C'zard's Last Wish
[0] To Lie, a Dream, a Dream of Truth
My entire life has been a lie. I am a lie, I have lived a lie, and I’ve been told nothing but lies. My mother never wanted me, and my father died trying to keep me, oh what irony this soul has known, and lies upon lies, for those statements hold no truth. I know not what came of my childhood, and what anguish brought me to this holding, this hell, this place I have been forced to call my home, but I know from a place deep within my heart – a place my soul does not, could not, will never know – these are lies. Lies built the foundation of my life, but lies are messy things, unsteady, and wilful to collapse ... but they will not destroy me.
Now, how shall one live with honesty?
I will give up my past, and forget the wrongs, and the slander. I will force the truth out of its darkened cave, and bring to light what I should have always known. I will be free of these chains that hold me to this place, and I will find the sun, and begin anew, a path brightened by the world itself – there can be no slur in that.
What lovely thoughts I have in my head, thoughts of freedom and things I have so long longed for, and yet I know – as the lock slides free of the door and as the man garbed in black robes enters the room and as the tiniest ray of light dissipates as the door closes again – I will be here forever.
‘Bring me light and bring me parchment, and bring me no more of this foul bread you call food.’ I rhymed off these familiar words, as I had said them so often, now I knew them as the only words I had ever spoken.
But today was different.
‘If you didn’t keep up like this, the Father wouldn’t see a need to keep you locked away.’ The man spoke softly, as if he cared for me.
‘Bring me light and bring me parchment ...’
‘And no more foul bread, I know.’ I could see the outline of the man, stooped inside the small room, glancing around at the walls he could not see, but knew were swathed with delirious carvings of a man losing his mind.
‘Let ... me ... see her.’ Speaking this ... tongue proved difficult for me still.
‘That is a dangerous request, C’zard.’ Said the man.
‘I want to see her!’
The man rapped smartly on the door – a signal; let me out. ‘I will bring you parchment, and a candle to see by.’ He said, as he stepped out into the light, and disappeared.
‘I want ... to see her.’ I muttered, turning to the black walls, and feeling with my fingertips, the words, the symbols, I had written there.
Dhe’aiYurau us Aim’hew
I woke with a start, my head reeling with pain at the memory. I massaged my temples, relieving a bit of the stress, and bewilderment the dreams always seemed to leave in wake. Yes, I have had this dream many times – reliving the last days of his life by a mere wisp of thought – yes, those who had told me, those who had lied so easily about my past, never knew there was one man who had always known the truth.
[1] And So He Told Me
A predetermined life; an entire existence arranged by the strings of fate. That is hardly a life at all, not knowing what will happen, but still knowing that whatever happens was predestined. But … what if we could know what the Divine Will had foreordained? What if we could take every step knowing exactly where to place the next footfall? What if we could know what would begin the unravelling of our very lives? Would that be a life worth living?
For some, this was the ideal way of life, the so-called righteous path to boundless dictatorship. I am, of course, speaking of the malicious race of Zytica. They were known for their fraudulent tendencies, destructive behaviour beyond my own comprehension. Of the many terrible stories I have heard over the years, I am quite ashamed to say that I share the blood of these vile creatures. Be assured, however, I am not one of them, not truly. I am not of a foolish mind, and would never allow such a simple autocracy to rule over me. If the tales be told true, the zytaen race could not be held in brilliant stature. I must be thankful I was not raised in their time.
I suppose it would be prudent of me to explain why, exactly, I count myself lucky enough that I am only half as psychotic as the stories I have heard.
Every one hundred years or so an oracle was chosen anew; the most talented sorceress who perfected her magic, and who was the first to obtain the title of cleric, was usually the superlative candidate. Her advanced magical aptitude was desirable for perfecting their unremitting spurious illusions of fate. This was her primary, and most important, substantial responsibility. There were, however, numerous other, less significant obligations to occupy the oracle’s endless hours of confinement.
As it is told, becoming the oracle of Zytica was a great honor, and many aspiring clerics dreamed that they would be privileged enough to even be considered. They were, of course, all ignorant to the true meaning of destiny. Their practice of fortune telling was nothing short of cunning manipulation. Ingenious, really, a clever ruse to the undying devotion the king demanded.
I do not believe there are any predestinations in life, but I was not raised to conceive such sentiment, unlike my kin. As they were taught, everything they were preached was to be taken in all seriousness, no matter how absurd the notion. It was their “how-to” control the chaos.
But they are all gone now. The race of Zytica died. All that I would have called kin, slaughtered – although many still desire to refer to it as their extermination day, as if they had rid the world of some sort of vermin. By no account, after all I have been told, do I disagree that the elves did us a tremendous kindness on that day, but I do hold a certain connection to the memory of Zytica. I only wish the many races of Bryeth could hold to their title, of being one-thousand times better than my kin, and hold even a minute amount of respect for a province they had once called a neighbor.
There was only one who survived, but he had uncovered the deception of their untruths many years before the devastation. My father, C’zard, chose exile over the comforting web of lies the people of his church had provided. Unfortunately, he was the only one who saw clearly enough to untangle his soul before it became too entwined within the madness.
C’zard lived for many decades, in the shadows, lost inside his own mind. He tried so hard to discern his rightful path, but forty years of solitude was enough to destroy any person’s amount of sanity. Finally, he had decided that death was his true destiny, the preferable choice to so many more decades of loneliness. He was ready for death’s embrace … but then, he saw her for the first time.
After fifteen years of life documenting scrolls, C’zard’s journals became nothing more than words of delirium. But the day he first laid eyes on her, after twenty-five years of meaningless scrawl, my father’s scrolls became … profound.
There was so much excitement, and love for this woman he had never known, whom he’d only observed from a distance. But there was more than passion behind his words, there was obsession. For five years his entries continued on about this – his – “Dhe’aiYurau us Aim’hew”; his Angel of Beauty.
Then his entries ceased.
I am only to guess what happened. My mother never told me much of my father, only that he was killed by the hand of one of Anik’s Guardsmen.
I was nearly of my fourteenth year, when my mother passed away, and wise enough to piece together what she had been leaving out.
My father was so infatuated with her he could not see reason. He forced himself on her, and for that he was granted release from his tormented life. I do not blame him, for what he did. He could not hide from her what he was, but he only knew that he needed to have her. I know that need, the lust to feel close to someone when all you know is … neglect.
My entire life has been a lie. I am a lie, I have lived a lie, and I’ve been told nothing but lies. My mother never wanted me, and my father died trying to keep me, oh what irony this soul has known, and lies upon lies, for those statements hold no truth. I know not what came of my childhood, and what anguish brought me to this holding, this hell, this place I have been forced to call my home, but I know from a place deep within my heart – a place my soul does not, could not, will never know – these are lies. Lies built the foundation of my life, but lies are messy things, unsteady, and wilful to collapse ... but they will not destroy me.
Now, how shall one live with honesty?
I will give up my past, and forget the wrongs, and the slander. I will force the truth out of its darkened cave, and bring to light what I should have always known. I will be free of these chains that hold me to this place, and I will find the sun, and begin anew, a path brightened by the world itself – there can be no slur in that.
What lovely thoughts I have in my head, thoughts of freedom and things I have so long longed for, and yet I know – as the lock slides free of the door and as the man garbed in black robes enters the room and as the tiniest ray of light dissipates as the door closes again – I will be here forever.
‘Bring me light and bring me parchment, and bring me no more of this foul bread you call food.’ I rhymed off these familiar words, as I had said them so often, now I knew them as the only words I had ever spoken.
But today was different.
‘If you didn’t keep up like this, the Father wouldn’t see a need to keep you locked away.’ The man spoke softly, as if he cared for me.
‘Bring me light and bring me parchment ...’
‘And no more foul bread, I know.’ I could see the outline of the man, stooped inside the small room, glancing around at the walls he could not see, but knew were swathed with delirious carvings of a man losing his mind.
‘Let ... me ... see her.’ Speaking this ... tongue proved difficult for me still.
‘That is a dangerous request, C’zard.’ Said the man.
‘I want to see her!’
The man rapped smartly on the door – a signal; let me out. ‘I will bring you parchment, and a candle to see by.’ He said, as he stepped out into the light, and disappeared.
‘I want ... to see her.’ I muttered, turning to the black walls, and feeling with my fingertips, the words, the symbols, I had written there.
Dhe’aiYurau us Aim’hew
I woke with a start, my head reeling with pain at the memory. I massaged my temples, relieving a bit of the stress, and bewilderment the dreams always seemed to leave in wake. Yes, I have had this dream many times – reliving the last days of his life by a mere wisp of thought – yes, those who had told me, those who had lied so easily about my past, never knew there was one man who had always known the truth.
[1] And So He Told Me
A predetermined life; an entire existence arranged by the strings of fate. That is hardly a life at all, not knowing what will happen, but still knowing that whatever happens was predestined. But … what if we could know what the Divine Will had foreordained? What if we could take every step knowing exactly where to place the next footfall? What if we could know what would begin the unravelling of our very lives? Would that be a life worth living?
For some, this was the ideal way of life, the so-called righteous path to boundless dictatorship. I am, of course, speaking of the malicious race of Zytica. They were known for their fraudulent tendencies, destructive behaviour beyond my own comprehension. Of the many terrible stories I have heard over the years, I am quite ashamed to say that I share the blood of these vile creatures. Be assured, however, I am not one of them, not truly. I am not of a foolish mind, and would never allow such a simple autocracy to rule over me. If the tales be told true, the zytaen race could not be held in brilliant stature. I must be thankful I was not raised in their time.
I suppose it would be prudent of me to explain why, exactly, I count myself lucky enough that I am only half as psychotic as the stories I have heard.
Every one hundred years or so an oracle was chosen anew; the most talented sorceress who perfected her magic, and who was the first to obtain the title of cleric, was usually the superlative candidate. Her advanced magical aptitude was desirable for perfecting their unremitting spurious illusions of fate. This was her primary, and most important, substantial responsibility. There were, however, numerous other, less significant obligations to occupy the oracle’s endless hours of confinement.
As it is told, becoming the oracle of Zytica was a great honor, and many aspiring clerics dreamed that they would be privileged enough to even be considered. They were, of course, all ignorant to the true meaning of destiny. Their practice of fortune telling was nothing short of cunning manipulation. Ingenious, really, a clever ruse to the undying devotion the king demanded.
I do not believe there are any predestinations in life, but I was not raised to conceive such sentiment, unlike my kin. As they were taught, everything they were preached was to be taken in all seriousness, no matter how absurd the notion. It was their “how-to” control the chaos.
But they are all gone now. The race of Zytica died. All that I would have called kin, slaughtered – although many still desire to refer to it as their extermination day, as if they had rid the world of some sort of vermin. By no account, after all I have been told, do I disagree that the elves did us a tremendous kindness on that day, but I do hold a certain connection to the memory of Zytica. I only wish the many races of Bryeth could hold to their title, of being one-thousand times better than my kin, and hold even a minute amount of respect for a province they had once called a neighbor.
There was only one who survived, but he had uncovered the deception of their untruths many years before the devastation. My father, C’zard, chose exile over the comforting web of lies the people of his church had provided. Unfortunately, he was the only one who saw clearly enough to untangle his soul before it became too entwined within the madness.
C’zard lived for many decades, in the shadows, lost inside his own mind. He tried so hard to discern his rightful path, but forty years of solitude was enough to destroy any person’s amount of sanity. Finally, he had decided that death was his true destiny, the preferable choice to so many more decades of loneliness. He was ready for death’s embrace … but then, he saw her for the first time.
After fifteen years of life documenting scrolls, C’zard’s journals became nothing more than words of delirium. But the day he first laid eyes on her, after twenty-five years of meaningless scrawl, my father’s scrolls became … profound.
There was so much excitement, and love for this woman he had never known, whom he’d only observed from a distance. But there was more than passion behind his words, there was obsession. For five years his entries continued on about this – his – “Dhe’aiYurau us Aim’hew”; his Angel of Beauty.
Then his entries ceased.
I am only to guess what happened. My mother never told me much of my father, only that he was killed by the hand of one of Anik’s Guardsmen.
I was nearly of my fourteenth year, when my mother passed away, and wise enough to piece together what she had been leaving out.
My father was so infatuated with her he could not see reason. He forced himself on her, and for that he was granted release from his tormented life. I do not blame him, for what he did. He could not hide from her what he was, but he only knew that he needed to have her. I know that need, the lust to feel close to someone when all you know is … neglect.
