Passage Ch.3 Coren's Name
Summary: Life is a journey with snapshots kept in your memories
Takes place after Coren/Alfred has woken up in the mausoleum on Arianus. Coren/Alfred is not thinking very clearly.
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Exhausted from grief and dehydration Coren stumbled and crawled down white, blank and empty corridors. Sigils glowed softly as he passed, casting shadows to mar the seamless surfaces of the wall and ceiling. “Away!” he shouted at them frantically, “Lead me away!” The clean and pure walls swallowed up his voice, deafening him with silence.
There! The floor was leading up to seamless wall highlighted with sigils. A mensch would have thought it a dead end, but Coren staggered up to it and hastily sketched out a few symbols, forcing the words out with a cracked and hoarse voice. The door melted away, leaving pure noise to batter against his body. He swayed, and then spread his arms as he lurched out into the driving rain and wind. Behind him the door reappeared, inside droplets of water were sprinkled across the floor.
Coren could not see through the darkness and rain, and even if he could it wouldn’t have mattered since his eyes were clenched shut. The wind drove him back and forth, his feet twisted and pushed by the uneven ground he swayed and zig-zagged his way across.
Blindly, mindlessly he lost himself in the storm until he ran into something solid and upright. Falling down he opened his eyes in surprise only to squint them when the rain drove into them. There was a wall before him, colorless and flat in the dim lighting. Coren rose and followed it, running his hand along the wall to guide him. The cold metal of a doorknob pressed into his hand and he fumbled over the slick metal before managing to turn it and push the door open. The wind swept him inside along with a deluge of rain. Slipping and sliding across the smooth floor Coren crossed the vast space. It was no quieter inside than it had been out in the storm.
Suddenly sensing another’s presence he swung around in sudden, irrational hope. A statue stared disapprovingly at him. Of course, the entrance to the private dwellings below the ground. The statue slumbered as its eternal guardian but Coren somehow knew that if he came too close it would spring awake and pull him down to sleep with the rest of his race.
Shuddering, he flailed his way to the opposite side of the room and pressed against the cold hard wall. Distantly he could hear a muffled clanking and rumbling and he swung back around half expecting- but no, the statue hadn’t moved. A door to the side had, however. The shining flat sheet of metal swung open on silent hinges. From behind it clumped a short broad shadow.
Coren stared in astonishment. A dwarf? A dwarf! Their low grumbling voices added themselves to the noise cluttering the air. They were still here, still alive, and he suddenly wondered if the elves and humans were up above living and fighting and dying even now.
They caught sight of him and stared, astonished. One scrubbed hard at his eyes while the other stuttered, “Who- what- how-”
Lowering his hand from his eyes the other dwarf stared hard and then asked in disbelief, “A… human?”
“Where are your masters?” demanded the other.
“M-masters?” Coren stared wildly at the dwarves before him. “The Sartan? There are Sartan here?” He ran forward and latched onto his shoulders. “Where? Where are they? Is- is that why I woke up? Oh blessed Sartan why didn’t they come sooner?”
The dwarves slowly turned to eye each other. The human certainly seemed as excitable as the stories described his race. “They’re… up there. The next Tribute isn’t for some time yet.”
“Up?” Coren asked, and then his gaze followed the dwarves pointing finger up to the ceiling. He blinked at the pipes crisscrossing it; had those been there before?
“Oh- one of the other islands?” Coren shrugged. Calling on his learned as well as innate knowledge of rune magic he pictured the structure- the possibility that he was with the other Sartan on Arianus. He sang the runes with voice and hands and feet. He could feel the magic take hold, draining energy out of him along with the fading room. The walls that blurred into focus in front of his eyes were white. Stark white. Impossibly white. Blue runes were flaring, lighting the crypt once more.
Coren swayed, feeling weak and drained. The room spun around him as he ran through rows of beautiful coffins. “Where are you?” he screamed. “Answer me!” He tripped and fell on top of one of the clear lids. There was a woman sleeping inside of it. He traced a sigil- the possibility that the Sartan inside was awake. The magic wouldn't take. The woman inside- with pale skin and brown hair, dark eyelashes and red lips- was dead. His magic had brought him to the other Sartan on Arianus. The others had never come.
One of the sigils on the wall close by flared, turning the glass reflective and Coren saw a stranger in the reflection once more. He spun, looking for another person down in the mausoleum with him, but no, a dead room swung before his eyes. He turned, stared down at the man. He was pale and emaciated, wrinkles crinkled at his eyes and mouth. His lips were trembling. This... this was him. The other Sartan slept in eternal beauty. His voice, hoarse and trembling spoke, almost without his permission, “No wonder those Dwarves thought I was human. What Sartan... what Sartan looks like this?” He raised his head blearily, spotted the open casket that he had crawled out of, and suddenly drawn toward it, stumbled to its side.
It looked the same as the others, except that it was open and empty. “Why… what was different? Why did I live to age?” he whispered to its empty pale depths. “Why was I… chosen? Chosen. Coren. My name.” The symbols that spoke his name meant “chosen” in the Sartan language. For a moment he stared in disbelief at the casket meant for him, then, he screamed in denial. “No! I am not chosen, I am not Coren. No!” He tore himself away and again took the stumbling, dizzy passage to the fierce eternal storm roaring on Drevlin. Unlike the first time, the route seemed to take no time and Alfred once again stumbled out into piercing winds. Unlike before, however, there was no rain and a ray of light was filtered through from above. He glanced up and saw that there was a rapidly closing gap in the clouds.
Looking across the horizon he was startled to see a totally alien landscape. The machine had contorted itself and the land into odd and incomprehensible shapes never intended by the Sartan. “Never intended by the Sartan.” Coren could feel hysterical laughter bubbling up. “We didn’t intend anything that happened.” Looking into the distance he could see the distorted and twisted, barely recognizable, central building, where he had been with the dwarves not so long ago. “What else has changed?” he wondered.
Takes place after Coren/Alfred has woken up in the mausoleum on Arianus. Coren/Alfred is not thinking very clearly.
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Exhausted from grief and dehydration Coren stumbled and crawled down white, blank and empty corridors. Sigils glowed softly as he passed, casting shadows to mar the seamless surfaces of the wall and ceiling. “Away!” he shouted at them frantically, “Lead me away!” The clean and pure walls swallowed up his voice, deafening him with silence.
There! The floor was leading up to seamless wall highlighted with sigils. A mensch would have thought it a dead end, but Coren staggered up to it and hastily sketched out a few symbols, forcing the words out with a cracked and hoarse voice. The door melted away, leaving pure noise to batter against his body. He swayed, and then spread his arms as he lurched out into the driving rain and wind. Behind him the door reappeared, inside droplets of water were sprinkled across the floor.
Coren could not see through the darkness and rain, and even if he could it wouldn’t have mattered since his eyes were clenched shut. The wind drove him back and forth, his feet twisted and pushed by the uneven ground he swayed and zig-zagged his way across.
Blindly, mindlessly he lost himself in the storm until he ran into something solid and upright. Falling down he opened his eyes in surprise only to squint them when the rain drove into them. There was a wall before him, colorless and flat in the dim lighting. Coren rose and followed it, running his hand along the wall to guide him. The cold metal of a doorknob pressed into his hand and he fumbled over the slick metal before managing to turn it and push the door open. The wind swept him inside along with a deluge of rain. Slipping and sliding across the smooth floor Coren crossed the vast space. It was no quieter inside than it had been out in the storm.
Suddenly sensing another’s presence he swung around in sudden, irrational hope. A statue stared disapprovingly at him. Of course, the entrance to the private dwellings below the ground. The statue slumbered as its eternal guardian but Coren somehow knew that if he came too close it would spring awake and pull him down to sleep with the rest of his race.
Shuddering, he flailed his way to the opposite side of the room and pressed against the cold hard wall. Distantly he could hear a muffled clanking and rumbling and he swung back around half expecting- but no, the statue hadn’t moved. A door to the side had, however. The shining flat sheet of metal swung open on silent hinges. From behind it clumped a short broad shadow.
Coren stared in astonishment. A dwarf? A dwarf! Their low grumbling voices added themselves to the noise cluttering the air. They were still here, still alive, and he suddenly wondered if the elves and humans were up above living and fighting and dying even now.
They caught sight of him and stared, astonished. One scrubbed hard at his eyes while the other stuttered, “Who- what- how-”
Lowering his hand from his eyes the other dwarf stared hard and then asked in disbelief, “A… human?”
“Where are your masters?” demanded the other.
“M-masters?” Coren stared wildly at the dwarves before him. “The Sartan? There are Sartan here?” He ran forward and latched onto his shoulders. “Where? Where are they? Is- is that why I woke up? Oh blessed Sartan why didn’t they come sooner?”
The dwarves slowly turned to eye each other. The human certainly seemed as excitable as the stories described his race. “They’re… up there. The next Tribute isn’t for some time yet.”
“Up?” Coren asked, and then his gaze followed the dwarves pointing finger up to the ceiling. He blinked at the pipes crisscrossing it; had those been there before?
“Oh- one of the other islands?” Coren shrugged. Calling on his learned as well as innate knowledge of rune magic he pictured the structure- the possibility that he was with the other Sartan on Arianus. He sang the runes with voice and hands and feet. He could feel the magic take hold, draining energy out of him along with the fading room. The walls that blurred into focus in front of his eyes were white. Stark white. Impossibly white. Blue runes were flaring, lighting the crypt once more.
Coren swayed, feeling weak and drained. The room spun around him as he ran through rows of beautiful coffins. “Where are you?” he screamed. “Answer me!” He tripped and fell on top of one of the clear lids. There was a woman sleeping inside of it. He traced a sigil- the possibility that the Sartan inside was awake. The magic wouldn't take. The woman inside- with pale skin and brown hair, dark eyelashes and red lips- was dead. His magic had brought him to the other Sartan on Arianus. The others had never come.
One of the sigils on the wall close by flared, turning the glass reflective and Coren saw a stranger in the reflection once more. He spun, looking for another person down in the mausoleum with him, but no, a dead room swung before his eyes. He turned, stared down at the man. He was pale and emaciated, wrinkles crinkled at his eyes and mouth. His lips were trembling. This... this was him. The other Sartan slept in eternal beauty. His voice, hoarse and trembling spoke, almost without his permission, “No wonder those Dwarves thought I was human. What Sartan... what Sartan looks like this?” He raised his head blearily, spotted the open casket that he had crawled out of, and suddenly drawn toward it, stumbled to its side.
It looked the same as the others, except that it was open and empty. “Why… what was different? Why did I live to age?” he whispered to its empty pale depths. “Why was I… chosen? Chosen. Coren. My name.” The symbols that spoke his name meant “chosen” in the Sartan language. For a moment he stared in disbelief at the casket meant for him, then, he screamed in denial. “No! I am not chosen, I am not Coren. No!” He tore himself away and again took the stumbling, dizzy passage to the fierce eternal storm roaring on Drevlin. Unlike the first time, the route seemed to take no time and Alfred once again stumbled out into piercing winds. Unlike before, however, there was no rain and a ray of light was filtered through from above. He glanced up and saw that there was a rapidly closing gap in the clouds.
Looking across the horizon he was startled to see a totally alien landscape. The machine had contorted itself and the land into odd and incomprehensible shapes never intended by the Sartan. “Never intended by the Sartan.” Coren could feel hysterical laughter bubbling up. “We didn’t intend anything that happened.” Looking into the distance he could see the distorted and twisted, barely recognizable, central building, where he had been with the dwarves not so long ago. “What else has changed?” he wondered.