Hoard

Was this what it felt like to die?

That was the last thought Kaln experienced before the nature of thought itself melted away into something…else.

His mind was…expanding. Mind and body both—no, wait. It wasn’t that his body was changing in a way that his eyes or other senses could perceive, but his connection to it seemed to fray even as his awareness of it deepened beyond what Kaln could have imagined. Instants ticked by slowly enough to grasp, seconds stretching into years, and with each he sensed more of the fundamental nature of himself—of microscopic biological machines that in their millions made every organ and the intricate manner in which their interconnectedness formed his consciousness. Deeper still, of the infinitesimal components that made up the pieces of each cell, so primitive they were nothing but chemical reactions rather than anything truly alive. Of the fundamental forces which comprised those, of how the matter itself was, examined closely enough, nothing but minute patterns of probability and the pushes and pulls those patterns exerted on each other.

Nothing exerting imaginary force on nothing—pure mathematics, all substance only illusion. He was so much empty space. Everything was. He was spared from being driven mad by the reality of it only because his own comprehension was growing larger, more diffuse, unencumbered by emotion or even logic—able to recognize emotion and logic alike as biological mechanisms his own squishy brain used to enable him to function, not the perfect absolutes they seemed to be when viewed from inside his own perspective. Deeply imperfect mechanisms, designed by some haphazard process to be, rather than ideal, merely good enough.

Kaln’s attention shifted outward as his awareness grew so vast and deep that the ultimate reality of his own existence could not occupy even a fraction of it, and saw that it was all the same.

The chamber and all its contents, the entire complex, the mountain, the ruined city hidden beyond it…the entire mountain range, the vast southern plateau and the lush valleys to the north. Outward and outward his perceptions grew, encompassing an ever-widening expanse of the world, and yet never sacrificing his detailed awareness of every atom.

In particular, the parts which were…different.

There were the works of the Timekeepers, of course, from the walls of the great complex to the most intricate little devices in Atraximos’s lair. The substances of which they were made simply did not function like the rest of matter—and energy, which he now saw were functionally the same things. Where normally everything was reduced to those mathematically beautiful patterns of motion interacting with one another, all that Timesteel, Timestone and Timeglass was fixed. Down to the tiniest fragments of reality, it was rigid in a way that no other substance was, motionless in place as if somehow secured to the fabric of the universe itself.

No wonder the stuff was impervious.

Life was also different. He found no distinct cutoff point separating what was alive from what was not, though the blurry gray area of chemical reactions and biological machines that couldn’t be considered truly alive entirely occupied only an infinitesimal realm he could not even perceive as a normal, mortal man. But everything above that, from the lichen crawling up the walls to the seven sleeping dragons in this complex, and all the ants and spiders and mice and one human in between… These things were alive, truly alive, and that meant something. There was a weight to them, a presence in the web of connections that made up reality, the influence they exerted upon all those other links subtle, but undeniable.

It was that which cast into perspective the new understanding he had just gained of magic.

Magic, too, Kaln now perceived as something pure and omnipresent. More importantly, it was fundamentally the same category of thing as life itself—spheres of influence, patterns of creation, a phenomenon linking living beings back to the same fabric of reality from which they had sprung. Kaln’s perceptions were growing more diffuse, fading from familiar understanding, but for a moment he observed his sense of life and magic as blazing lights igniting the universe to types of pressure that leaned into and distorted three-dimensional space and all the matter that filled it, analogous to the indentation an orange would make in a hammock.

But he was growing, and fading—taking in more and more information, expanding both the range of his perceptions and the depth of what he was taking in. He could feel his tenuous grasp of his own existence fraying away, and found that he had ascended too far beyond a primate with survival instincts to be emotionally perturbed by this.

Still, it seemed like the end of his existence would be a shame, at least in principle. Better do something about it.

Exactly what was a question; exactly how was a better one.

This alone led to a discovery: whatever he was now, whatever state he was in, it lent a weight to his being such that even in his fading condition, the act of having a desire impressed that desire upon the world. Kaln’s vague intention of find a way to hold together made reality itself resonate around him like a struck gong.

And it started to work! Not very well; the process did not stop, but it slowed. It was clear he had not the mastery of this condition to get good results from it, but thinking it alone helped affix him a bit more firmly in creation.

His next discovery was that bending reality to his will invited attention.

They focused upon him, intelligences so vast and overpowering that the mere fact of their interest was a crushing weight. They were everywhere, surrounding and towering over him; Kaln realized he had failed to notice their presence for the same reason a fish doesn’t see the ocean, at least until they noticed him. Expanded as he might be now, well beyond the normal bounds of human perception, he was suddenly aware that he was still a neophyte in this new realm of being, and a nearly impotent one compared to its true denizens.

Four of them, four distinct identities, overlapping and interconnected as they shared both the same physical space and…he couldn’t think of a better way to parse it than “conceptual territory.” They gazed upon Kaln, seeing through every part of his identity. Weighing, and judging.

And he was still, albeit more slowly, unraveling.

Somehow, he could sense that even their attention was helping to hold him together, as if the very fact that they bothered to examine him affixed him in place to enable their effort. He reached out without hands, without words, extending himself toward the source of this attention, silently pleading for help.

In rapid succession, they turned from him. They did not withdraw—he was still swimming in them—but deliberately focused their attention elsewhere, depriving him of it, leaving him adrift to disperse on the wind. The first three within the span of seconds—the last pausing only to focus on him more intently, the act itself buying Kaln a few more moments of cohesion.

Don’t take it personally, kid. It was pure intent, communication unencumbered by delivery, if anything diminished by his own mind’s needs to sort it into words. We can’t afford to get involved with every poor sap who tries this. Ever see what happens to a butterfly if you help it out of its cocoon? Good luck, I’m rooting for you!

And then it too was gone. He knew they were there, all around him, but in the absence of their focus upon him, they were as ephemeral and unapproachable as the sky.

At this point, Kaln could feel that only the active exertion of his own will was keeping him alive, and that it would only hold out for so much longer. In increasing desperation, he fled toward the only safety he could think of. Not by actually moving; in fact, Kaln’s state of being seemed to encompass much of the northern part of the continent by that point, experiencing every atom of the world within but spread almost too thin to experience himself. Rather, he directed his focus, much as he had just seen the gods of the north do, zeroing in on the only sanctuary his fraying mind could conceive:

Home.

And they focused in turn, nine enormous beacons of power and glory, turning to fix their attention the instant they perceived his being calling out to them. He knew them, of course. Under the weight of their combined gaze, he felt himself strengthened, bolstered. Cohesion began to return to him as if actively gathered by the mere fact of their awareness. For just a moment, hope and blissful gratitude filled him.

But then, just as quickly, they cut him off.

Not by turning away, as had their counterparts in the Evervales. A solid wall of their divine will flashed into being, separating Kaln from the benefit of their grace.

You have wandered far from home, son of Rhivkabat. Farther still must you go before you are fit to join us. We do not claim you as our own. That honor must be laboriously earned.

Kaln was left adrift, the surge of despair mercifully fading as his existence began again to fade, spread too widely across the world, too weak to maintain his own ontological weight. He clung to himself desperately, finding no purchase in simple existence and turning instead to memory, to association, anything which called up strong emotions. Inevitably Haktria came to mind, and with her a surge of…

Very little. A whisper of regret, void of the rage which had driven him across the Empire of Rhivaak to this…absolutely absurd end.

And that was it. He tried to focus on minute details of the world around him to ground himself; that didn’t help, as he was seeing the most minute of details from a vast swath of the world already. He tried to concentrate his attention specifically on his own body, but found that whatever kind of consciousness he now was didn’t have those instincts. Oh, the corporeal form of Ar-Kaln Zelekhir was still there, but it was a tiny and not particularly significant patch of the universe. Barely noticeable, certainly not worth noticing.

Well. At least it was a painless way to end. Better than what he’d been destined for, abandoned in a capital jail.

Suddenly, images washed over him, cutting through the emotionless vagueness of his dwindling awareness. The warm sunrise just beginning to banish a night’s chill. Tired feet plodding along the desert and prairie he had navigated to get here from Rhivaak. Searing heat radiating from baked sands, a wind which, warm as it was, came as a relief from the blistering sun.

Memories, things he had experienced. They weren’t coming from within himself, though…

More followed, less familiar. Laughter and meals shared among friends—the images wavered from some kind of campsite and then snapped into place, recalling a tavern not far from the Royal Archives, favored by the scribes who surrounded him in the image. Friends, or at least acquaintances. Tastes of food, starting with strong flavors he barely recognized, also flickering and then adjusting into his own favorite meals.

Universal experiences, fed to him from outside, becoming more specific as they poured into the moulds of his own memories.

Long nights of work, tired eyes drooping. Brawls at—no, Kaln was no brawler even when drunk at the tavern, but scathing battles of insults, those he had won and lost aplenty. Pride and ambition at praise received for work well done. Sex, surging helplessly with Haktria coiled around him… Heartbreak, betrayal, fear and grief. Revenge.

Not all experiences he had wanted to recall, but they were intense and they grounded him. He clung to the pain as the lifeline it was. His identity was coming back together.

Enough that he could risk looking outward again, and found another pressure surrounding him. Like the others, but…softer. Perceiving that he had noticed it, the being gently washed images through his awareness.

A fox scampering across the desert. A woman smiling at him in the subdued light of dawn, or perhaps dusk. Warm campfires against the night, shade forfending the heat of day. Safe trails through the wilderness.

Ideas, concepts. An introduction, he realized belatedly.

Kaln floundered, lacking the mastery of his current state to even manage a reply, but thanks to her intervention his mind was at least cohesive enough again that he could think in terms of…well, thoughts. Even words.

Travelers should help one another in the wild, the warm and gentle personality surrounding him sent into his mind. The act of sorting meaning from the purposeful wash of sensation and emotion helped ground him further still; more and more he was becoming himself again. You’ve a long way to go, young wanderer. Do not try to go alone. And when you have grown wiser and stronger, remember what you owe to the kindness of strangers. Make of your own footprints a trail leading others to safety.

For a moment, the presence…intensified, was the only way Kaln could parse the experience. It was pushing firmly against him in contrast to its previously gentle demeanor, its sheer identity weighing on him so hard he felt himself—

He was…retreating, diminishing. Returning. There was no mortal analogue for the experience; as Kaln felt his grasp of language returning to prominence, he could only find metaphorical ways to express it. In doing so, he realized what had happened. The warm presence that had intervened to save him had just given him a push, a sharp impetus that sent his consciousness back toward where it had come from. The world shrank around him, his awareness of all reality fading, until Kaln was suddenly slammed back into his own body.

To have such a limited perspective felt like being…caged. Mummified, even. The finite constriction of his mortal form pressed on his awareness from all sides, the knowledge of what a vast and deep world lay beyond his skin lingering in memory just out of reach.

He had fallen to his knees on the dais of the Timekeeper arch, caught himself on his hands. All he could see was his own hands and arms, the flat Timestone platform beneath him. Such a limited perspective…such a limited sense vision was. Kaln was gasping, breathing far more heavily after that experience than when he’d climbed the mountain stairs. He could feel his heart pounding, and it was so strange to feel so little beyond that.

But it retreated, the experience he’d just had fading behind him like a recent dream. He was a man, a mortal person, contained in a body, and as his body recovered from the stress inflicted upon it by his soul briefly trying to expand beyond it, his mind regained equilibrium. In just seconds it felt right again, no longer disorienting or alarming to be constrained to two arms, two legs, and a head. Breath and heartbeat evened out. Kaln was himself again—tired, dampened with sweat, still reeling emotionally, but restored.

He raised his head, re-centering himself in his surroundings. Right, the ancient Timekeeper vault; the lair of the dragons. The clean, well-lit space was all around him, the glittering treasures of the hoard in their neat displays, and…

The dragon.

Atraximos the Dread had risen, twisted his great sinuous neck around, and was staring directly at Kaln.