Morningstar

[CH. 0014] - The Devil's Jars

Are you, are you comin' to the tree

Where necklace of hope, side by side with me?

Strange things did happen here, no stranger would it be

If we met at midnight in the hanging tree

Song by James Newton Howard

"I..." Baal hesitated, a knot tightening in his throat, "I shouldn't..."

"Do you want to go to Ravendrift?" The old man's voice softened, losing its teasing edge.

"More than anything," Baal admitted, the words laced with a yearning he couldn't suppress.

"What's stopping you? Are you hiding from someone?" The old man tilted his head, curiosity glinting in his eyes.

"From myself, I guess."

The old man chuckled, "Ah, ourselves—a foe even kings are wary of confronting. But you, Baal, are no king. Rumour has it you're not even a duke!"

Baal couldn't help but smile at the old man's jest, but the tension remained, knotted up with his unspoken fears and past mistakes.

Baal pivoted toward the man, his voice tinged with irony. "What do you mean by such generous assessments of my character?"

"What I mean, young demon lord, the only thing holding you back is yourself. Quite a pitiful reason to lose a fight, don't you think?" The old man shot back.

"You're pushing quite hard for me to cross into forbidden territory," Baal observed, a note of suspicion creeping into his voice.

"Forbidden only by your own heart," the old man said, flashing a knowing smile. "Come on, you need some warm food, clean clothes, and a soft bed. If you still feel like a coward tomorrow, you can come right back here. No one will stop you, you know."

Baal sniffed at his own attire, realizing it had been days since he'd seen warm water, let alone soap.

He sighed, deciding to use the offer of comfort as an excuse to step into the cart. "You're no ordinary old man, are you?"

"Me?" The old man laughed heartily as he slapped the reins, urging the ancient mule forward. "I'm as ordinary as they come!"

As the cart ambled along, Baal had to admit that the old man had a point. Whether it was a path toward redemption or damnation, Ravendrift seemed to be where all roads led him, willingly or not.

Baal gazed upward, realizing that while travelling on foot might be faster, he wouldn't have the luxury of soaking in the night sky. "Who are you?"

"I'm just me," the old man replied, nonchalant.

"Don't you have a name?"

"I have many names."

"Which one do you prefer?"

"Myrddin," the old man repeated, emphasizing the syllables as if savouring a long-lost tune. "But folks usually mangle it, so Merlin it is."

Baal's eyes widened slightly, a spark of recognition flashing in his demonic gaze. The name Merlin was woven into myths and legends, a narrative tapestry that felt worlds apart from the hellish matters Baal usually concerned himself with.