It was either a need to learn Merrin's reasons or a desire to wanton with his fears.
Neither was fortunate.
Again, instinct to the presence took him, and Merrin rolled to a stand. Another one. Now, he gasped, louder than required. Someone was looking at him. He knew this. But that was the edge of the knowledge.
I need to see them. Merrin coveted the grayness. The surge of power born from a caster. But here, in this unknown world of darkness and impossible enormity, he refused. Danger, as the sister once said, lingered in reckless indulgence.
What then? Merrin looked out into darkness—the surreal paths of blue light. He could use them, he discerned. Such paths lead somewhere. Anywhere that wasn't here, away from the ubiquitous gaze.
He dashed. A moment of choice which brought his legs over the blue, shining lines. He ran, hoping for relief from the watched reality. There was none. The gaze remained, following him. As he ran, it did. As he hid, it did.
Mists!
The presence shadowed, Unrelenting. Diversion did nothing, speed did nothing. There was hopelessness in continued resistance. And now Merrin was tired of it. A game enjoyed by one was torture to another. And he was in pain. He stopped, heaved a breath, and said, "What use is lurking in the darkness?"
Silence.
Merrin took up Ashmen customs. "You parade the darkness before one born of it?" he sensed pride in those words. "What belief you must have in yourself. The darkness is the thing that hides life. To live in it must make one lifeless…Are you dead? Have you been ashed to live in it?"
Silence.
"So you're dead? Then what need do you have with me—the living?" Merrin felt pain at the words. This was, in a way, a desertion of Ashmen ways. Saying he was living was akin to renouncing the ash over his skin. Though now, he lacked the other. "A dead thing cannot stop the living. I must go now."
"The man simply wonders at the play which the boy before dabbles in." A voice, calm, spoke through the darkness.
Merrin froze. The voice. It wasn't far, it was closer. Where was?
"The man finds it interesting."
Merrin leaped, shuffling back. Eyes piercing. There, where he once stood, a figure footed still. A man, dark-haired, scattered, ending in curls, stared back. He wore a noctis dark hooded robe, but his was unhooded. Eyes were distant, his form an eerie stillness that appeared same as the present darkness.
Dread took him. This man was not hiding in the blackness, he was beside him. All this time, Merrin ran, but the observer was always steps away. Watching. There was great terror in that.
Horrible, Horrible terror.
"This man wonders if the boy is an Ashman," he said, hand resting over the hilt of a sheathed blade—a calm threat.
"I am," Merrin said, sensing the powerlessness he had in the occurring situation. Nothing could be done here. This man was the blade, and he was a mere beast awaiting a death-sure attack.
"This one, as before, is intrigued." His gaze shifted—whereto? Unknown. "The boy appears to be a slave. An Ashman slave. Strange. Why though? Why must one come here? This is forbidden."
"Money."
"Seeking wealth. Seeking death. Same," he said, "The man finds it a faultful action. Coming here." His eyes remained distant, staring somewhere that wasn't here.
"You won't look at the one you have to kill?" Merrin said, "Can't you spare that?" Information. Information. He needed that for the glimmer of survival.
The man paused, then. "The man offers respect by this action. The boy sensed the man and ran. Ashman means, maybe. But good. To look would mean a certainty of death."
"So you won't kill me?" Merrin probed, mind shifting through possibilities. Confrontation was not one of them.
"No damage has been made. The man has seen to it. If it were any other, then unknowable death would occur. Be proud of that."
Merrin sensed no malice. "Who are you?"
"The man is Jeseries," he said, "Who is the boy?"
"Merrin," Merrin said, "Merrin Ashman."
Jeseries paused a moment, form, unmoving—frozen like the darkness. Merrin felt a layer of perceptive invisibility on the man. He was, in a way, one with the darkness. Movement, void, breath, silent. All he needed was to stand still, and he would become unseen.
"What do you want now?" He said,
"The man wants nothing but the pouch one has taken." Jeseries said, "Protecting the caster is the man's duty. Stealing from the caster is a failure in that duty. But the boy's life is assured if the pouch is given."
Silence.
Death was here. Merrin tasted it like the bitterness on the tongue. The money was a necessary acquisition. Without it, the Witnesses would starve to death. That could not be allowed. Not now. Not ever.
Almighty, help me. He reached in, gathering his cogitation like water pooled into a collective. The heightened awareness took over, and in it, he saw the grayness fade into the darkness.
Jeseries vanished.
Suddenly, a blade, rimmed with red light, pressed over his throat. Fear broke through the trance of power, pushing back the grayness.
"What?" he yelped.
"The man noticed a shift in the world. A change familiar with casting. Tell, is the boy a caster?" Jeseries took on a cold tone. "An Ashman caster. A slave caster. Strange."
There, Merrin understood the sure weakness flowing through him. Here, he could do nothing. Not against this man, not against this place. And bitterness swelled with that confrontation.
"I'm sorry." He resisted the Ashman traits and said, "I'm not one with the darkness. I was startled and did what I should not. I plead for mercy."
His words echoed out through the vast world of blackness and distant line blues. Contained emptiness. Jeseries' blade remained, the red light edged on it, breathing a warmness. It felt like trapped fire. Perhaps it was—a definite thing crafted by the hands of a caster.
Curiosity for the inspection pressed strongly. An urging for discovery. But Merrin reined in, awaiting the judgment of this Jeseries. The silent man whose blade was washed red.
He said, "The man understands, but now is aware of the things done." The blade fell back. "But, this man now looms over the boy, watching and assuring death if the vice is not kept away."
He will kill me if I do anything wrong. Merrin thought and said, "Can I still have the money?"
Jeseries offered no response. Initially, at least. But in that passing of silent moments, dread chained Merrin's thoughts. How imputative he must sound. A man had given him life, yet he insisted on pilfering. Wasn't death the logical outcome of this? Still, there was no doubt of want.
He needed this. The reality that all this—the pain, fear— was for naught perturbed him. No. Merrin refused. What was death? He had done that already. What was another? Yet, the thoughts conceived betrayed the inner awareness of horror.
What was death? Oh, that terrified him.
Jeseries. A man unknown. Not an Excubitor, not a Caster, but strangely capable of sensing the changes in the world, remained a bizarreness. There was no inkling of his knowledge. No means to process who he was.
This attested to his might. Irrefutable might.
Finally, the words unspoken escaped Jeseries. "The man understands and accepts. But as said, the boy now owes the man. And someday, a collection of debt would be needed. Then, do not betray the man."
Merrin failed in the level-headedness needed to assess the words. In that relief of success, he nodded.
Occasionally, the nature of fission and fusion in regards to the symbols is accurately perceived as nonsense. Many delve into the belief that God plays a game with the world. And the laws, for all they were worth, were made up in spurs of moments—Author unknown.
Merrin punched the axe into stone, straining down. Now, he descended the chasm—escaping. How unreal that felt.
He met death. Saw it. Felt it. Yet, escaped.
Halo
But…there was fear. A great dread stemmed from the slow realization of the agreed deal. What exactly was it? Merrin couldn't fathom the hidden patterns within. Though from all his procession, recognition of hidden traps shone through the terms.
He had been played. He knew this with surety. The chains groaned. Merrin drowned the pain, reached a rock outcrop, and pulled. This dragged him inches from the rim of the headland. He was escaping now. Using the ax as a tool of puncture, he created holes, reached in, and climbed.
This was the same means used to arrive; now, it eased his flee. The darkness remained around, shrouding like a dark cloth. One of partial close silence and unknowable depths. Often, he looked down at the chasm. At the spiral vastness it presented. This one was life-scarce. No lamp, no mining. Just blackness.
Merrin sensed deliberation in that occurrence. The mine caster must have made it so. An attempt to ensure the uniqueness and safety of his square edifice. However, there was a disadvantage to it. For one, many mines were slowly being bereft of their resources. Eltium, iron. These things were now meager. Even the pit that he was designated was lacking in them.
If that was not the case. Merrin had no reason to steal. Appropriation was a thing against Ashmen ways. But…He rationalized. The witnesses needed it.