Chapter 38: Rebirth

What did it mean to truly reject your god?

It was one thing to say he no longer wished to serve Mardocar, but to understand the full consequences of that choice? That wasn’t quite so easy.

He still believed in Mardocar’s existence, of course. His faith had never determined whether the so-called god was real. All his rejection did was change his own relationship to the god of genocide.

The question was, what came after? What, if anything, could replace his former patron? After the spiritual rape Mardocar had subjected him to, whom could he place his faith in?

“How are you feeling?”

He looked up at her across the crackling fire. Dina seemed concerned. Had she noticed how tired he felt? How weak he was today?

He didn’t mind if she had. In fact, he cherished it. For the first time in ages, he had a friend—two, really— who truly cared about how he was doing.

“I’m good. I’m happy. We made the right choice. But I’m not sure where I’m going from here. I mean… who am I without Mardocar? Who are we?”

She nodded. “I know what you mean. It’s like there’s a big hole inside me now. Everything that made me me for so long is gone, and I don’t know if there’s anything left… or if Patera was my everything, and now I’m nothing more than an empty shell.”

“There is,” he said, with certainty. “We just need to find it.”

“You served him for so long. I only followed her for seven years. I still have my parents to go back to. And I can keep practicing my healing, just with Deepwell magic instead. You… you lost everything because of him.”

She wasn’t wrong. Aila. Their children. And their children’s children, down through the generations. All lost because of Mardocar’s lies.

Still, that was nothing compared to all the lives he had taken in the name of his patron god. Over the years, he had lost count, but it had to be in the thousands by now. Those lives he couldn’t blame on Mardocar. He—Themur—had held the sword. He—not Mardocar—had decided when to swing it, and at whom. All the so-called god had done was make it feel lighter as he held it.

“I wonder what Relaila will do?” he asked rhetorically. “She hasn’t said much about her past. I guess she could still entertain as a Fire Breather.”

He paused for a moment.

“You know, Dina,” he said. “When we say we’ve sold our souls to the gods of the world, we usually mean that literally.”

Themur chuckled a little, before continuing. ”Like if we’ve sold a house or a horse, it’s theirs to do whatever they want with after death.”

“Of course.”

“And now I kind of think that’s the easy part,” he said with a sigh. “My soul is either Mardocar’s or it isn’t. I can’t do anything about that. I chose to believe Alena when she said the so-called gods can’t own our souls, but I can’t prove it. I still intend to live my life as if he doesn’t.”

She smiled a little. “So will I.”

“But I was thinking, there’s selling your soul figuratively, too. And in a sense, that’s the harder thing. It’s not really your soul we’re talking about, then. It’s your mind. Your life. And while Mardocar doesn’t own my soul in the literal sense, I did give him my life. The person I am. Was, I mean.

“Literally, I might have reclaimed my soul from him. But how do I get it back in every other way?”

Dina didn’t answer. She just nodded, showing she understood him. That was all he needed from her—understanding. The actual answer had to come from somewhere else.

Someone else, he corrected himself.

He needed time alone, to reflect on things. Whatever conclusions he came to, he was quite certain they would be life-altering, to say the least.

The sun was now high enough in the sky that its rays had begun to bring warmth to a land chilled by the long, dark night. The morning fog, which had limited his sight, had been burned away, and now the sky was clear and blue.

Themur rose from the box he was sitting on and walked away from the campfire, leaving Dina, Relaila, and the peasant family behind. Abandoning the road, he walked across an open meadow lining its right side, until he reached the edge of the forest.

Before the deep spruce woodland began, with its dark, tangled mess of branches and needles, there lay a small grove of deciduous trees. Most were birches, with a few alders mixed in, and at the farthest edge stood a great oak, towering above the others in all its grand, weathered splendor.

He felt he needed to do more than simply reject Mardocar in his thoughts. It wasn’t enough to just decide to change his allegiance. He had to say it aloud, in his own words, face to face with his former tormentor.

“Mardocar, deceiver of man, I denounce you!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, his voice swallowed by the surrounding trees.

No one answered. No thunderous voice boomed from the sky to condemn him, no lightning struck him down for his defiance. The self-proclaimed god of genocide did not appear in the air above him.

There was only silence. There was the sun, the wind, and the birds, some now fluttering away, startled by his sudden outburst.

He didn’t know if Mardocar hadn’t heard or if he simply couldn’t answer anymore, now that Themur was no longer his. The truth was, it didn’t matter.

“I reject your claim on my soul. I am no longer yours.”

Still nothing. Not even a voice inside his mind.

But denying the so-called god wasn’t enough. Themur didn’t just want to replace lies with emptiness. He wanted to replace them with truth.

And the only truth he knew was the one Alena had spoken to him about.

“Word,” he said softly, eyes fixed on the clear sky above, “I have served false gods for so many years. I have brought so much evil to the world. Please forgive me.”

For some reason, speaking to the Word made him feel slightly embarrassed. He had never felt that way around Mardocar, but then again, the gods of the world relished his shortcomings and rejoiced in his faults. If Alena was right, the Word did not, and baring his soul to the creator of Taeron was quite different from talking to an usurper.

“I yearn to serve You instead. Alena said my soul is mine to give to whoever I choose. I offer it to You, to do with as You please.”

Silence reigned. Around him, the birds had settled down again and were now singing their joyous songs. From somewhere ahead in the forest, he heard the soft murmur of a small brook, its water whispering as it flew from a source he could not see.

Themur held his breath. He dared not say another word.

As he stood there, he heard a soft breeze begin to stir the branches of the trees. At first, he thought it might be a birch or aspen spirit, come to taunt him for his defiance. He recognized the signs—the sudden rustling of the leaves and the motion in the limbs.

But this was no evil spirit.

There was a presence there, but it was entirely unlike anything he had ever encountered before. The wind, if it could even be called that, since it was so calm and still, enveloped him and permeated his soul with a love deeper than words could ever describe.

It did so without imposing itself. It had always been there, waiting patiently for him, even before he was conceived. And now, he was finally ready to receive it.

The presence in the breeze was kind and utterly devoid of envy. Unlike the so-called gods of the world he had served, it never boasted. It did not overwhelm him with proud declarations of its own greatness or importance, though it had every right to.

It simply… was, and had always been. Eternal and unchanging.

In the silence, Themur felt the presence respecting him. It would never coerce him, never manipulate or threaten him. It would always honor his choices, even if they ran counter to its will. But why would he ever want to make decisions like that?

He knew this presence sought no power for itself. It already possessed all the strength and glory that men and fallen spirits could imagine. Entirely secure in its supremacy, it deserved all worship, yet yearned only to serve.

More than that, it saw Themur for who he truly was. It cared not for appearances or past misdeeds, only for what lay in a man’s heart. And though it had every right to be angry with him for his transgressions, it was not, as if those vile acts had been wiped away and forgotten.

It was, very literally, the exact opposite of the evil spirits he had served during his long life. It was truth personified. It—He—was the Word. And Themur knew, with absolute certainty, that he now stood in the presence of the Creator Himself, so utterly unlike the shams of the so-called gods of the world he had been deceived by before.

Then there was the voice, so unlike Mardocar’s. When his former patron had spoken to him in the past, Themur’s thoughts had been completely overridden, replaced by the so-called god’s commands. But when the Word spoke, it was with a voice so soft he hesitated to even call it a voice at all. It was more like his own thoughts had, for a moment, come into perfect alignment with the will of the Word. And when he listened to that voice, the breeze filled him with a wisdom and understanding that was not of Taeron.

And from the Word, he drank himself thirstless, like a man who had never tasted a drop of water in his entire life.

That morning, Sir Themur Mauran, Knight Eternal, died, and in his place, Themur the Whisperer was born.

Now the fallen spirits of Taeron, the so-called gods of the world, held no more power over him. The yokes they had placed on him were finally broken. In the presence of the Word, the spirits were nothing more than empty husks, ash swept away like chaff by the breeze, insignificant and long since defeated, their power limited only to that which men gave them.

Slowly, he began to remove his heavy black armor. There was nothing magical about it. It wasn’t imbued with Mardocar’s power, nor corrupted by his influence. It was just metal. But it represented years of something he no longer stood for, and he couldn’t bear the thought of wearing it anymore.

Hopefully, the father of the family they’d spent the night protecting had a spare cloak to sell, or at least a blanket to conceal his hideous form. If not, Themur guessed he’d have to walk into the nearest village wearing nothing but his arming doublet.

That would truly be a sight to behold, he mused, slipping off his spiked iron gauntlet.

Something wasn’t right.

When he looked at his naked hand, he could not recognize it.

As he held it up in front of his eyes, turning it slowly to inspect it from every angle, he saw neither the scarred, half-rotten, fibrous and pus-leaking monstrosity he had been for the past 160 years, nor the healthy, smooth skin of the young man he had been before his fateful bargain with Mardocar all those years ago.

This hand was old and wrinkled. The skin on it was soft and pink, somewhat loose and mottled with age spots. When he flexed his fingers, the joints burned like fire. Looking closely, he saw the hand trembling slightly as he held it before his face.

With the feverish excitement of a child opening a present, he threw off his chest armor and opened his doublet, not quite certain what he expected to find.

There were no wounds there. No scars, no pus, no maggots.

Taking a deep breath through his nose, he no longer sensed the rancid smell of death that had oozed from every pore of his rotten body, a stench that had been his constant companion for the past century and a half. In its place, the fragrance of lavender and roses drifted across the field.

It really shouldn’t surprise me, he thought. Even Mardocar’s healing had been a fraud. He didn’t actually restore me. He only twisted and corrupted my body until my wounds no longer even mattered. And despite his promise of eternal life, in the end, all he could do was slow my aging.

And now he was free from that corruption. All that remained was his real body, aged beyond recognition and hurting from ailments most old men suffered from, but still very much alive. And finally—finally—whole again.

Standing there alone among the trees, basking in the warm light of the new day and feeling the wind tickle his naked, healthy skin for the first time in ages, Themur was astonished to realize it wasn’t his newfound freedom he cherished most.

I should have known.

Alena had already told him the Word’s promise.

Themur the Whisperer smiled.

Peace. He felt at peace.

Author's Note

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