Vhalar 75th 721
Oberan had sensed it, sure and true.
The hollowing of a gaping hole within him, a void where there previously had been none. A distinct feeling of something now missing. Of loss.
Stuck in Emea, the significance was lost on him at first, unable to witness the repercussions unfold upon Idalos. To understand the ramifications and discern its source, the meaning behind that sudden ache. Though perhaps it was because he wandered aimless within the endless expanse of dreams and nightmares and everything in between that he did feel it at all.
Emea was a funny place, after all. Closer to the realms of the Immortals themselves, tethering them to the mortal plane. A place of possibility where everything could happen, where time and space were meaningless. Where one could get lost by taking but a single step forward on a straight road.
Unpredictable, wild, untamed.
Unbound by whatever force that made Idalos obey the laws of nature.
Alien. Frightening. Dangerous.
Exciting beyond compare.
An infinite playground for a creature craving thrill, who required stimulation and challenge and adrenaline coursing through his veins. Who faded and shriveled in absence of it.
The unbridled chaos capable of satisfying Oberan’s curiosity and hold his fascination hostage, allowing him to wander in awe and wonder like a child in a toy store for the full duration of the three days he’d been here, and quite possibly forever.
But that awful feeling, that yawning abyss sliced right through it all. Sucked everything right up. Supplanting it with cold sweat, icy fingers down his spine, swirling thoughts, and a racing heart (the bad kind).
And it drove him, even though he knew –he knew—he was already too late, nothing he did would change anything, and there was no use in rushing. It spurred him on, ignited the flames of motivation to actively seek a way out. No dawdling, no distractions. Pure, raw focus aimed at a singular goal. Filling him with a sense of dread and apprehension he’d not experienced for a long, long time. Different from those felt in recent memory. A cousin to fear of death or injury or maiming. Of pain or the dark or rotting away in a cell or never amounting to anything. Close, but not the same.
Begging him to make haste. Causing Oberan’s thoughts to race lightning-quick, yet slow as a hypothermic sea slug tunneling through frozen molasses. A frantic flash of colors and lights one moment, a blank white static the next.
Cycling continuously, until eventually, he did make it back.
Spat out on hard cobblestones in a small street between two adobe buildings. Above his head the rooftops nearly touched, blocking any attempts to view the sky. To either side sat gaps leading out of the alleyway, light streaming in. Sound too, bouncing and echoing off the walls. Loud and obnoxious hubbub: footsteps and voices, fragments of conversation and the wails of infants, screeches of overexcited children, and even the thunderous rattling of the occasional cart rolling by –a far cry from the quiet he’d gotten used to in the Shifting City within the Veil. He sidled along the walls towards the closest exit, and spilled into a wide and busy street.
Oberan didn’t need more than a moment to ascertain his current location. The building style and architecture were instantly recognizable, as were the materials used. Houses were large and lavish, and signboards labeled a myriad of residences as shops, offices, and warehouses. In the distance, sitting at the center of the city, loomed the Tower.
Etzos. The Commercial Circle, to be specific.
More or less the exact location he’d set out from, albeit a little too much to the center. However, this wasn’t close to when he’d left. Back then the season was Ymiden. Hot and sunny, with nary a cloud in the sky.
Now the suns hung lower, didn’t scorch the earth with blazing heat, barely peeking through a thick blanket of grey, threatening with rain. The wind came in sudden gales, cold and piercing, playing with dead, crispy leaves. Orange and yellow and brown, swirling in circles, rolling and floating over the cobbles.
Oberan shivered a little. The breeze ignored his clothes, passing right through. His outfit was meant for the hot cycle, and not suited for the current season. Too airy and light, meant to get rid of excess heat rather than hold on to it. He retreated back into the alley, out of sight, and focusing for a few moments, his Mortalborn ability kicked in, switching out his clothes for something more appropriate for Vhalar.
Vhalar…
Llyr’s words once more bounced around his skull, the jocular taunt nurturing worry and anxiety lurking in the dark corners of his mind. Sweat prickled under his armpits and on the small of his back in a sudden flash, body growing hot and cold at once.
”I suspect I could leave you right here and you could be lost for many arcs if so.”
He’d thought he’d wandered Emea and the Veil for three days, maybe seven at best. However, Idalos had moved on to the next cycle in the interim. That much was obvious. However, while the cycles looped around every arc and had their own distinct signs that made them recognizable, the increments of time outside them did not.
Oberan walked up to the nearest person in the vicinity, a well-dressed young mother carrying a babe on her arm, browsing the wares of a local grocery shop. “Excuse me, could you tell me today’s date?”
She gave him a quick look up and down, taking in the quality of his garb, the wildness of his mane and facial hair. A hint of caution in the lines around her eyes. “We’re the seventy-fifth of Vhalar today.”
“And the arc?”
The mother frowned, searched his face for signs of drink or drugs or madness. Oberan didn’t know if she found any. Despite the pause and the suspicious look, she did answer. “Seven-hundred and twenty one.”
The same as he left, Fate be praised.
Almost as an afterthought, Oberan thanked her (the obvious relief on his face causing her eyebrows to quirk in mild confusion), then strode away.
Missing a couple seasons didn’t bother him at all, even if it meant skipping the warmer weather. In fact, now the panic subsided, Oberan’s fear of finding out a decade or more had passed now seemed silly. Idalos always had moved on without him. People aged and grew old, Oberan didn’t. People changed. Oberan didn’t. The world and culture evolved, and Oberan adapted.
Though it certainly did not warrant the panic it evoked, he couldn’t truthfully say he didn’t dread the thought. To amputate the bonds formed with people in this time, in this life. To banish them from his mind, only sparing a thought for them after one too many drinks, or when lying awake at night. To leave behind cities and places he’d come to know inside out, better than even the fastest of friends. Say goodbye to their now-familiar customs and accents and attitudes. To their festivals and delicacies and favored drinks. To everything he adored, to everything he loathed. From the weather to the potholes in the road and the nonsensical idioms.
Because even he grew attached, whether he liked it or not. Because saying goodbye always was painful, regardless of whether the world outgrew him while he wandered Emea, or if his stagnant existence simply couldn’t keep pace with the ever-changing lives of Mortals.
And he wasn’t even that old! He’d only be around for eighty-something arcs. Nothing like others of his kin, who had experienced it for double or even quintuple his lifespan. Oberan couldn’t fathom how bored they must be… or how boring they were to not think much of it, to be content with a cyclical yet static existence.
No wonder the Immortals liked to play games with Mortals. Build up civilizations centered around themselves –talk about an ego—to pit against those of their brethren. Hatch crazy schemes and villainous plots to outwit and outplay the other. Subtly, of course, until that got old, then they simply put on a charade of good versus evil, pointed at those few Immortals who cared little about appearances, and send in armies. Alternatively, if the opportunity arose, they could convince the Mortals of grand perils, of apocalypses and annihilation. Select their champions to send forth, perfect little pawns to throw at whatever issue presented itself, to give some guidance –but not too much—and let them put on a show.
Just sit back, grab a drink, place your bets, and eat copious amounts of popped corn. What fun.
But none of it mattered in the end. For all their power, Immortals could not fight the inevitable. Mortals would grow out of their Immortals like ill-fitting clothes. Grow out of worship and reliance on deities to pray to so they might solve their problems. Someday they’d realize they didn’t need the Immortals, the Immortals needed them. They’d notice that, hey, we’ve been solving their issues all this time, surely we can deal with our own too?
And the Immortals, constant and incapable of change, would be left behind. Relics of the past. Fond memories to ponder, perhaps, great material for bedtime stories, or fables to teach moral lessons.
A frightening thought for a deity used to attention and ego-stroking. They’d combat it by keeping the Mortals stupid and reliant on them, no doubt. Attempt to brainwash them into thinking civilization could not advance without them, that they were indispensable.
Exercises in futility. One could not fight the inevitable. Sooner or later Mortals would realize and fulfill their potential, and no relics of bygone ages could stop it. Slow it down, yes, but no more. They’d have no more say in the events to come, in the shaping of the world.
Though Oberan wouldn’t be around to see it. Such times were not due for a long, long time. Too much to wait through; he didn’t have the patience for it. And, crucially, he didn’t think he could weather slowly fading into obscurity and irrelevance. To be forgotten, rendered weak and powerless and unable to exert any influence on a world you once held in the palm of your hand. To no longer hold sway over your Domains.
An observer incapable of interfering, even a little tiny bit. Not dead, but not truly alive either. Only ever watching, hoping, reminiscing. Stuck in the past, forced into the present.
No truer curse than that.
If he couldn’t live life, as a being with power or without, what use was there in existing at all?
They'd done her a favor, genuinely.
Who even wants to live forever, eh, Mother?
But she likely wouldn't agree.
