Fate's Forge

Chapter 5

Jas's vision blurred in and out like a faulty lantern flickering erratically, each blink a battle against the darkness. His breaths were shallow puffs of white mist that mingled with the icy air, making his chest ache. The ground beneath him was hard and unyielding, but it was the biting cold that crept through his clothes that reminded him how alone he felt.

He wasn't even sure at what point Misty had left, hopefully to get help.

"Tag! You're it!" A high-pitched voice sliced through the silence.

Jas's heart stuttered. There were children laughing nearby, their voices weaving through the trees, as tangible as the frigid air that nipped at his skin. He tried to lift his head, his neck muscles straining with the effort, and caught glimpses of movement-flashes of bright clothing darting between the dark trunks of the forest.

"Help," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. The word was whisked away by the wind, leaving only the echo of playfulness around him.

Looking again he got another look at the children. They seemed familiar. Then he remembered. They were children who had been in the orphanage in Aguares with him. They were a little older than he remembered. He also recognized them as the children who had perished when slave traders had set the orphanage on fire and blamed the elves for it a couple of years earlier. How could that be possible?

One child broke away from the rest, a boy with eyes too knowing for someone so young. He approached Jas slowly, as if time were a leisurely stream around him. "Jas Cutter," he said, and there was something eerie in being addressed so directly amidst his hazy consciousness. "You're really close to joining us."

Jas squinted, trying to place the unfamiliar face among memories of days filled with the gloom of Aguares' orphanage. But no, this boy did not belong to those recollections. "Can you help me?" Jas's voice cracked; a plea wrapped in desperation.

"Sorry," the boy replied, tilting his head curiously. "I can't help the living."

"Fireweaver," Jas called weakly, seeking the comfort of the rusica's presence, the warmth it provided. But the ancient elvish glove remained silent, its usual humming energy oddly absent.

"Who are you talking to?" the boy asked, looking around with feigned interest.

"Fireweaver," Jas repeated, more to assure himself than to inform the boy. He could almost feel the rusica's texture against his skin, a reminder of the bond they shared.

"Fireweaver? Oh you do wear him don't you?," the boy mused, glancing down at Jas's hand with a frown. "He was mine once, in fact he was made for me when I was still among the living. Sadly he can't be part of this conversation, he can't help you now."

"Of course, he can't," Jas muttered, his mind grappling with the strangeness of the situation. The fieles always seemed to know when he needed it most, yet now, when shadows danced at the edges of his vision, Fireweaver was just an invisible whisper of warmth.

Jas's vision blurred and sharpened erratically as he struggled against the encroaching darkness. A chill seeped into his bones, and when he blinked open heavy eyelids, the boy who had called him by name stood before him-a calm sentinel in the chaos of the forest.

"Who are you?" Jas croaked, his voice a raspy whisper that was quickly whisked away by the cold breeze.

The boy tilted his head, regarding Jas with an unsettling intensity. "I am what comes after," he said, his voice neither warm nor cold. "And I know you, Jas Cutter. I know the hurt you've spread. Spread to the very children behind me. We've been waiting for you."

Jas's heart skipped a beat, the fragmented memories of his life at the orphanage flashing before his eyes like a macabre puppet show. He'd been a different person then, hardened by the adults' harsh treatment, lashing out at anyone weaker than himself. The realization that this boy knew his darkest deeds made his stomach twist.

"Those kids... I-" But the words lodged in his throat, guilt constricting like a vice.

"Abused, just as you were," the boy finished for him, his eyes unblinking. "You became the monster you feared, didn't you? Yes, I know everything, after all, the dead speak to me."

A shudder ran through Jas as he remembered the younger boys' fearful glances and how he had reveled in their terror. Before Mathen had shown him kindness, all he had known was the cruelty of fists and words. It was a cycle he'd perpetuated without a second thought.

"Mathen showed me another way," Jas whispered, clinging to the image of the strong, compassionate man who had become his unlikely savior.

"Perhaps," the boy said, stepping closer. His form shimmered, and suddenly he wasn't a boy anymore. Standing over Jas was an adult figure, grotesque and decaying, with bone pikes jutting from its arms like gruesome ornaments. "But there's always a price, Jas. And when your time comes, which might be sooner than you think, you'll have to pay for those acts."

Jas's breath hitched, terror gripping him as he looked upon the Guardian of Death's true visage. Punishment loomed over him, tangible and inevitable, and despite the numbing cold, sweat beaded on his forehead.

"Can't... change the past," he managed to say, his voice barely audible. Yet within him, a spark of defiance flared-ignited by Mathen's belief in redemption, by the hope that he could still make amends for his wrongs.

"True," the Guardian conceded, the monstrous form shimmering back into that of the boy. "But every choice weaves the tapestry of what comes next. Remember that, Jas Cutter."

As the world dimmed around him, Jas clung to those words, to the notion that his choices would define him more than the shadows of his past. With a final effort, he reached toward the fading light, yearning for the chance to prove that he was no longer the bully from the orphanage but someone worth saving.

Jas's voice was a hoarse whisper, each word a struggle against the dark veil descending upon his vision. "I'm not that person anymore," he gasped, his eyes pleading for understanding. "I've been trying... helping others, protecting them. I've changed."

The Guardian of Death tilted his head, regarding Jas with an unwavering gaze that saw through to his very soul. "And do your good deeds now undo the hurt you caused? Can they heal the wounds you left in their hearts?"

A shiver ran down Jas's spine, and it wasn't from the cold that had crept into his bones. The Guardian's words echoed in his mind, amplifying the guilt that gnawed at him for the first time he could remember. He wanted to argue, to insist that he could make up for the past somehow. But as he tried to form the words, his strength failed him, and they died on his lips.

"Good intentions cannot rewrite history, Jas. Nor can they erase the pain that lingers," the Guardian continued, solemn as the grave itself. His eyes held a depth that seemed to stretch into eternity, a reminder of the inescapable truth that faced every living being. Then he added, "And I know what you will become."

Jas felt terror grip his heart, squeezing until he thought it might burst. He could feel his body giving way, his life force ebbing like the tide going out to sea. In that moment, he understood the weight of his past actions-their impact stretching far beyond what he could ever mend.

Just as the darkness threatened to swallow him whole, a new presence made itself known. Another figure approached, its arrival silencing the whispers of the ghostly children and drawing the Guardian's attention.

"Seems like you're not destined to join us today, Jas Cutter," the Guardian said, his tone almost contemplative. "But remember this: I'll be waiting, as I wait for all. In the end, everyone must stand before me and face their reckoning."

Before Jas could muster a response, strong arms enveloped him, lifting his limp form from the cold ground. The touch was real and solid, a stark contrast to the ethereal playmates who had vanished like mist at dawn.

As consciousness slipped away once more, Jas clung to the fleeting warmth and the hope that he still had time. Time to prove himself, to weave new threads into the tapestry of life-a tapestry where perhaps the bright colors of his recent deeds might soften the darker hues of his past.