Merrin did not care for the title. He gazed upon the crowd surrounding him—their beautiful, skinny faces, filled with purity. He loved it so much. Who knew that seeing such faces would bring him such joy? Who knew, indeed?
They were so beautiful to him; his little treasures. The ones he protected, and the ones who protected him. Invaluable, all of them.
Ah… A breath escaped his lungs, one that had seemed trapped there for the longest time. He had done it. He was relieved. He was no jinx; he was a savior, wasn't he?
He looked at them again, white light cascading over their forms, and as he inhaled, he finally did it. He smiled—a warm, unrestrained smile of pure delight. So happy he was. So, joyous. And so fulfilled.
Then came the darkness. Pain crashed over him in a wave. But Merrin felt nothing. Instead, he closed his eyes, surrendering to it. If he were to die here, then truly, it was enough. Nothing needed to be added—be it damnation or the almighty, he was content.
The blackness took over, flooding his gaze. He tumbled, but a hand held him; the weak hands of the young Moeash. An odd name, but a powerful one. Merrin found himself resting in those arms, allowing himself to sink into them.
Voices were calling out to him—some calling him the sun, the savior, the sunBringer. Odd. He did not truly bring the sun as the title suggested. He was just an Ashman…
An ashman who saves…
"Ah! This El'shadie!" a clear voice exclaimed.
But Merrin couldn't care. His mind had slipped into darkness, consciousness fading into an exhausted slumber. He was finally at peace.
And again, he dreamt.
It was a simple dream… clear yet blurred. A figure, clad in dark rags, plummeted into an endless chasm, silhouettes running towards the edge, ready to aid. However, they froze to a phrase. Words that sounded distant, illusory—like the screech of a thousand voices.
Merrin was a bystander to all this, an unseen witness from a privileged seat. He saw it all, smelled the iron in the air, and even felt the heat of the chasm. But above that, he was banished from any interaction. Hence, he could only observe.
The figure fell deeper into the abyss, the wind whipping violently against their clothes. Yet then… just then… a white radiance suddenly surged from him, flooding the darkness with a furious yet calming brilliance.
The light pierced outward, reaching the highest peaks… a glorious, unyielding radiance that seemed to cry out the hearts of men. It seemed like the light of a nascent sun, powerful but primal.
"Call for us when you desire!"
—Recorded and transcribed from Saint Adalbert's personal journals, twenty years before the event.
Merrin's eyes opened—not to the pain of burned flesh but to the itching of healing wounds. Faint sounds grew clear, and cognition returned within.
He was propped against a wall—dangerous, perhaps—but strangely, the heat did not matter. Probably, some cloth lay between him and the scorching surface. And despite his fatigued state, guessing the progenitor of the idea was hardly difficult.
But that didn't matter now as before him, a gathering of men and women sat, their gazes fixed with pure reverence.
They seemed to be awaiting something… almost like a sermon.
I'm no aspirant. he attempted a quip.
It failed.
However, as his gaze met theirs, a wave of relief rolled through them. Many tried to crawl closer, only to be restrained by others. Slaves acting like Guards? Were they guarding him?
So strange.
Understand your role, but never revel in it.
He attempted to move—pain flared in response.
"Ma'rim, don't." A hand pressed against his chest, nearly covering the froststone embedded there. Merrin looked down. A large hand, soft yet strong, covered to the sleeve by dark cloth.
Ron?
He traced the hand to its owner—a towering figure, broad-shouldered with dark hair, round eyes, and a full beard streaked with white. The man smiled, warmth in his expression.
Merrin exhaled softly. "Ma'rim," he murmured. Then, glanced at Ron's other hand—both were bare.
The giant of a man waved dismissively. "Ah, this right now." He said, "You are truth. I have seen… Ah, sorry, I hear these things, but I know it's true. Always. I saw and knew."
Merrin did not fully grasp the meaning behind those words. Most of what Ron said bordered on gibberish. But of course, it was the fault of his troubling accent, one not even his clan seemed to share. Had he developed it himself?
Possibly. But Merrin chose not to point it out. Instead, he simply smiled. "Alright."
"…Uhm… Ma'rim, too." A familiar voice sounded from his left—warm, tentative. Merrin turned. Moeash was there, gently running a damp rag over his stomach. Odd… he hadn't noticed it until now….But somehow, he wasn't surprised about it either.
"Ma'rim," Merrin said, smiling, then shifting his gaze to the expectant faces surrounding him, he thought to himself. What am I to say to them? A lie?
No.
These people, saved not by cowardice, did not deserve falsehood. Yes, he had spoken one before, failing as an Ashman—but redemption existed, did it not? This would be his.
He took a breath, throat parched. "You have seen, have you not? You saw as I saved you from death…" He leaned forward, pain scorching across his skin. "Then watch now in this manner as I continue to do so."
"We have seen!" the crowd roared, some rising to their feet, fists pumping into the air.
"We have witnessed the sun! The light!" Some voices rang out in exultation while others remained silent, observing.
Not all shared the same reverence, but that was irrelevant. Merrin did not seek their worship. He was content with saving them—no more, no less. It was to be his penance now.
He leaned back, feeling the expected cloth between himself and the wall.
"This good," Ron murmured. "So you accept truth?"
Truth? What truth? Merrin looked at the crowd…Them? He shook his head; Ron should add more words to what he says.
Regardless, he offered a simple nod, one that seemed to be a response to Ron. In any case, Merrin was fine… He had obtained what he sought, everything was as it should be. All he had to do was watch over them, shield them, remain with them… less.
He scowled.
Merrin could feel it—that pit of despair still seething inside him. And with it came the certainty that if these men and women were to fall, he would shatter. Not like Liem's death, no… These, who had risen from the ruins of his downfall, they were his…
Their deaths would unmake him… And he could not live for that. No, he would not.
He exhaled, pressing his back harder against the wall, his gaze sweeping over the cramped cave. Only a handful of froststones remained. Perhaps they needed more. His gaze moved before pausing on the white lamp humming softly against the wall—not at the base, but hanging just there, suspended in place. And it gleamed.
Alone, the lamp bathed the entire room in brilliance unlike anything he had ever witnessed, not in the mountains or Nightfell. Its stark whiteness poured into every crevice, driving away the lingering shadows.
And they claimed he was the one who had made it so….
How did I do that?Because of the El'shadie? Or perhaps because I'm a caster? So strange. In a short while, I have become many things. Merrin glanced back at the gathering, their hushed voices melding into a collective murmur. I hear latent casters can snap after an extreme situation. Does surviving a lightning strike qualify? Probably… But am I one of them?
His gaze trailed to the towering figure beside him, still wearing that same reverent smile. He carried the air of an aspirant.
Do I ask Ron? No, doing so would reveal this…and what would happen if it turns out to be true? Would they be taken from me? Merrin looked back to the crowd. Casters have to fight the fallen, right? So I would be taken. They would steal me from these people for that reason…Then no. I can't tell him. I ca'—
"Merrin Ashman!" a voice, soft akin to flowing wind, spoke. Its arrival heralded the presence of a woman draped in black, her face concealed beneath a matching veil. She stood motionless at the mouth of the cave, a beacon of fate itself, a reaper poised to claim him.
They say I caused this… then a Gresendent sister must have witnessed it! Merrin's heart hammered wildly. No, they won't take me!
He groaned, planting his legs firmly on the ground, palms pressing against the dirt. He struggled to rise, but the pain was merciless. Ron and Moeash caught him by the sides, the former murmuring quiet words of caution, urging restraint.
But if he backed down, they would take him. So he had to be strong, imposing—not feeble.
The Gresendent sister raised her hand—a dampening hand, he believed they called it. "No need for it." She said, "Seat your ground, it would seem you have conquered the earth."