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Written by Arcahan Sunlight filtered through a dark mat of clouds, painting them with the colors of bronze, brass and gold. It was as if the sky itself had turned into a river of honey, slowly, drowsily making its way far, far above this dark land. Quiet breeze was too weak to hasten the passing of its flow. No gull, no hawk, not even a crow did glide in that vast sea of gold. Just clouds, with their yellow, brown, red and orange trimmings. Where this golden blanket parted enough for the skies above, rays of yellow and silver fell onto the ground. Their brightness was a dazzling contrast to the grey, black landscape they descended upon. One could think that it was the time of dusk, the time of dawn. However, one would only need to take one glance at the desolate view below, and he would know the truth. It was midday, and the sun was dying. Standing on the roof of an enormous, angular building, there was a lone figure. Gentle breeze made his voluminous, soft robes flutter around his frail frame and stirred the ash scattered all around him. His pure white, shoulder-long hair flowed, its silken wisps whipped against his face. Although he was old, there were no visible wrinkles in that face, it was just as smooth and firm as decades ago. The power he served kept him that way. However, it was his eyes that betrayed his true age. The sight he saw horrified him, yet still he stood tall, his left hand clenched around the smooth surface of his ebon staff. His eyes were filled with sadness, yet he shed no tears, for there were no more left. He had already shed them all. His feet ached from long hours of standing, his stomach wailed in its emptiness. All he ever wanted to do was to turn away, to ignore what he was now watching. Yet even so, he did not move. He had condemned himself to witness this sight of destruction. This was to be his punishment. To witness what his inactivity had caused to this world. "I could have prevented this", he mumbled, his words little more than whispers from his dry throat. "My sorcery was rivaled by none. I could have denied this fate." I knew that sooner or later, it would happen. With a sigh he loosened his hold of his staff a little, so that he could slide his fingers over its cool, even surface, seeking for the comfort of the power hidden deep into that polished ebon wood. Instead of blessed, wonderful warmth, he felt just stiff chill. It was gone. The staff was just like almost everything else in this world. Empty. Dying. Or already dead. "All gone", he muttered, tightening his grip of his staff once again, holding it next to himself, supporting its lifeless form like that of a dear friend. Even if it was dead, it was still his staff, and he would not abandon it. Slowly, lazily did the honey-colored clouds move in the sky. It was if they had all the time left in this world. Perhaps they did. At least he could not imagine anyone else in the need of time anymore. For what is time worth, if there is no life to measure it? All ground into ashes and dust, all gone with the wind… Suddenly his ears distinguished a sound he had expected to hear never again. Footsteps! Soft, rhythmic pace, a bit shuffling yet determined to reach the goal. "Charlie?" He asked, his voice little else than a hoarse whisper, "It is you, isn't it." "Aye", came the quiet reply. "You do not sound surprised." Shifting his hold of his ebon staff once again, the sorcerer lowered his gaze at his feet. "I imagine only my worst rival had the power to survive that madness." Lord Charles von Barguest was the most cunning, the most devious, the most parlous of the many enemies he had had in the Court of Sorcerers. Whenever there had been an unexpected and undesired twist at the complicated politics of the wizards, it was von Barguest who had devised it. If there was a sudden leak in the most recent inflammable secret or forbidden information, it was von Barguest who had found it out. To put it short, he was artful, crafty, and very, very dangerous. His snow-white capes flapping in the quiet wind, Charles moved to stand beside his rival. During days long gone, he would have thanked gods for a chance to get so close to his archenemy's undefended back. But now… You need a reason to be someone's enemy. Absently brushing his neatly trimmed, flaming-red beard with his fingers, Charles watched at the view opening before them. No human mind could probably ever truly comprehend the destruction, but just like an ant knows by the instinct that someone has damaged its hive, von Barguest, too, had some sort of terrible intimation of what had happened to this world. "I knew it…" the sorcerer whispered again, his words directed at the feeble wind tugging at their cloaks. He repeated those words again and again, as if humbly admitting his guilt would bring him some sort of salvation. Little hope for that. "Knew what, S'har?" Charles asked after a moment of silence. "That this would come?" A gust of wind tossed a pinch of ash directly into the sorcerer's eyes. Slowly he lifted his hand to wipe his face. He knew that what was left of the world was against him, but he needed his eyes to witness… "Yes. That this would come", S'har finally said. Sadly he lowered his gaze to stare at a spec of ash, looking so lonely in his palm. "I knew it was a mistake to harness the power of the Shan'shee, the Ethereal Beasts." Silence. Absently, without hurry, the clouds moved in the sky. "And you said nothing." Charles gave his rival a glance from the corner of his eye. A shade of a joyless smile crept its way onto his lips. "I knew that you kept something to yourself, S'har. So, I was right after all…" It was a victory over his archenemy. However, it tasted like ash in Charles' mouth. There is no sweetness in victory when there is no prize to claim as your own. "It doesn't matter if it's made of mundane steel or arcane runes", S'har continued. Although every word ached in his dry, sore throat, it felt good to tell someone about this. "No bond can hold the Shan'shee for too long. Sooner or later, they had to break out of our control. And this -- " Weakly he lifted his hand to gesture at the dark and golden landscape before them. The voluminous sleeve of his robe flowed around his slim arm. "-- this is the result of our arrogance… Of my arrogance." Giving his rival a curt nod, Charles folded his arms over his chest. "What happened to the Shan'shee?" "I killed them", S'har replied simply. "What? You?" von Barguest scoffed, aiming a disbelieving glare at his rival. S'har nodded. He did not look at his enemy. Instead, his eyes once again made their way at the beautiful rays of silver and gold, descending from the dark clouds. "I unleashed the White Dragon at them. It killed everything, the Shan'shee, the nightmares, the very magic of our world… Everything…" "The White Dragon…" Charles repeated, turning to look at the view with his rival once again. The city below them was in ruins, nothing but a shriveled, decayed memory of its former glory. The once so beautiful, artistic spires of the Sorcerous Academy now looked more like mummified skeletal fingers, rising against golden, coppery halo of the dying sun. "It's too dangerous, you said, do not touch, you said…" Charles growled. "You liar. You did know how to control that Shan'shee. The White Dragon, the most powerful Ethereal Beast of them all!" "I had to keep something to myself, Charlie." "For good or bad, S'har, you always had to keep something to yourself." S'har nodded again. What else he could do? He was guilty, Charles knew that, by the gods, S'har knew that! There was no sense denying it. "This beautiful world was forged by the hammer of magic…" He swallowed and attempted to moisten his lips with his dry tongue. Speaking was becoming so hard, even a mere whisper sent a wave of pain through his throat. "…and by the hammer of magic, it was shattered." His vision began to blur and darken. Blinking his eyes as if he had just woken from a long sleep, he struggled to keep his sight clear. The once so stable stone roof began suddenly rocking under his feet, back, forth, back, forth… "And who were holding its handle…?" Too much. It was too much. A sickening wave of nausea surged through his entire being, dulled his mind and turned his feet into jelly. His knees, unable to hold his weight a second longer, buckled. His body had reached its limits a long, long time ago. It was not until now that the mind, too, had been forced to acknowledge that fact. "We sorcerers..." His soft robes fluttering behind him, his ebon staff in the iron-grip of his hand, he faltered, stumbled over the edge of the gray roof, and fell… Fell… Fell...
End
Author's notes: Aftermath was originally supposed to be just a simple description exercise among the other works I've been recently been spending my time with. However, soon the tale gained a life of its own and grew up into a neat little story. Hmm… When I look at it now, it really looks like some sort of epilogue -- or an aftermath -- for a greater story… {mumbling} I wonder if I'll return to this subject some day…? Oh well…
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