The Hours Keep Trickling Away

In just a matter of days, Loh would fall.

Seih walked streets made of dreams, forged from the feet of a thousand passers-by—from the dust clinging to the soles of their shoes. He walked streets lit by sunlight, washed by the rain.

He flitted between worlds like a ghost, banished to the fringes of awareness, forced to watch as the leaders he had once trusted turned their backs to the pleas he had made and forgot about him. Wandered roads filled with people who no longer greeted each other the way they used to.

Losan cast one narrow-eyed glance over him and disappeared inside his house without a word when he walked past. Celaph offered him a sympathetic smile with her bread. The workers at the piping construction project he’d set up before all of this either greeted him like nothing had happened or tried to pretend he didn’t exist, the foreman as brusque as ever but just slightly colder.

The echoes of his footsteps seemed to chase him, sometimes, despite the clatter and shuffle. Dark shadows crept in the corners of his vision—hints of jagged, crumbling edges. Blood running through the cracks between the stone.

Everywhere he looked, shadows haunted people’s eyes, the smile of the overseer of scalelet production in Fire’s Abode dimmed, cheery Meklin’s laugh ringing hollow, even Damor’s enthusiasm for his plants buried beneath the looming darkness.

Brei contacted him, but wasn’t interested in talking, her focus elsewhere, her intent eyes dark and stormy, the purple hints like thunderclouds. She refused his offer to go out somewhere, to talk about her father leaving.

His own parents had left, one final, bittersweet goodbye left in their wake. Even though he could still contact them at any time, even see them in Soulspace, it just... wasn’t the same.

He stared up at an ever-shifting sky, the candles of other souls weaving around him like a river, and he swore he could see hints of shadows tainting the sky beyond the clouds. A foreshadowing of the dark claws stretching across their world.

There was a meeting going on at the Ripple, due to begin once the Hand had finished a certain set of talks. He couldn’t bring himself to watch from the theatre seats. There was no point.

They’d never accept it.

All that would come out of him watching would be clenched fists and divots in his palms, anyway. And a headache from the amount of jaw-clenching he’d have to endure at the Hand’s inevitable announcement and following discussion.

Today, the world will know that Firemount doesn’t care a hoof’s print about fighting back Darkness.

How far we’ve fallen.

A growing, cynical part of him was bitterly surprised that Petrah and Arathnea were even considering working together with Aphox and the dying remnants of Loh. They hadn’t even been the ones directly given a prophecy, watching the dance of the moons gradually swelling towards their crescendo, and the end.

But if anyone could fight against the forces of Darkness and potentially win, surely the Arachnid people could. Perhaps Petrah could even manage to call down the Angels from beyond their lands, and seek their help. Maybe they wouldn’t even need Firemount.

That was part of Hafest’s argument supporting their lack of action, at least. Their overreaction wouldn’t even give Firemount a chance to gather itself before “the Drillers” were squashed like an errant bug.

He sighed, moving down the street with the flow twisting towards the Hub. Only a few days until he was allowed back within the Ripple, and he couldn’t summon the strength to care, right now. Especially not here, where the weight of hopelessness, worry, and grief swirled beneath the surface like the itch of an infected wound.

Pushing his way in, he—

Found himself yanked by the arm and thrown in a dizzying free-fall straight to the bottom of a black pit.

He hit on hands and knees, the startling jolt driving a sharp breath from his lungs, the ambience of the pub abruptly gone. What—?

A golden flicker met his vision as he looked up, frozen, trying to locate his bearings. Golden eyes, gazing down at him, expressionless, as they floated in what felt like an endless void somewhere beyond Soulspace, stuck between rooms.

|Amotas?| Cautiously, he pulled himself up, eyeing the other and then the blank surroundings when he didn’t make a move. |Where is this? What is this?|

|The Hand is meeting with the leaders of Petrah, Arathnea, Aphox, and Loh,| the other informed him, as if he didn’t already know, his gaze unblinking. |You don’t want to see it?|

For a long moment Seih studied him, trying to find some hint of... something in his expression that showed what he was thinking. He found nothing. |...Yes.|

In an instant, the blackness around them melted away.

And so did he.

A jolt of panic shot through him as the physical impression of his own body seemed to disappear, his soul seeming to float outside of time and space. But somehow he was aware. Aware of a different presence nearby—no, all around, everywhere—and the souls arrayed in some cross between the Ripple and a spider’s web beneath, below, in front— He couldn’t tell. He couldn’t tell where he was, and he couldn’t tell where they were in relation to him. It was like being thrown into an experience.

He turned his attention briefly from them back to that other presence, a shiver rolling across his being. It felt like somehow it encompassed Soulspace.

|Turn your attention to the talks,| it poked him, like an overly blunt god speaking from the heavens. |They’ve already begun.|

Almost against his will, his attention dragged towards the members of the Hand and the others below. He recognised Petrah’s ruler, though the other two were hazy to pick out. Arathnea’s was unmistakable, though, the Queen of the Arachnids standing out even more than Talao did in the Hub, her frame massive but slender, almost alien, her horns spreading out like a crown.

He watched her multiple, glowing eyes narrow at Kuryllan, the appendages curled at her back rustling. |It will be your doom, too. Do not forget that.|

|And what would you expect us to do, Queen Hashezhe? Our people are not equipped for battle. We are not a warlike nation, and we don’t intend to become one.|

It was unfurling as he’d predicted, any hope he might have had left dying like snuffed coals. Of course they wouldn’t pledge anything.

Petrah’s ruler—Rule Feyrim, stepped forward, his green eyes flashing. |We’re not asking for much, Hand. All we need is your support—the details can come later.|

|Our support for what, exactly?| That was Elka. |You speak much of Darkness, but there is little to support your claims.|

One of the others—probably the leader of Loh—barked a laugh. |You aren’t the one being eaten alive by it, woman! My people are turning into Shadows, our lands are being torn apart—and you’re asking for proof?|

|We are asking,| Elka said calmly, |if we can trust your intentions.|

A bristle that Seih felt deep in his soul ran through the group, his despair locked silently within his voiceless being. Not even this? Not even a tentative show of support?

|Humanity is innately selfish,| Amotas’ voice whispered, drifting against his awareness. |It fights against pain and discomfort. Against change. And yet, they have reason to be cautious....|

|Something Hafest would say,| he said pointedly. |Always giving reasons to hold back.|

|Don’t discard the grain with the husks,| the other mused.

Below, the Rule of Petrah scoffed. |It’s painfully obvious you don’t want a part of this. You’ll get one, though. When it comes for you, and you know you didn’t do a thing, the ghosts will squeeze their hands around your necks.|

He wished he had eyes to close, his being trembling in frustration he couldn’t express. |Why did you bring me here? Did you just want to pound it in?|

|Perhaps if we are given reason, we can consider your proposal, but until then, we respectfully decline.|

As the death knell rang through him, Amotas sighed. |No. I brought you here because out of everyone, you care the most.

|And maybe, you can change the course of fate.|