A Deeper Dream

A Deeper Dream

Enn & Ioeth

Set during the hunt for the Wasting Miasma, 1235. Enn and Ioeth meet in a dream.

Enn

The walls are a blur; this does not register. The paintings are a mess of unrecognizable that makes perfect sense to me. Her mouth doesn't move as she talks, as she smiles at me, but she speaks clear as day. Her eyes are so bright, they follow me around. The same brown tinged with green like her brothers.

Her brother?

Her name is Eithne, and she is giving me a tour of Namarast.

"Hey?" Eithne speaks up, briefly waving a hand in front of his eyes. "Are you sure you slept enough? You've been dazing off a little, Emma Enn."

The environment phases in as if it has always been there, and obviously it has. Namarast has been standing for centuries, and he is one of the delegates from Siregal coming to finally visit the place they've heard so much about. A school for mages, a place that is directly turning these dreaded individuals into warriors for the King.

Which is ideal, and perhaps exactly what Siregal needs. They've managed to avoid civil war, but it is a delicate balance, and Enn worries about the scales being tipped again.

But Namarast is beautiful, the sun shining through the thick tree branches lining the hallway they're passing. There's a few open doors through which he sees a few professors he recognizes at work, even when no names come to him.

Enn is sure he knows these people.

Or does he?

His hand feels empty for a moment as he hears the usual clicking of a cane. There's no reason for a cane; he never got hurt. His eyes drift to the blue of his outfit when he looks down for the missing aid, when he realizes he never had one anyway.

Enn and the woman pass a door with a dark plaque, a name carved in gold. Ioeth—Ioeth has a last name he can't make out.

It doesn't register.

Without prompting from Eithne, he walks towards it, knocking on the heavy wood.

(331)

Ioeth

Ioeth sits at a heavy, well-polished desk of dark wood. Something about it tugs at their memory, sits at an uncomfortable edge against their thoughts, but nothing comes to mind—except it’s their desk, littered with research notes and notebooks. A stack of paper, written in their own spindly, elegant hand, sits at their right; they glance at it, but the words swim and shimmer before their eyes.

It doesn’t matter. They know it’s the draft of their next project, Shadow Magic: A Practical Application.

They put away their pen, then stare at their hand for a moment. The tips of their fingers are stained black; the pen must be leaking, and they wonder how they had missed it. It doesn’t seem to rub off either, how strange—

There is a sudden knock on the door, and their attention shatters into what feels like sharp, crystalline fragments, shards of scattered thoughts. Right. The Siregalese envoy—some diplomat or other—they were visiting today. They had talked to Andel about it, hadn’t they?

“Please,” they say, and briefly, they are startled by their own voice. How warm it sounds. “Come in.”

As the pair enters, Ioeth stands up and bows deeply, their braid of black hair falling over their shoulder. There is a faceless woman, her features eluding them, but the man beside her is achingly familiar. 

They open their mouth, almost calling out his name—Enn—but they stop themselves, frowning at the impulse. A voice in their mind is screaming—I know him! I know—but they shake their head as if to will away the strange thoughts. 

This is not the man they know; it can’t be. This man is clad in blue, and has two blue-green eyes, and stands without favouring either leg.

We must give a good impression to the Siregalese diplomats, the archmage had emphasised in one of the administrative meetings—yesterday? Last week? The days seem to blur together—and Ioeth straightens, pulls back their shoulders, and smiles.

“Welcome,” they say, hiding their ink-stained hand behind their back, gesturing at the empty chairs in front of the desk with the other. Something in their mind echoes the gesture—like the memory of a missing limb. Their two hands don’t seem like enough.

“Please, have a seat. I hope the tour has been to your liking so far, sir—?”

(384)

Enn

He doesn't recognize the figure in front of him, but he knows who it is. Enn is briefly confused why it feels more like he remembers them, as opposed to reading their name on the door.

But behind a dark desk a figure stands up, golden eyes on him and his companion. Yes, he got invited to Ioeth's office, curious as he is about magic. He remembers someone speaking of their research—A nature mage, with a pair of (broken) glasses, Andel?

Something about Ioeth calms him, and he can feel his shoulders relax under their gaze. For some reason, he knows he deeply prefers simply staying here with them.

Regardless,

"Call me Enn," He hears himself reply, because that's his name, the name Alexheihis father helped him pick decades ago.

His companion goes unaddressed. She might as well not be there anymore, Enn doesn't seem to pay her disappearance any attention.

"The tour has been amazing," he replies to the question, the smile reaching his blue eyes, unmarred as they are. "Namarast is beautiful. I was hoping you could tell me a little about your research?"

Magic is deeply interesting to him. He's never had any, instead throwing all his energy into studying politics and history, everything condensing down to this point in time where he gets to be a diplomat to a deeply magical place.

It is eye-opening. He wants to understand the people so angry with his family, maybe he can do better by them than has been done so far.

Maybe war can be prevented.

Enn had thought he would be jealous of mages and their abilities. Instead, he feels relieved. It seems like a hassle.

(280)

Ioeth

This man’s expression isn’t guarded, sharp; his gaze does not stray to the escape routes in the room, does not map out each potential danger; doesn’t wield his cane like a sword.

Why would he? There is no danger here.

Ioeth’s smile doesn’t waver, if anything it grows wider as Enn speaks up. “I’m glad to hear it,” they say, and they mean it. Namarast is their home, has been for years, and their research is deeply important to them. “Of course.” They begin to explain, easily slipping into the role of teacher and lecturer, explaining difficult concepts in simpler terms, like they would to their students.

They speak enthusiastically of shadow magic, of darkness and light, and more guardedly, about a shadow beyond this world; they do not dabble in that kind of magic, the blackness of the Void—only a fool would try.

Only a fool… something cold runs down their spine, a memory of claws against their skin.

They stumble on their words, smile hastily, and apologize. 

“Anyway, that is what I do,” they conclude. “Do you have any personal interest in magic, or is it all…” they make a vague gesture, “political?”

(195)

Enn

Everything Ioeth explains rings a faint familiarity in him. There's no good reason for that, and the thought of books he must've read on magic pass him by. Other teachers had spoken with a similar vivid enthusiasm, like professor Agathias on his time magic. It'd been brilliant and awful, the image of a pigeon rotting right in front of him flashing before his eyes.

He listens to Ioeth speak on the Void, and for all but a moment he imagines their eyes so black they might as well reflect that nothingness.

A fool? Why does he wish to be a fool?

"I admit, both." Enn confirms, knows he is a tool in the game of politics between Siregal and Ivras, but his interest is personal. "I've never been in close contact with mages, there's

   no

    magic

        in my

            family."

He confirms, the words feeling like a lie, but they're true all the same. Why wouldn't that be true? "But we have plenty of mages in Siregal. And with the current tensions, I figured it'd be good to try to understand them better." Someone had to try. Why wasn't anyone trying?

Enn moved to lean forward a little, towards Ioeth, a curious expression on his face. "When did you first discover your magic? How did that work?"

(216)

Ioeth

His words hang in the air, heavy, and for some reason, Ioeth wants to protest. But what do they know? They don’t know anything about Enn’s family—except they’re dead—but no, that can’t be right.

”That’s an admirable goal,” they say, and they mean it. Ioeth has found acceptance and understanding here at Namarast, and it’s something they wish all mages could experience; the warmth of compassion and camaraderie among friends. 

His question makes them lean back in their chair, and they thoughtfully twist the end of their braid between their fingers, an ingrained habit. “I was seven years old,” they begin, a far-away look in their eyes. “There were no mages in the village where I lived, but I knew it was magic when I made the shadows move and shift.” Their expression turn a little more wistful as they continue. “I was sent to Namarast three years later, when someone else finally saw me do it. I don’t blame them—in fact, I have visited a few times, even went there to travel with another child that showed magical promise.”

Then they stop, a brief frown across their brow. Suddenly, it’s hard to recall their visits, details escaping them. Did they ever return? 

Did they ever see the village of Semel again?

…Of course they did. The student they helped is here, right now, though Ioeth cannot recall either their name or appearance.

“...Sorry,” they say, with an apologetic smile. “I’m a little absentminded today, I think. “Would you like to see where I conduct my research?”

(257)

Enn

Briefly his eyes light up, an eager nod in reply to the question; of course he would like to see their research. He feels like he should be more hesitant about interacting so closely with this, a darkness threatening to swallow him on the corners of his vision. As if he'd drowned in blackness before, but found it comforting.

None of that is true. It's just magic. He'd seen Agathias' work in detail, right? So why not this?

It is as if Namarast is completely empty once they leave the office. But the sun is still bright, making a heat-blur out of the end of the hallway. He finds himself walking towards a tower Ioeth points out as their research station, and he concludes that it must be important if they have a lab in a tower.

His vision swims for a moment; is it a tower, is it a big, black gaping portal? And as his thoughts mix and merge, a sharp pain shoots through his right knee.

Enn buckles forward to grab the knee, blood sticking to his hand, or—when did he start wearing red?

Hadn't he always wore red?

"Ah, sorry, I—I'm alright," he reassures, straightening out once more.

He is in Namarast, on a diplomatic mission from Siregal, and he is accompanied by Ioeth, a shadow mage and a professor.

(224)

Ioeth

Namarast is bustling with activity; students, other professors, visitors; faceless people that melt away before them as they lead Enn through the passageways, higher and higher up. The tower is one where multiple researchers work; Ioeth’s workplace is a large room, not at the top, but near it. 

Enn stumbles, and they move to support him, but he waves away their help, like he doesn’t need it. It hurts, for some reason—but why would it? They don’t know him, and have never met him before.

Right?

They open the door to the tower. It is a large, semi-round room, with tall windows that let in the light; there are books, a few instruments, a table… the details blur together behind them as they turn to Enn again. 

He’s wearing red. Has he been wearing red all this time?

His hands are bloody.

His hands are clean. He’s wearing blue. He—

Ioeth looks down at their ink-stained hand. It seems to have spread, covering their palm now, but they close their fist and hide it behind their back, and take a deep breath. They are at Namarast, where they have lived for years, and they are accompanied by Enn, the Siregalese diplomat.

Everything is as it should be.

(207)

Enn

The room is a surprise with how light it is, the tall windows pitch-black, and yet they let through the sun all the same. The instruments capture his attention, though he can make no sense of them.

Perhaps Ioeth will demonstrate.

He only catches a glimpse of Ioeths black palm, and think nothing of it. It is more odd to see their arms without their usual black covering, he remembers that; up to the elbows, right?

No, wait, that's not right.

He takes a deep breath, figures it has to be anxiety of some kind toying with him. He walks to the table with the instruments, casting a curious glance at Ioeth.

"What're these for?" Enn asks, as curious as he is worried about the cold chill creeping up his spine. It's anxiety—has to be. He wants to make a good image, knows how important it is for Siregal to have a good bond with Namarast.

He is putting pressure on himself.

(163)

Ioeth

“These are for measuring the magic in an area,” Ioeth begins, the sparkle of enthusiasm returning to their eyes. “Like all magic work, it’s not always reliable, but I have had good results with my own magic, like this—” They make a complicated gesture with both hands, and a dark shadow appears before the instrument, undulating and tying itself into complex knots. It seems to draw its darkness from the shadows in the room.

The instrument begins to make a sound; one of the brass parts is vibrating with a high-pitched noise. Ioeth uses one hand to turn one of the knobs and the sound subtly changes, less shrill and more a deep hum.

“So this is just a yes-no question, is there magic or not,” they continue, making another gesture, like capturing something in their palm. The shadow immediately disappears, and the humming sound ends.

“The others are for more precise readings, and they require a little more setup to work properly. I’m glad I could get this space to work in,” they say, their expression a mix of pride and gratitude.

(183)

Enn

Ioeth summons the shadows to their will as if it means nothing, as if magic is simply natural to them.

And Enn imagines it is.

He can only be relieved he is not a mage.

The shrill sound rings through his head, long after Ioeth has changed the tone. It echoes and lingers. The shadows disappear,

     but the sound doesn't end.

It's as if it rings out towards Enn, the original high pitch and the lower tone Ioeth had set it to intermingling, an alarm going off. Ioeth talks as if it's stopped, but all he sees is their mouth moving.

A searing pain stabs through his left eye, though Enn remains unmoving.

"Why would you be glad for a place in a prison?" He snarks, but it's not the words that come out of his mouth.

"What sort of readings?" his voice curious instead.

The instrument hums on, the sound vibrating through the painful eye, the large scar over it dripping blood as if the wound had just been inflicted,

       knifes meant to cut it out,

                and he is wearing a red outfit, lined in gold, hair cropped closely to his skull.

Enn raises a hand to the eye, squinting as he tries to wipe off some of the hot liquid bleeding down his coat. The color simply merges with the fabric, as if that is where it came from.

His blue eye darts to the walls behind Ioeth, watching flames lick the fabric of the curtains.

"I miss you, but I have to wake up," he says, the words a quiet layer under what his dream says. "Ah, as long as I'm not holding you up?"

(278)

Ioeth

His questions are a jumble of words they can’t quite make out, and their thoughts scatter, fractured, each piece sharp and uncomfortable in their mind.

Why would you sort through readings in prison?

I miss you, as long as I’m not holding you up?

They turn to look at him, and suddenly Enn stands on a hill of dead bodies. Blood trickles down his right eye, stains his clothes, turning them a deep red. His knee is hurt, and there is a strange shadow hovering behind him.

“I—” they start, then fall silent, watching the shadow turn into a familiar shape. It is Ioeth’s own shadow, but large claws sprout from it, tenderly curling around Enn’s waist and neck. Something cold creeps along their spine.

Alarmed, they spin around, only to see a black wall behind them. It is impossible to judge if it’s solid, but something tells them it’s not; in their heart they know they would sink through if they pressed against it. 

What lies beyond?

They look at Enn again, but the vision is gone. He’s clad in blue, he’s unhurt, he has never killed anyone in his life.

“You’re not…” they begin, but once again they trail off into silence.

(204)

Enn

When Enn feels as if the wound has stopped bleeding, he lowers his hand away from his eye. His blurry vision clears, showing Ioeth with his back to him facing a large, black wall instead. Where, when?

When Ioeth turns and nearly accuses him, something sharp in him rears up. "I am." Enn replies. He IS the kingslayer, and he has never felt an ounce of love from his family. Certainly not enough to make him an ambassador.

His clothes are as red as his eye, the gleam from the unnatural golden scar tissue crossed over it.

Enn's eyes cast up towards the black wall, seemingly bigger now than it was a few seconds ago, and as Ioeth steps back,

      he knows it swallows them.

Boldly Enn steps forward, a limp to his step, hands first into the darkness as he grips after Io. A voice in his head balks at this, remembering a dark so eternal it seemed final, but Enn is wise to the fear, recognizes it.

Inside is Ioeth, the familiar black claws sprouting from their back, pale circle on their forehead. Part of him doesn't recognize them, but most of him does.

"Io?" He calls out with a familiarity his voice missed earlier, "Wait, I—"

His breath is caught before he can finish his words, the darkness suddenly drowning him again.

Enn's awareness blinks out, the dream leaving his mind. Briefly he realizes he has been dreaming, but he doesn't feel like he's waking up, either.

Maybe he isn't. But all he wants to do is find Ioeth.

And all he finds is the void.

(269)

—fin—