."

Ethan nods, easing the stiffness in his limbs as his body protests the sudden movements. "How long have I been out?" he asks, massaging his sore legs.

"Three and a half days. We arrived about ten hours ago," Sylas responds. His voice softens. "Thank you, Ethan. You saved many lives. My village would have suffered far worse without your intervention. I might not be alive without your help." His eyes are earnest, filled with unmistakable gratitude.

Ethan shifts on the bed. The praise unsettles him, stirring a deep-seated unease. "Don't thank me. I didn't do it for you or your village," he deflects hastily. His gaze drifting to the stained glass that casts multicolored hues across the room.

"Few would have stood their ground as you did. Every soldier I known would have fled, their tails between their legs," Sylas continues. He's seemingly unaware of Ethan's discomfort.

The door creaks open. "I heard voices. Must I assume that our patient is awake?" an elderly feminine voice inquires from the doorway.

"Yes," Sylas answers, turning towards the newcomer.

An old woman with flowing gray hair steps into the room. She's clad in a sublime white robe embroidered with golden threads. A palpable wave of ether fills the space as she enters. Her eyes, glowing with a golden light, lock onto Ethan.