Two hundred years ago, Silverlock's hair was mostly black, aside from the thick silver streak that fell over his right temple. Now, his hair was completely bleached, from age or magic or stress, Theron did not know. Otherwise, the half-elf was unchanged; he still wore robes that were centuries out of style, and black ink still crawled over his skin. There were, perhaps, a few more lines around his gently slanting eyes, but that was all.
"When I heard you were in town and hadn't come to visit, I was quite hurt." He wore glittering steel sheathes on his fingers. They made tiny musical sounds against his teacup. The engravings on them matched those on the heavy metal collar he wore, and the shackles around his wrists. "It seems the time between our last meeting and now has done nothing to turn you into a civilized creature."
"I thought you were dead." Theron's own drink sat untouched. "You ought to be dead."
"One might say the same of you. How many people even know who you really are?"
"None." He turned away, jaw clenched. "Though I could ask the same of you."
Silverlock laughed. "Anyone who truly knew me died long before you were born, my dear. Now, only you and the Shrive have any inkling. Not even the gods are sure, anymore- not even Varun, and it's a sad thing indeed when your own patron forgets your name." He put on an exaggeratedly agrieved face. "Disgraceful, that."
Theron relaxed minutely and shook his head ruefully. Silverlock hadn't changed in the slightest. "Some day you'll have to tell me how you came to be a servant of the god of healing and clean water."
"It's a good tale, that one, full of intrigue and entrails and snakes." Silverlock shrugged. "But now Varun is my patron in name only. He hasn't spoken to me in centuries- none of the gods hear their followers anymore. The people of this world are moving on. The old order will collapse in on itself, and a new one will follow. It's your fault, you realize. The death of your country and your people and your gods has left a hole. I, for one, do not look forward to seeing what fills it."
Silence filled the air between them as Silverlock sipped his tea. Theron played with a loose thread on his sleeve, and felt sixteen again. "When you took me in, you said I had great potential to do great things," he said at last. "When I went home, all I could think of was making my father pay for what he did to my mother- and to me, by association."
"Is it my approval you crave? My commendation? You became a god. Not many teachers can say that of their students." There was mockery in Silverlock's voice. "You were always something of a romantic, Theronil, but I never suspected you to be capable of sentimentality on this scale."
"I never earned that name," Theron interupted. His bitterness was palpable. "Ironic, isn't it? I destroyed the Thaumatocracy before I could be reclassified."
"Fool. You learned nothing- seven years with me, and countless more with your mother's ghost to guide you, and you learned nothing." Silverlock reached across the table and grabbed his chin. The blades on his fingers drew tiny drops of blood. He cocked his head to the side, birdlike, and examined Theron's face carefully. "That name has been yours since the moment you clawed your way out of your mother's womb. You weren't worthy of it before but now, I think, you are."
He licked the tiny traces of blood from his claws and smiled, cat-like. Theron shuddered, but his heart wasn't in it.
"Names are important, Theronil. If you forget everything else I taught you, remember that, at least." He stood in a swirl of magic and patterned cloth. "Now, as pleasant as it is to visit and reminisce, my dear, I doubt I'll see you again. This is no longer my city and, much as it pains me to admit it, I can't stay here and remain true to myself."
Theron stood as well, and tried to ignore the fact that Silverlock stood a full head shorter than him. The mage had always seemed to tower over everything in his memories- but then, he didn't remember much, these days. "Be sure to send word when you die, D'Alestri. I'll have Stella look for your soul on the tide."
"You'll be the first to know; my estates are yours when I'm gone, if you can find them all. But don't trouble your Mystic; my soul has no need for guidance."
"Then we part as equals, if you'll allow it, Silverlock." Theron held out his hand. Silverlock's claws drew more blood from his wrist, but they were warm against his skin. "Or, should I say- Anzani."
Silverlock's free hand touched the collar at his throat and smiled openly. Not a smirk or a sneer, but an honest smile. "Equals, indeed. To speak my name means we cannot be anything else. You always were a clever boy, Theronil. Nothing more, nothing less. We must never claim to be otherwise."
He disappeared silently, leaving behind a faint aftertaste of blood and magic. Blood dripped down Theron's wrist, and spattered the table with tiny drops of red.
------------
...shit, I think I just killed off my favorite character. What the hell, Silverlock, that was totally unnecessary.
In half-elven culture, names are sacred; you don't share your name with anyone unless you're completely comfortable with them knowing the shape of your soul. Traditionally, a half elf tattoos his name on his neck and wears a slave collar to hide it.
Aside from Theron, only four other people have known Silverlock's real name, and two of them were gods.
Names have less religious significance and more socio-political significance in Radrezhaea, since names denote skill and rank, but there are plenty of parallels between Theron assuming his fully ranked name and Silver using his true name.
No comments:
Post a Comment