The Poisoned Crown (SyndiSparklez)

20: ~ Epilogue ~

The Historian found Jordan passed out at a library table, smelling strongly of alcohol. Grimacing, he closed his eyes and knew the time for a decision had come. There was much he could not sacrifice, but Jordan was his better child—unlike his birth ones. He gently laid a hand on the man's shoulder and took a deep breath.

Jeriah was necessary, as was the Taint. They would have been bearable had Spark done his job. But the man had his own agenda and the Historian was should have predicted his double-crossing, but Spark hadn't been the biggest problem. Thomas C. Syndicate had been. He had disturbed a great deal of his plans.

Yet, all was not ruined or lost. Far from it.

And he would keep it that way. Jordan's very heart and soul were not sacrifices he was going to make. He wasn't going to make—however, Jordan would.

Procuring from a satchel he procured a key of a glimmering black iron—very similar to Alister's sword. He sighed, and brushed Jordan's hair out of his face. His son. His true prodigy. He could have been saved from much of this heartbreak and struggles if not for Thomas.

He closed his eyes and felt his own conscience tighten. He was sorry, to a degree, but it was not forever nor an entirely awful sacrifice. Jordan would better from it and he would fair physically and mentally healthier. Especially, considering he couldn't dispose of Jeriah until Mianite's death.

Jordan mumbled in his sleep and the Historian opened his eyes to look down at him.

"...Tom."

The Historian's mouth twitched in a frown, and his decision was far greater cemented. Tom was an obstacle that Jordan was only held to by his guilt and feelings and the silly notion of owing the miscreant for his life. The Historian closed his eyes again and began drawing upon Jordan's very soul and through Jordan's open drooling mouth his essence came pouring out. Along with the lingering essence of another.

Unbeknownst to the closed eyes of the Historian, an essence danced around Jordan's—much brighter and flame like as it began to bind into the key. The very conscience, guilt, the very feelings, and love, and hesitation that kept Jordan from acting. His heart, and his soul, and the part of Tom's soul that was holding Jordan's torn soul together went into the key. Which burned black on the table, charred.

The Historian finished and noticed with surprise, Jordan was awake. His hand shot out, grabbing the still burning key and his eyes flicked up to the Historian. They were brown. Not indigo. Not violet. Not possessed, not overwhelmed with the Taint—but in that moment, Jordan.

"What were you trying to do to me?" Jordan snapped, his eyes swimming with feelings and rapidly looking up and down the Historian who took a step back respectfully. "My soul—you were going to take that from me for your own advantage. You were going to use me."

"I was," the Historian said admittedly. "Jordan, let me explain."

"There's nothing to explain," Jordan was standing up quickly—his heart hammering. "You lied—you knew what was in Dagrun. You don't care—you're using Jeriah, and you planned to let him use me for your own plans."

"Jordan," the Historian said sternly and Jordan shook his head. He was pushing back his chair, not even caring when it hit the ground, slamming onto the wood. The sound worsened the ringing in his ears. The key was in his hand, painful, but he knew what it was—and he knew better than to let go of it.

"Jordan, I need your cooperation," the Historian said gently, and he reached out his hand.

Jordan glanced at his hand.