Rorri

　　Rorri was sure he had died. The pain of whatever he just did consumed him, his blood and his flesh and even his hair - all that made Rorri himself went up in flames. He felt his own cremation from its agonizing start to its strange, numb finish. He couldn`t hear himself scream. The heartbeat thrummed all around him, as if blood was what he had to breathe.

　　When Rorri opened his eyes, he saw everything exactly as he had seen it before - the forest, the light-silhouettes - but it was stark and tinted deep red. He watched the guards gape at him, or at the place where he used to be. Their mouths moved, but all he heard was ringing in his ears. The reinforcements arrived, their weapons drawn and ready, only to freeze and stare in the same way. His manacles were on the floor, no longer binding his wrists. He didn`t understand it.

　　Nobody understands it&

　　The magic-hating guard was right about that. He chuckled. He was tired, deliriously tired, and that made it funny, even though nothing was really funny. But he quickly realized he couldn`t stay there. He had no idea how long magic like this would last, or if they`d find a way to detect him. He hobbled upright, this time passing through the guards` naked light-bodies, feeling their warmth seep into his skin. It felt like the warm rim of a chamber pot that someone else had just used.

　　He kept his grip on the weapon tight, no matter how badly it hurt, no matter how much he hated it. It was what had uprooted him from the world, and he was sure he needed it, if only to get back to reality. But he still had no sense of geography. He was still stumbling around in the forest. He still couldn`t see his prison cell`s walls. There was no discerning north from south, east from west. He couldn`t even trust if the forest`s inclines and pitfalls matched what really went on in the world - in fact, he was certain they didn`t.

　　I`m sure there`s ladies up on the Plateau dyin` fer a bloke to pay er a visit with a spensive setta knives like that&

　　He had to get to Shacia& but how?

　　Rorri scoffed and shook his head. Right. Magic. But he was so damn tired, so utterly depleted, he had nothing left to collect, nothing left to evoke. He used up his desperation to get to that strange, bloody space, and he didn`t even know how to get back. It was too much. He sat back down, legs trembling and weak. He just wanted to go to sleep. How long had it been since he really slept?

　　Something tugged his chest, as if a cord were tied around his heart and someone at the other end had given it a gentle pull. It even moved him, just barely - just enough to make him teeter. He looked in that direction, but he couldn`t see anything except the scattered forest trees, the fungus crawling up their trunks, the flowers dripping from their branches, the leaves fluttering like butterflies, all of it stained red with blood.

　　Come on, Rorri, figure it out&

　　Rorri blinked. Her voice was distant, barely a whisper - an echo of a whisper, strangled by the heartbeat in his ears - but still, he could hear it.

　　I know you`re smart enough&

　　Did she know that he could hear her?

　　Goddammit&

　　I never should have called him an idiot.

　　He`s too smart& too smart for his own good&

　　No& Clearly not.

　　&my fault&

　　She was getting quieter. He wanted to chase the sound, he wanted to find her so badly, but wanting was never enough. She taught him that in their first lesson - Thinking about doing something has little to do with actually doing it - and he couldn`t do it. He just couldn`t.The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.

　　Rorri&

　　Come here!

　　Her voice swelled again. He chortled, remembering the same lesson - But, if I say to you, Rorri, stand up,` - and then she flashed her crazy eyes at him - Your reaction, if you respect or fear me, will be to stand, without questioning. He did respect her, and she still frightened him in a way. But it wasn`t a matter of questioning. He was just so tired. And she said it herself, a tired magician is a terrible magician&

　　One guard remained, watching the cell, a bright yellow statue of fear. The rest had scrambled away, searching for him. The poor guards on duty& He couldn`t imagine they`d retain their positions after this.

　　Come here!

　　He heard her clearly. He wished he could do as she wanted.

　　COME HERE!

　　Her shouting turned desperate. He`d never heard such pain in her voice, but it was more than just pain, so much more. He couldn`t begin to pick it apart. Still, he found himself chuckling again. It sounded like she was commanding a disobedient dog. His mantra played in his head: I am not a pet dog. I am not&

　　Goddammit&

　　What am I doing&?

　　Trying to reach me, he thought, and she hadn`t failed in that. But how could she understand what the problem really was? He couldn`t see. He was lost. If he had a path, he would follow it without question, no matter how shaky his legs were. If he had to crawl his way there, he would. But he didn`t have a path.

　　I hope&

　　Hope. That was his third word, when she asked him what magic is, the first day they met. Hope - As if to say, I hope this works`. Yes. I love it. Force, secrets, and hope...

　　He missed her so much. He missed her honesty, the way she refused to mince her words. Even when she scolded him, he knew she did for a purpose, never to make him feel bad or make herself feel better. She only wanted to teach him. He missed her playful illusions, her tricks and practical jokes. Even when it annoyed him, it always made her laugh, and he loved that sound more than any other in the world. He loved the way she talked when she cared deeply about something - magic or cats, her two favorite things - she could go on forever, and he`d let her. He loved her droopy eye, her pinched face, her spooky veins, everything that made her hard for a coward to look at. He wished he had looked at her more before he lost his sight, but he was a coward too. He wished he could have done her portrait with her there to model. He wanted to perfect her curves and angles, immortalize her image, but he was such a goddamn coward, and it was too late. He loved her so much, he couldn`t bear to dwell upon it any further. He never even told her. Why didn`t he just tell her?

　　Rorri had tears left to give after all. He was in so much pain. They had broken him, beaten him, burned him, made him suffer for suffering`s sake. Everything hurt, and all he could do was sit and cry and make wishes and feel terrible, alone in the bloody forest. If he died there, or if he died at the gallows, it amounted to the same thing: one dead Rorri. Perhaps he ought to just end it there, he thought. He had the weapon. It would be easy. And that way, he`d die with his secret intact. Nobody would ever know - except for Adar, but he didn`t count, because for some reason he didn`t care. Rorri never got to tell him how much he loved him either, not soberly at least. Adar took such could care of him, and all Rorri did was disappoint and betray. God knows what consequences his friend faced because of him - for all he knew, Adar was counted as another of the Widow`s` accomplices, beaten and tortured, set up to walk behind him at the gallows. He didn`t deserve that. But Rorri ruined everything he touched, so how could he be surprised? He never should have come to Iridan. He should have just died in the Belethlian fires. That much, he deserved.

　　Rorri held the weapon limply in his lap. For a moment he thought he saw his reflection in the blade, but it vanished when he tried to focus on it, a trick of whatever strange light lit this place. The edge was so sharp, sharp enough to cut through rock, it really wouldn`t take much. And Shacia`s message wouldn`t completely go to waste this way. The weapon could bring him a peaceful end, more peaceful than what he`d find at the gallows. If she knew that this was his only option, she would want it for him too.

　　Rorri tested the weapon on the tip of his finger. He felt its sting like any cut from a guardsman`s sword - a brief, screaming pain, far too intense for such a shallow wound. It drew a bead of blood that fell and soaked into the forest floor, a dark stain on a single red leaf. He hesitated. Peaceful` might not be the right word for it. It would be agonizing. But at least he wouldn`t have an audience. He set the flat of the blade against his wrist, muscles tense and ready to cut, just a twist and pull away from the end. The threads of life that bound his body together were so fragile. It wouldn`t take much at all. He took a deep breath... and sparkling light on the ground caught his eye.

　　It crawled to him from a distance he couldn`t begin to discern, leaving a trail of deliberate turns, jagged up and downs, a hill here, a dip there. As it approached, he saw it illuminate the cold stone ground. He saw the grooves between the stone bricks, the dimples and crevices, worn down from time and so many prisoners` bodies. He even saw the gash where he`d plunged the weapon in, the cracks that bloomed around it. This was his path.

　　Please work&

　　She did it. She figured it out. She was so smart - He couldn`t believe he had doubted her before.

　　"Thank you," he whispered, though he didn`t know if she could hear. He hobbled upright, still clutching the weapon, and took a few shaky steps down his narrow, shimmering, light-painted path.