God of Discovery [high fantasy, slow build, mlm]

Arc 3 - 14. God of Transformation

D'Argen did not have a house of his own in Evadia. The city was growing rapidly, but the castle had not even been mentioned—to his knowledge—let alone his rooms. There was a room he used to sleep in, when he visited the city, in one of the older wooden houses. It had four wooden pallets with thin straw mattresses that were obviously used more often than he was ever there. The neatly folded blankets at the foot of one of the beds revealed which one was his to use. Two of the others had blankets that were roughly thrown on the pallets and one of the pallets had nothing at all.

He looked around the small room as soon as he closed the door behind him. The desk in the corner was stacked with multiple bags on it, a few pieces of clothes thrown on both the desk and chair, and even a few pairs of boots and shoes at its feet.

There was only a single window in the room, right over the desk, and though another house was opposite and not much light made it in, the room did not feel stuffy.

D'Argen was not sure who the other two occupants were at the moment, but he knew they would not be back soon.

After returning to Evadia with Abbot in tow, he let the artist spread the rumour of the demons through the vines and went into hiding himself. Acela would know. All he had to do now, was wait for her to shut down Upates' experiments.

He moved inside the room and sat on the edge of the bed ready for him. He leaned down, resting his elbows on his knees and hunching over to look at the wood under his boots. It was dark, stained, and old. It probably would not last another decade, if that, without somebody taking care of it.

His eyes roved over the faded whorls and new cracks, trying to memorize their pattern, and focusing on that instead of the thoughts swirling through his head. The room got so dark that he was tracing the cracks in the wood out of memory rather than sight.

Thar's shade was the only bright spot in the room, even though it too, was faded in the dark. It stood, completely still, in the corner. When D'Argen chanced a glance in his direction, it was to see the man leaning against the wall with his feet crossed at the ankle and his arms crossed over his chest. His face was formed into a scowl, even as it was turned away to look at the window rather than at D'Argen.

"What do you expect me to do?" D'Argen finally cracked and asked. His voice was raspy and hoarse, as if he had not spoken in days.

Thar turned only his eyes to look at him before looking away again.

D'Argen felt judged.

"I can only sit and wait," D'Argen tried to defend himself.

Thar said nothing, as always before.

D'Argen could not remember ever hearing the man's voice, not in this set of memories at least. He knew Thar had spoken to him in the other set, but his voice was so distant and warbled by overlapping thoughts and events that D'Argen was not sure he could even taste it properly.

"Is any of this real?" D'Argen finally dared to whisper, tearing his eyes away from Thar's shade and focusing back on the patterns in the wood. His eyes had adjusted enough to the dark to see the deeper cracks, but the whirls were all from memory. Memory.

He looked up, hoping for an answer, but Thar's shade was gone.

When he looked back down, the light from outside was bright enough to reveal every whorl and swirl he had missed earlier. Some were so faded and worn that it looked almost intentionally smoothed, while the cracks were so deep and many that it looked like the wood would break any second.

D'Argen shifted.

Time had changed again.

He leaned back and the straw mattress under him was so bare it was like there was nothing inside the cloth holding it together. When he reached for the blankets, his hand made a cloud of dust rise. A look at the desk revealed it mostly empty, save for a pair of leather boots beside it that were flaking from disuse.