There is a mockery there sowhere.
Fallen were known to rise from sky stones, and here his people were killed by stones—frost or not…stones in the end.
And I am afraid of pain?
Ron protects with his life, and he burns, and I am afraid of aching.
What is my pain to theirs?
They die. I live. They die. I live. Always.
Then what do we say to it? The inner voice said
Not today!
He is taken by pain—soaked in it. Breath is aningless; it calms nothing. The world is a mash of colors…What was he doing? Sothing surely. He was saving them…How?
Whatever it was—it hurts. He wants it to stop, but he doesn't. He wants to rest, but he chooses not to. What is a man who chooses pain over peace? What is a man whose tears steam in fury so others don't?
He is El'shadie.
rrin reminds himself.
I am El'shadie. I am the sunBringer!
And now he sees—for a mont, he sees. Davos stands to the side, head buried in his legs. Stone falls around him, but a wave of sudden wind batters them away. A mont, and Froststones burn with a mad brilliance in the hall—blinding. Davos slowly rises. A woman is in front of him, trapped under stone. He reaches for her, looks up, screams, and jumps away.
She is crushed by fallstone. Dead.
rrin cries within. More pain. But he holds on. Save those you can. Save anyone. Anything. Save. Save. This is what he must do. But he will rember. He vows within…Oh, he will never forget…
Not once.
Not ever.
He will rember the ti he could not save them all. And never again would it happen.
Ron falls beside him, and the boulder tumbles to the side. Where it went seed important, but not now. rrin feels the air knocked out of him. Ron. Ron. Ron was down. He is silent, breathless, no motions, just a slab of flesh. Muscular but still flesh. Dead flesh.
His thoughts go silent, and a primal urge roars within him—he feels it in his fingertips, in his toes, in his eyes. Body screaming defiance at what lay before him. Ron, dead? What a joke!
What a cruel, worthless, stupid joke!
rrin whispers against the chaos. "I refuse."
But the body symbols cannot be casted—logic batter him. Humans cannot be cast with such power.
"Then he won't be human!"
rrin recalls the fur beasts of saitan. Those powerful, resilient creatures. They were nonhumans. They were strong, and they lived despite the heat of the world.
A beast is what I need!
The world greys before him—blurring into that swirling mass of incomprehensible shapes, words, and light. He cares for no weakness. He rejects it. He cares nothing for the resistance of the symbols.
Let it all be damned!
All that matters is Ron. Moeash was gone…not Ron. Never Ron.
It is said the symbols are events—situations, occurrences. Forms of monts. Now he wants such for Ron. He imagines a creature. A vast towering thing of red strong legs, thick skin against the roaring fire. Red eyes to see the darkness. Massive. A maw to bite through all things.
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A mighty creature.
One that would not die.
I am El'shadie. I can create mountains from nothing…So now must I create again.
Sothing beats in the greyness, like a heart. He is unsure of it, but it is violent. Rippling red through the grey. It is power. It is vermilion. It flashes past him and falls into Ron. His eyes snap open. For a mont, they are scarlet, then they are not.
rrin is glad, then there is a warmth in the despair as he realizes a fragility. Fault. He had done sothing wrong. What it was, that was unknown. But he knew. Ron touches his body, confused, slight fear in his eyes.
I have done sothing to the kind man.
More screams fill the cave, and rrin accepts its distraction. He stands, stumbles. Ron grabs hold of him, whispers sothing, but his words are a growl. Not that it mattered, not now at least.
Now?
rrin opened the complete dam of force, watching it tide through the greyness. All things are dominated by them. And the wind listened attentively. Most are protected already, this he does while fueling their stones with force. No more deaths. Those that burn suddenly stop—there is startlent in their actions. Confusion. They look around, still inflad, but the pain hurts no more.
This, rrin achieved by stirring the wind beneath the flas. They wouldn't see it; A small barrier of air shielded against the fire. That was good. That was enough for now. He speaks with heightened tones. "Co!"
They turn to him.
He moves ahead, Catelyn lives behind him, siding Ron. Following is the rest of the living, most burning with furious fire, yet alive. It is an eerie thing. A man, leading a company of glowing n.
There is silence in the journey, and rrin is a thing of agony. Weakness steps closer as he does—force near depleted by the multicasting. But he must hold on. Soon, they reach a stone block. He waves, and it is gone. Blown away by a tempest.
rrin steps in, falls to his knees. He is very tired….But he must continue. So he crawls. Step by step, the El'shadie crawls forward. He is unsure how long it has been, but a hand rests on his shoulder and speaks to him: "Rest now. You have saved them all." It is a lodious tone—a woman.
It was good. rrin feels warm to it, so he smiles, falls, and says, "I'm glad."
This darkness he welcos happily.
Several records now show the unknown complexities of the symbol. How so, you wonder? Possibility: Explain why spaceRunners have bluish hair, or why the bladesworns have pale skin, tallic eyes. There is a corruption in the symbols. The more one casts, the more the symbols infect them. This, I believe, is the reason why so symbols beco uncastable after years of another—letter to the cos of the east.
The first sound is the mourning of n—a dull whimper. There is laughter too, weak rry. But the fact of its presence breeds joy. rrin is happy, in darkness, but happy. He wants to et them—to see his people. But the pain mocks his attempts. It laughs at him—blas him for the currentness. How simple it would have been to run—spare himself from the tornt.
He is tired of rebutting. One desire remains: Rest. Glorious serenity. That is eluded from him. Awareness has now beco a curse. He is cognizant of all things: the chatter, motions of rocks, breaths, and foot scuffings. He knows. Oh lord, he knows. This is existence.
Pain and awareness. Both a couple of the other. He wants none of it. Again, he is denied that desire. Madness. He thinks. This is madness. His body is that of slitting pain—it is ever present like the sure storms. From the legs to the head—one whole of severity.
He feels the cold tears over his cheek, chilly. They should have stead by now, but they don't. This he attributes to the froststone. Halo! He knows his people alive. Glee burns with pain, canceling out. What a feeling.
A hand touches his skin, cold, then sothing else does. Chilly, wet fabric—it slls like Musk. rrin startles, grits next as the cloth rubs over his chest. Intense pain strikes into his awareness, and he is static. The mind buzzes, and thoughts fly around, frenetic. He feels the end has co, and it cos in the form of a rag.
Almighty above.
The rag drags over his neck, wet, moistening the open wounds. Didn't they know doing this was idiotic? Then he realizes his people as simple darkCrowns. Not many lived harsh lives to require such knowledge. Still, he is bitter at the pain and the doer.
Moeash was gentler than this.
Maybe they heard him, but the rag presses hard. He wants to die. Then it stops. And thought returns like trickling water. Slowly. Where did they even get water from? He considers, but is distracted by a dull humming.
It surrounds him, he hears it. Many. n and won circle him and hum a tune. It is an unknown song, one sung from the throat. Reverberating through the body, casting the illusion of trembling earth.
They stop and roar high in that deep baritone. His bones quiver, he thinks. What was that song? He wonders—it cos again. He is lifted, feels that way. Mind cleared of the fog. Pain remains, but it is distant, as though a wall of power stands between it and him.
The song.
It is magical…he thinks. He hopes, but he knows it is not. But rrin chooses to accept it; the opposite breaks the illusion, and the pain returns. Let it be what it is. They continue for a while, then there is a cough, another, and another. They stop soon after.
Naturally.
Throat singing was hard enough with wet throats; how was one to achieve it with a dry throat? Yet he is glad. This they did for him. rrin opens his eyes—Catelyn is over him, squeezing rag over his face. Water is falling.
Hmm?
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