They entered another room; this one was more of an office than anything else—a workroom for someone as busy as A'Trou'n. A fairly spacious interior, one garnished with engravings and shelves that were engraved into the very walls of the room; one side of the room was in its entirety a window, one from where you could see the road that would lead to where the blue light came from. It was an interesting choice, for if Kanrel had been the one to make the decision to build this room, it would have been directed toward the lake and its allure; the scenery of a road seemed a waste to look at.
On the floor, before the window, there were many more pillows and another table, on which there were hundreds of pages of paper, books, pens, and trinkets with certainly different purposes. The Atheian took a random notebook and pen that floated toward Kanrel, who received them after a quick thank you.
A'Trou'n sat down and waited, so Kanrel sat across from it, and then it commanded, rather simply, "Write." Its gaze was set on the notebook, which now lay in front of Kanrel, and the pen, which had yet to touch the surface of the paper.
He had to think for a while; he hadn't written a word down in such a long time. He barely knew where to begin. After a while, it became clear where he should start: from where he left off. The day before, he had entered through the dark mirror and heard the Voice for the first time. And so, he began:
The very concept of time seems to be convoluted at the time of writing, for I cannot, for the life of me, say how many years have passed since I set out on this foolish adventure. Only by the condition of my beard can I make an assumption, but such an assumption could never be accurate, for I cannot say for certain how much a beard grows in a day. Nor do I know if there are other conditions that might affect how quickly a beard may grow.
This is how he began the continuation of his notes, and he kept writing so for a few hours, condensing as much information as he could and writing down any key moments or memories that he had claimed as his own so far. And after those few hours, he was able to move on to the current situation:
By no means are the Atheians pleasant people, but at least they seem like they won't outright kill an outsider. Their culture has a keen sense of hierarchy, and there is a clear distinction between those who have power and those who have naught. At times, one who is greater in their status, as is my host, seems to take such treatment for granted, and so do those who are beneath my host, such as the guards, servants, and other villagers, such as the serfs. The serfs and servants seem to grovel before it as if it were the embodiment of Kalma and us in his court. Of course, the context is very different, but, to a god, are the people whom he rules over nothing more than serfs in the end?
It is a curious culture, one that has its differences from the human and the Sharan cultures, yet there are clear similarities between all of them; this makes one wonder if the Sharan culture has had a greater influence on the rest, more so than one might think at first; or are many of the concepts that they've developed just inherent to more intellectually capable species, be it the Atheians, the Sharan, or the humans?
And, the connection between the Sharan and the Atheains seems to be the most curious one, as there is still so much more information that I need to come to any form of conclusion about this connection; for now, it seems one that is unfortunate to the Atheians, but at the same time, there seem to be those within the Atheian society that might be more sympathetic toward the Sharan, and some of them might serve them as gods.
He finished his notes for the day with a few lines pointed mainly at the physical appearance and form of the Atheians; there was one thing about that that remained a mystery to him: how does one differentiate between a female and a male in the Atheian society? This was something that he, too, had to find out.
He placed his pen on the table, then shook and massaged his hands, which had begun to ache as he hadn't taken a break from writing in the past few hours. Then, at last, he again met the eyes of the Atheian, who patiently waited and just stared at him and his writing.
"You wrote a lot." It said, its words coming out in almost the form of an accusation, "Why?"
Kanrel cleared his throat. "It has been a long time since I could write; there seemed to be far more thoughts and memories that I had to recount than I had at first thought, and yet there remains so much more that I have to write down; the number of pages might triple or even quadruple by the time I am done with those years, which might as well be nothing more than lost time or, worse, wasted time." He explained, still massaging his hands.
"Would you like me to read it aloud for you?" He then asked and prepared himself for the worst.
A'Trou'n tilted its head and pondered for a moment: "For now, tell me only of the things that you wrote in relation to us, the Atheians." It demanded.
"Very well," Kanrel said, further clearing his throat. He shifted through the pages and then began to read, "The Atheians are a pleasant people, although at times a little strange to my eyes. Their understanding of hierarchy and how important it is to a well-working society is commendable and only slightly different from that of human society. The leader of the village is treated as they should be, as someone better than the rest, yet even then, this leader seems to treat its people fairly, even giving food and a roof over the head of a stranger—" He began, but the Atheian soon stopped him.
"That is more than enough; I would much rather hear an accurate translation than one so altered," A'Trou'n remarked. It seemed more amused than anything else as it observed the man before it.
Then it scoffed, "Do you have any questions for me that I might be able to answer?" It quickly asked; it didn't seem to mind the blatant lies that Kanrel had told it; it took no offense, for some reason.
Kanrel could feel an unpleasant warmth on his face; he got caught lying and was then mildly scolded for it as if he were nothing more than a child. It took him a moment to gather himself, as he soon asked the only question that he could think of at that moment: "How does one differentiate between a female and a male Atheian? From the outside, I cannot, for the life of me, tell if you are male or female, or if any of the Atheians that I've seen or interacted with have been male or female."
A'Trou'n stared at him for a moment and blinked its eyes, then a smile came to its face. It was soon followed by laughter that held a speck of confusion within it, yet not a speck of ridicule. "It isn't obvious to you." It muttered and chuckled a little more. "It is no wonder; you've not seen one of our kind before coming here, so how could you?"
"Well, my amusing human, I will not let you outright examine one like the way Lou'Deu'n examined you, so I shall instead give you examples that you may observe from the outside."
"The serf, Y'Kraun, is male, and I am female." It said and smiled almost sweetly, "You may let your eyes linger on me; perhaps you might find the difference... Oh, and tell me when you do; I would love to hear all about it." She added and then dismissed the man, who, at that moment, must've looked rather baffled.
In the large hall, a servant brought him food, and he ate it without much thought. He didn't care what it looked like or what it tasted like; there was no reason for him to care. It would all taste the same either way. He was led to the same place where the two servants had washed him, and this time, he was just provided the means to wash himself, a clean set of clothes, and a mirror if he might need one, but Kanrel also requested a sharp knife. Of course, the servant didn't understand a word, so he fetched one for himself, kept pointing at it, and said, "Knife!" The servant said nothing and just stepped to the side; it would not allow him to wash on his own.
After a long sigh, he got to work. He began by undressing; he placed the used clothes to the side; and he took the knife. While in front of the mirror, he took a good grip on his beard and began to cut. He removed huge chunks of it at a time, burning said chunks when he dropped them. He did so until his beard was as short as it had been when he had just entered through the dark mirror.
Now, he could almost recognize himself. Past the malnourishment that his face had gone through, he could find features that remained the same: his eyes, though they were more set and more tired than they had ever been, but at least the look was the same. This was his body. Or rather, this was what his body had become.
He tidied his beard to his best ability, while the horrified servant witnessed his actions, once even trying to stop him, only to receive a sharp glare as a response. The servant dared not take another action; it just stared in horror.
Then, Kanrel went ahead and washed himself at last; this time, the experience didn't feel like a violation of his freedom, even if the servant observed him from the side. Soon he was done, and soon he found himself dry and in a new pair of clothes as the servant escorted him to a small room with only a bed and a table. He entered, and the servant soon left him behind. It was dark in the small room that would be his own for the foreseeable future; it wasn't that comfortable when compared to the lavish rooms through which he had walked, but it felt more right than any room that he had slept in for a long while.
It reminded him of the academy and the room he had there. The ceiling at which he would stare and the way it remained unchanging had become a testament to the boredom of life and the memory of despair that he had learned to link to each ceiling he found himself staring at.