As if in stagnant waters, not in a bed—unable to move, unable to scream, not able to free himself of the chains that he has placed upon himself. These stagnant waters are not only a feeling of profound sadness but also the life that he has constructed around himself—claiming that these are the things that he needs to live a happy, fulfilled life.

  What need there really ever was for something so abstract and uncertain as dreams? Such aspirations and desires, he can barely feel them in the normal sense of dreaming. Thus, he dwells in these stagnant waters; he dares not break these chains. Why dream when you can slowly dwindle and wither away while always wondering what could’ve been if you had only set yourself free?

  But to dwindle, to wither, can one accept such a fate? On the ceiling, shadows danced without a stop, or so he imagined; in reality, it was a smooth nothingness—a darkness that embraced him from all around. Neither warm nor cold. Kanrel lay in his bed on his back and stared at that smooth ceiling. On it, he saw a vision of the many ceilings he had stared at in such moods throughout his life.

  Most of them were nearly identical, for it wasn’t really about the ceiling’s substance—its texture or color—but about the thoughts and emotions he projected onto them. This was the thing that differed, yet remained in close relation to a core set of issues that he had dealt with for most of his life by now.

  The moments surrounding those times were filled with reflection and dread as he stared at the ceiling, the wall, or a window. It was not the issues themselves that mattered most, but the life he had then and the person he was. He missed one but not the other.

  He couldn’t really miss the constant call of the void, nor the coldness of existence, and definitely not the regrets of the past. But what he missed were the people that he knew back then. There were so many. And now he couldn’t quite remember them, not how they were, not what they looked like, nor did he have a clue of who they were today, what they would look like, how much older they had grown, or if they were alive at all.

  Dread layered itself upon him. The fear of forgetting and the fear of not remembering remained an overbearing presence above his worries. But this fear of not knowing was the one that screeched above all else—this uncertainty that he wasn’t quite sure about in the sense that he didn’t know if he wanted to know or if ignorance surrounding the lives and the existence of those who you once loved was better than the knowledge of their fates.

  But if memory fades and one day he finds that he can’t remember his mother's voice nor her face, then wouldn’t that be almost as bad as death itself? Then you would have to know; you would have to find out and hope that she still is alive, with the risk of finding out that she has long passed, and with her passing, her memories have died as well, for Kanrel no longer can remember a thing. Just that she once was, nothing more.

  Thus, is it not time to break free from the self-imposed chains of his life? After all, he had truly tried; he had given enough of his time to this part of his life, but what he gives for this shouldn’t be more than what he might lose.

  It was time to go. From one embrace of shadows, he must enter another. It was time to leave this cave behind, or at least try, and reach the sun and its glory. It was time to say goodbye to his friends without telling them that he would never return.

  Kanrel got up from his bed. It was still far too early to really do anything. He channeled magic to a crystal and sat down to write at his desk. He would leave most of these things behind; there were so many journals that he had simply filled. Most of it was text with purpose; most of it related to the work that he, Gor, and Y’Kraun did in this shop.

  But what he opened was a journal with only empty pages; ink had yet to soil its surfaces. No tears, no stains, just a smooth surface upon which he wrote his goodbye; tomorrow they would find it, tomorrow they would read it, and tomorrow they would know that Kanrel had long gone. If they knew that he wanted to do something like this, they would try to stop him, or they would want to go with him. This was the only way.

  “I have fulfilled my promise; I have tried, but I must go. I hope to see all of you one day again, but I doubt we will. So I wish that there is such a thing as an afterlife; maybe we will meet there; maybe we will sit down and talk about everything that has happened between now and then.

  Goodbye, dear friends. Do not follow me into the dark.”

  There was no need for longer words between friends; perhaps less would’ve served the same purpose, but why not give some hope, some desire for a reunion? Why not? They might just be words, but their strength might offer a speck of solace in the vastness of grief.

  This was it then. He supposed, whilst staring at the ink on those otherwise empty pages. It dried and set itself so that it could be read by anyone who desired to find out where Kanrel had disappeared. And when the ink at last had dried, and as if that were the point in which there was no turning back, he sighed, and closed the journal, hiding away his own words. He would not alter them, he could not. What must be done will be done.

  He would travel light, with just a backpack. In it, he packed a blanket, a knife, multiple crystals he could light when necessary, a journal, a pen, some ink, and food and water. What else would he really need? He found himself a hooded cape; he would need it if he would ever reach the world above. Who knows? It might be winter. It might rain. Oh, how he missed the rain. Even the snow. It might be cold and deadly to some, but is there not beauty in that as well?

  Kanrel was ready to go. But he couldn’t. Not just yet, even if it was better to leave now without looking back on the life he would abandon and never reconnect with. This, too, would become like the memory of his mother. A fragment—elusive, barely there. Something you struggle to recall, only to be left in tears when you realize you cannot. And you begin to wonder if it really ever truly happened, or if it was just a dream you once had. A dream indeed.

  He left his room behind, placing the journal—closed—on the table. It was the center of it all, something anyone would be tempted to peek at. After all, who hasn't felt the urge to read another's diary, even knowing it would feel terribly invasive?

  He walked in their shop, an open space more like a restaurant, just one with bookshelves filled with tomes and codices, all filled with knowledge relating to the world above. A mark of himself that Kanrel would leave behind. How else would anyone here know anything about the world above if not for him? The Atheians would otherwise only have history books written thousands of years ago by long-dead Atheians; their histories were only a tale of the fall that their people went through, as the magnificence of their history had become lost to the ages. Lost beneath destruction and disgrace; lost beneath the new, which would cover the old.

  He let his hands run through the back of these books; they were his, but they didn’t feel like they truly were. He didn’t feel proud because of the hard work they had done. He didn’t feel anything about the mark that he had left behind. But even then, he knew that this mark would be felt by someone else. It would always be so.

  He opened the door and walked out, making sure that the door would remain locked behind him. He knew that no one would enter the store other than him today, and his note would be read tomorrow at the earliest. Today was a day off. Just something they decided upon together, as Y’Kraun had become much busier in his life. Apparently, being a parent required far more effort than work did.

  This day off was something they all accepted. Gor wanted to, at times, focus on other things as well, and it was quite clear to the two others that Kanrel needed some solitude to recharge from the constant writing and lecturing he had to do.

  The two would not agree to this, though. It was a traitorous move. A backstabbing without blood, one that would cause only tears, perhaps some anger as well. But Kanrel hoped that they would forgive him for this.

  He entered the staircase, and step by step, he climbed his way to Y’Kraun’s apartment. Each step had a memory attached to them; he was sure they did. He had spent lots of time playing with both L’enu’n and L’ek’ral on these very steps; apparently, there was something so incredibly fun and fascinating about stairs and stairwells. Perhaps it was the echoes they liked so much. For is it not fun to hear someone yell and then hear your own voice echo back?

  It must have been amusing. Although Kanrel wasn’t sure if it truly was. If he had done so as a child, would he have found it amusing? And if he weren’t a priest who had gone through the Ritual, would he have now found the amusement of these children amusing in itself?

  He reached the door and knocked on it. The family would be awake, probably eating breakfast by now and preparing the oldest, L’enu’n, for some schooling. She had recently learned how to read—after much effort—and realized that it was all that she wanted to do all the time, and so school was the best place for her, or so her parents had decided. And the kid seemed to enjoy this new process in her life; after all, she now could make friends of her own age.

  The door opened, and Kanrel locked eyes with U’Ran’Ui, who at first seemed a little startled.

  “Good morning. I just wanted to say ‘hi’ before I go for a walk,” Kanrel lied, smiling softly.

  U’Ran’Ui scoffed, “Do come in… But you really have to practice those smiles of yours; they still remain so unconvincing!” She opened the door wider and walked off, back to the table they had purchased some years back. It was, indeed, breakfast time. A short, yet quite awkward, exchange, of which he had many with Y’Kraun’s wife, was still something he would miss.

  L’enu’n was devouring her breakfast, possibly at record speed, wanting not to be late for school. She greeted Kanrel with her mouth full, speaking between bites as she shoved in more food. A growing child ought to eat lots, and an Atheian child ought to eat even more, as much was clear. An observation Kanrel made long ago. A sight he would definitely miss.

  L’ek’ral, on the other hand, was still quite small and ever-excited about seeing and spending time with “Uncle Kanrel,” which is why he dropped his food and hurried to give his uncle a hug, giggling as Kanrel lifted him up and hugged him tight. A moment he would look back on—one of many he would surely miss. Perhaps now, at this moment, he wouldn’t feel much, as most things felt the same. But when days and weeks had gone by, it would all set in. A feeling of missing someone dear to you.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  He let the kid back down, who then hurried along back to his breakfast, as it was indeed a duty a child ought to uphold. At last, Kanrel met Y’Kraun’s eyes. The Atheian had visibly aged over the years. There were a few lines on his once-clear skin, but not many. Some things had changed about him; he was more confident; he was a father, a happy man with a wife he adored and loved more than anyone in this world. He was a close friend, yet, despite all these things, he still had that damned grin that refused to go away. He was always ready to mock Kanrel whenever he could get the chance to do so. They stared at each other, perhaps a moment longer than was needed, but Kanrel just had to do so. He had to make sure that he would remember his face, this expression, for as long as he was alive.

  “What?” Y’Kraun asked at last and shifted a little in his chair, “Am I really that beautiful?” He said and covered his face and even blinked a few times.

  Ah, yes. Change is an illusion; the grin that has remained is the truth.

  Kanrel scoffed, “Not really, I was just wondering when you got so old…”

  “Speak for yourself,” Y’Kraun snorted. “I’m not sure about the Darshi aging process, but I do remember you mentioning ‘graying hair’ and ‘balding.’”

  “Not sure which is worse, though, but I’m most certain both will make you uglier than you already are…”

  “Thanks.” Kanrel answered with a dry tone, “Anyway, just wanted to say good morning and goodbye; I’ll be walking around the town for today; maybe I’ll find some interesting engravings or shops…” He continued, offering a slight smile, trying to be as natural as possible.

  Y’Kraun raised his brows. “You really didn’t have to… Today was supposed to be a day off for me… I think seeing you now, at this very moment, might ruin the rest of my day.”

  Kanrel scoffed, “Somehow we will meet in the afterlife, and you will still be like this.” He muttered, but no one heard what he said.

  “What?”

  Kanrel smiled, “Nothing, nothing at all. See you another time.” He turned around, leaving his friend's apartment without another word, closing the door behind him, making sure not to break the mask he had been holding. No tears would flow today. There would be plenty of time for that later, he hoped.

  He walked down the familiar streets—the same ones he had walked down for nearly a decade now. This was, in a way, an extension of his home. He knew these streets as well as he knew his shop, yet he only knew what he saw on the outside. He knew the exterior, not the things that were held within. He didn’t know the Atheians he walked by, even when they nodded at him and he nodded back. At least, they were used to his presence, and he to theirs. They knew him as the Darshi, and he knew them as the Atheians. No names were needed. He wasn’t close to any of them. They were a passing phenomenon in his life, and he was so to their lives as well. This was the nature of existence. There were only so many people one could know and only so many people willing to build a bridge to get to know another man who lives on another island. Kanrel was part of the group considered to be “unwilling,” but most were, at least down here.

  He hesitated as he walked by Gor’s apartment. He really wanted to stop by there as well. But he was afraid. Kanrel was afraid that if he entered his apartment, he wouldn’t be able to leave because of many different reasons. He was afraid that he would lose the will to leave this life behind. He was afraid that Gor would figure out Kanrel’s plans. And above all, he was afraid that the bastard would ask him to stay for a while and help him with some of his studies.

  Because of these reasons, he walked by, letting his gaze linger on the building and the memories that even that building held within. He sighed a bitter sigh. There was someone within him that wanted to stay. A part of him wanted to stay. But a stronger part urged him to leave—needed him to leave it all behind.

  He reached the walls of the city after over an hour of walking. The city transformed around him, revealing buildings from different eras of Atheian history and architecture. Walking through such a city told a story of different generations and how they lived their lives. They told of the good times and the bad times—the grand visions for their future as well as the dread of never being able to reach their homeland ever again.

  And walls… A device Kanrel now knew them to be. A monument to their despair, yet at the same time, a construction that helped the people who built them process the loss of life they had suffered, the loss of home they had gone through, and the crimes they had committed to guarantee their own survival. The ten-meter or so gap between the city and the walls, the emptiness that was placed there, to honor those who had become part of the wall for many different reasons. Some as a great sacrifice for future generations, some because of the crimes they had committed, and some just because it had become a tradition to do so. But even when it was horrid, even when it forced the one who bore witness to its existence to go through a complicated mix of fear and awe, it was a great honor to become one with it. Somehow, it was so. And now Kanrel knew that it was so.

  At the gatehouse, he showed his permit, allowing him to enter and leave the City of Last Light freely. The guard studied both him and the permit multiple times. Even when Kanrel was a known figure within the city, many had yet to see him, so it made sense for one to look twice at him and maybe even stare at him for an uncomfortable period of time. It was fair enough, Kanrel figured, for even when it felt uncomfortable, he had seldom gone through anything unjust; he had been treated fairly within this city, most of the time at least.

  The guard let him pass in the end. And Kanrel began his trek to go around the city, along the barrier formed by the thousands of lanterns that kept the vicinity of the City of Last Light lit at all times, until he reached the other side of it all, the eastern side of the city, one completely walled off, with no gatehouses open to let passengers in and out of the city.

  As he walked, he could hear it. It became so loud. The whispers from the Veil. The memories surged within him. The nightmares that he had seen. This and all of that, and much more, he would have to face when he took entrance into that which should be, by all means, left alone. It was better not to know, as most had told him when they spoke about it and its existence.

  It seemed so afraid under the blue glow of the lanterns. A wall of blackness, of shadow, of memory, and of trauma. Pain, torment, suffering. Was that all they knew? Was that all they could remember? Was that all they were allowed to remember? The legacy of Kalma and those who had claimed that they could kill a god…

  He couldn’t turn his gaze away from it as he walked toward the most eastern point that he could find. He couldn’t look away. And when he did, he saw a figure standing at the spot he had already mapped as the one through which Kanrel would take his leave, where he would take his entrance.

  The very spot the two expeditions had so long ago pierced through, only to die a death so horrible, none knew how they had died… All that was known was that they never returned. They had died for nothing…

  Kanrel stopped and stared at that figure; he wondered if it was someone like him, someone who had come in contact with that darkness and was now unable to leave its call. Oh, how it beckoned him to take a step forth and witness the dread and pain of a billion tormented souls…

  But when that figure turned around, he recognized him… Vaur’Kou’n was now much older than when they had last seen each other. He stood very still, a mocking grin forming on his face the moment he noticed Kanrel. “Don’t just stand there! Come here now, will you?” The Atheian waved.

  A long sigh escaped Kanrel’s lips; they just couldn’t let him leave, could they? He marched on and soon reached the Atheian, who held on to the grin that covered their face. “Is it finally time, then?”

  “Nice to see you too… Also, don’t you have anything better to do?”

  Vaur’Kou’n had the audacity to smirk, “Of course I do, plenty, even… But this happens to pay better than anything else I could be doing.”

  “I see… What’s this about, then?”

  The Atheian shrugged, “I thought you were supposed to be smart? With all the books and all you’ve written, and those that you’ve read…”

  He smirked again, “Isn’t it obvious? I am on council business… They tell me what to do; I do the thing they tell me to do, I get paid, they are happy, I am happy, we are all happy…”

  “Get to the point.”

  Vaur’Kou’n’s smirk remained, and he continued without paying much attention to Kanrel’s wishes, “Sorry that I couldn’t visit before… The contract doesn’t really allow me to do so. But it all seemed quite boring, anyway.”

  “Like, how foolish can you be to not truly live and instead just work and work? Who the hell wants to spend all of their days immersed in books, lectures, and such? You really should live a little…”

  “That reminds me… I know this one most excellent brothel, a semi-legal one, great customer service and all... But you aren’t really that interested in such things, are you?”

  Kanrel shook his head.

  “See? This is exactly the reason why I didn’t visit sooner! You are by far the most dull, Darshi, I have ever met!”

  Kanrel snorted, “And the only one you’ve ever met.”

  Vaur’Kou’n sighed, “And I do hope to keep it that way; I don’t want to spend another decade following an overly large rat that talks…” He, too, shook his head, and after that, finally, he let his mask fade away; his smirk vanished. “But, I must say, Y’Kraun’s children, they are quite cute, aren’t they?”

  It was like a stab to the heart. Kanrel swallowed tears and held on to his own mask. “Yes, yes, they are.”

  “And you would just leave them behind, even when they call you uncle and all?”

  “Yes, I think I have to.”

  Vaur’Kou’n sighed, “Ever the bore… At least you’re consistent in that regard.”

  Kanrel swallowed again. “So, what business do you have with me?”

  The Atheian shrugged, “I was ordered to stop you if you tried to enter the Veil. But today, I won’t. Today, I think I just managed to miss you, or something…”

  “Thank you,” Kanrel muttered; the two locked gazes for an awkward moment. “Is this goodbye, then?”

  “I suppose it is.” Vaur’Kou’n whispered and sighed, “Don’t you die for nothing now.” He walked to Kanrel and placed his hand on his shoulder. “Farewell… friend.” He said in a low tone and walked away, not saying another word, not waving goodbye, not staying to hear what Kanrel might reply. He walked away, and he did not look back.

  But Kanrel did. He looked at Vaur’Kou’n as he walked away, as he walked toward the walls and soon simply disappeared. He let out a long sigh that wavered. He reminded himself—today, he wouldn’t cry. Then, he turned back toward the Veil.

  There were so many regrets. There were so many things that he should have done and so many that he should not have. There were so many could-have’s and should-have’s. There was just so much that he had done here. There was so much he would leave behind. There were—still—so many things he wanted to explore here. But he just couldn’t stay. He had to go. Before it was too late. Before the chains of life bound him forever; before he was forced to abandon his dream of reaching the home he once had far above this world of Shadows Below… He let out another such sigh, one filled with regret and tears that he would not shed quite yet.

  “How did he get here?” In part by accident, in part by purpose, depending on which part of the journey the question was pointed at.

  “How did time just slip away?” Because of a promise he had made, and because it happens to be the nature of time. It doesn’t care if it slips away.

  “If he died today, would he regret it?” Yes. Yes, he would.

  A regretful man stood at the edge of oblivion; he closed his eyes for a moment and pondered whether he truly ought to take a step forward or not. But the answer is clear; it was so since the very beginning. He slowly rolled his shoulders and prepared for the inevitable. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes. Once more, his gaze met the eyes of the Veil. Although he could not see them, he could feel them. He could sense that they were there, and he could hear them call for him. He had to take this step.

  He clenched his fist in which he held a crystal; he glanced at it and placed magic within it. A ray of bright blue light burst from it, and its rays flashed against the moving shadows, which flinched away from the light it produced.

  There’s no going back. And one can only go forward; there is only so much one can regret before one must realize that to live, one cannot be stuck in the mistakes of the past. The past, for too long, had presented itself as the current. It claimed to be the present as well as the future. One cannot live in the past, nor can one live in the future. It was time for action, time to shed his shadow, time to stop confusing dreams with desires. It was time to dream the proper way.

  He took a step forth, and if one were to look at him from the outskirts of the walls, they would see a small hooded figure who held in their arms a bright crystal and on their back a backpack. An observer could see how the figure hesitated just moments before stepping forward; they could see how the figure pushed past the Veil with the light clutched in their hands. And they would witness the figure disappear into nothingness, as the shadows veiled him, blocking all view of what might happen to him, and what awaited him on the other side of the shadows that had beckoned him since the beginning.