An Angel Called Eternity

To Bet on Losing Dogs - Seventh III: The Mists of Summer

Seventh III: The Mists of Summer

The Twenty-First Day of the Seventh Moon, 873 AD.
The Woodsroad, Eastern Teleytaios, Klironomea.

It wasn't outside on the training ground that Seventh had found Rhema, but inside his tent. He was still hacking away at dummy of straw and wood, but for some reason he was choosing to do it inside rather than out in the purpose-built training area. Sometimes they really didn't know what it was that ran through their friend's mind.

Suddenly an axe whizzed an inch to the left of their head, a gentle breeze rustling their hair, and with a 'thunk' the bladed edge of the weapon embedded itself into a second straw dummy next to the entrance that they hadn't even known had been there.

"Rhema," they said in a faux-exasperated tone as they let the shock run through them and out of their system, "you can't expect to bludgeon and carve your way through every problem. Violence isn't always the answer."

The prince grinned at them as they walked over, tugging at the haft of the axe a few times so that he could wrench it free.

"You're right; violence isn't always the answer. But nine times out of ten, it is a bloody good guess."

"Shit, I can't argue with that. When did you become so wise?"

"I'm still waiting on the day that I gain wisdom. The Angels knew I'd be too powerful with wisdom on my side. Anyhow, I got you good there, didn't I? Figured you'd need a little shock to your system after meeting with your boss again; you're normally pretty out of it when those chats finish."

They rolled their eyes fondly at the prince. He displayed remarkable maturity at times, and yet still he managed to pull things like this out of nowhere and have it make perfect sense. Still, they hadn't flinched this time, so they must have been getting better at predicting Rhema's 'unique' form of greeting.

"He's my mentor, not my boss. And they're lessons for that matter, not chats. That makes it sound like we're middle aged fishwives."

Rhema snorted, then looked them up and down. Seventh didn't move as he did so, but they couldn't help but notice the hint of concern in Rhema's expression when he'd finished.

"So, how was it?"

How was it? It had been a lot, in all honesty. They'd stared into the soul of a man who'd watched the world tear itself apart more times than they could count, a man who had once tried to change things and held genuine convictions in how best to help the world, but who now was reduced to making sarcastic comments whilst living in resignation for whatever the future held. It wasn't that he was rude or mocking when he questioned why on earth Seventh would bother trying to help change the world of men, rather it more seemed as though he were genuinely confused. After trying and failing to better the world so many times Seventh guessed that maybe his mentor had simply been worn down. The man had tried a great many times to intervene, as had his friends who were now scattered and lost, and in all honesty it did seem that any sort of positive outcome was very rare indeed.

The initial goal may have been achieved, the darkness staved off, but in the process the roles that his mentor's kinfolk played had just inspired newer, more destructive branches of religion and philosophy to take root. Entire ways of life centred around war, around slavery, around death; not at all what had been intended, but it was what had come about as a result of their 'divine intervention' all the same.

Seventh dearly hoped that, when they tried to change the future, nothing like that happened.

They came back to as Rhema poked their cheek, staring at them with a confused expression.