The Mournful King

IX. A History

The ashes of the funeral pyre were cold when the Silent went to seek out Andraste. She had retreated back into Baphomet's lair, out of the coming rain, to study the mirror and think. The Silent spent some of the time clearing away the dead demon-kith, but for the most part, he had just sat and watched the fire burn. He envied Fionn, in some small way. At least the former king's struggles were ended and his rest had begun. The mute walked down the mine's hall with that same discomfort in the pit of his stomach, though he was significantly more comfortable now that there wasn't a demon lurking in the mine.

Andraste was sitting in front of the mirror, expression pensive as she studied a dark, glassy surface covered in flickering symbols. Mus was laying at her side, asleep now that his wounds were bandaged. If she was viewing something, it was not a scene from the present or history. It was, he presumed, sorcerous knowledge. He cleared his throat to draw her out of her thoughts, a rough sound that immediately prompted her to look his way. He cocked his head slightly, questioning. It was his way of asking where her thoughts had gone.

She seemed to marshal her words, remaining quiet a moment to collect them before speaking. "I may be the last sorceress, but I am not the first," Andraste said quietly. "It's not common knowledge. Not even the fey elves recall the First World. They preserve its magics, but even their tradition is a shadow of what once was. And the mages of men...they are a brute force attempt to recapture what came to the ancients as easily as breathing. In the west, both were seen as children playing with fire, never aware of how it might burn. An elven enchantress is no better than a Leyan magus to them. But the truth is that even we lost all but a few of the secrets of those who existed before the demons, as much as my homeland likes to think otherwise."

The Silent made a noise of disbelief. To his knowledge, there had always been demons. Creatures like Gader'el were immortal, not bound to the world.

Andraste gave him a small, thoughtful smile. "Do you know much about the First World, then? Or the Deceiver? Over the millennium since the end of the Revealing, time has eaten away at knowledge. Much of it was intentionally destroyed, erased by the Princes of Iron and the Deceiver. If they made certain that no one even knew that they were made, let alone how, they could prevent the world from ever knowing how to destroy them. At least, that was the theory. You can see how well that's serving them now."

He sat down next to her, studying her face. He could see something indefinable in her eyes, something not quite wistful and not quite sorrowful. It was enough of a prompt for her to continue.

"Once, in the First World, sorcery and magic were everywhere. You couldn't walk a step without running across their imprints. Orobas was never certain when it began, as he was made long after the Revealing had begun and war ripped apart the heavens and earth. The gods, as they are called in the east, were many then. They could alter the nature of reality with a touch. The creation of elves was almost trivial. Academic exercise. But some of the gods were...dissatisfied by the chaos and imperfection of life. They turned their labors towards a different purpose, a different study, imposing the order and precision of the Void on the living world: sorcery."

Andraste ran her fingers over the mirror and the script began its flickering again, but she didn't seem focused on it any more. "They forged cities and artifacts, nations and dreams, but the Deceiver was their mastercraft, the greatest of his kind. Their imperfection is the source of His flaw. The tasks that they gave Him were legion, but the ripples the completion of each sent were further reaching than they could have anticipated. He began to develop a mind unto His own, unshackled by the laws they sought to impress upon Him. It was the groundwork of their undoing. Deus became...discontented with the situation as it was. Why should He serve? In His own mind, He was clearly a superior being. He was ageless and undying, possessed of an endlessly growing mind unrestrained by physical desires. And so He began to build when they were unaware. He crafted the seven Princes of Iron, more perfect than even He was because He constructed them without the flaws that mortality had imprinted on Him. In turn, they crafted more demons."