The Game of Cyvasse

The Children

A broken old man wept in the corner, curled up. His beard was stained with yellow, his nails were long and ragged, scratching at the red walls that hemmed him in, but they only mocked with their whispers.

"Why don't you listen", a voice like a shadow surrounded the old man. It came from nowhere and everywhere, from the cracks and crevices of the chamber. No one else was in the room, the walls were talking and squeezing the old man with words. He tried to flee, but his head throbbed with pain. A cold dread spread through his veins. Shaena's cries were heard from beyond the red wall, and he clawed at the stone, desperate to reach her. But in vain, the world was cruel and unchanging.

"Listen," the voice thundred, and a leaf of weirwood drifted into the room. "The roots are dying, I can't bear it any longer. You must burn them, burn them all." The roots stretched across green expanses, hot deserts and finally cold glaciers, then plunged through the hard ground going further and further and everywhere. An endless spiral, intertwined, linking the wall of ice to geysers, hot springs to cold walls of the storm castle, the storm castle to a black monolith, the black monolith to a great crimson rock by the sea, which turned into a blue eye of a green giant. A hand of frost gnawed at the root, trying to break through the unseen barrier. It was all here, he thought, and for a moment he was young again, and sober, sharing his body with another. I am a king,  the thought seemed strange and wrong. He looked at his reflection in a pool of blood, but it was not his own. It was young and fair and dying.

"Burn them all", the voice of the shadow repeated, now calm, certain that the old man was listening; not me, the old man whispered sadly, looking at his sleeping twin reflection.

"Burn them all", the old man and his twin said in unison. Each time he repeated the words, his head hurt more, and his heart sank deeper into the abyss. Not this, please, he begged the shadow with black wings, Where are Daeron, and Aegon, and Jaeherys and... Shaena, oh, my sweet girl.

The night ceased to be a night, and snow flew through the great arched window of the old man's lavish chamber. You are the king, the splendor reminded him. The snowstorm raged, a white blanket hid the ground, and the snow turned into darkness, silent and deadly.

The darkness was lit by deep blue eyes. Children, women, old men, faces beautiful and faces maimed. They all screamed. Trapped. Their cage was crueler than his, they pounded on the chains that kept them in their bodies. Let us go, he heard through their piercing blue eyes.

"Burn them all", the wall spoke, "Burn them all, Let them free, Save the Realm."

"The realm, the realm, the realm", the voice shrieked, echoing through the deserted halls of the red palace. Eight candles burned on the table, but with his cry, the second one snuffed out.

"No, not my daughter," he sobbed. Fire is freedom. Fire is salvation, Fire is the savior, he is the fire born flesh.

The remaining flames flickered, he shielded them from the cold, but they died one by one, until only three were left.

"Burn them again," the voice from the walls repeated, followed by the drums of war and the song of burning.

The old man looked at his reflection and the shadow spoke a name, "Rise, Aegon, rise, you are the king." But I am the king and my Aegon is dead, he never was, but a child. I am dead. The old man looked at his hands that were fading and at the last moment realized that he was not looking at the past but he was the past. Raising his eyes he saw his younger self looking at him. Silver hair and purple eyes.

"I will show you," the shadow said to the young reflection and the old man vanished, as did the red chamber. The world turned green, filled with the scent of spring grass and the murmur of a melted running stream.