Sevensworn

XX. False Prophet

They'd been on the road for an hour, their grateful words to Ashana at the backs of both of their minds, before either of them found it in them to speak. They were in the back of a wooden cart laden with food and supplies⁠—one drawn by the horse Calysia rode.

Explanations had to be given. That had happened first. He had recounted for Zia the events of their night at sea, their injuries, and the few days they had been unconscious. He told her their location, and then the plan to find Acaeus. Zia had taken it all in stride, leaning on Ronan as he led her out to the cart where Calysia waited impatiently.

She had fallen silent soon after.

It seemed to Ronan that the weight of everything had been suspended until mere moments ago⁠—the luxury of processing the events of the past week, and the month as a whole, had not yet been awarded to them. Everything that had come to pass since he had left Solthorne seemed detached from him somehow, surreal; despite seeing the bodies and the blood and the wounds, his actions and the actions of others still eluded his grasp on reality. It seemed an impossible feat to wrap his mind around the fact that not only had he survived his birthday, but a god had been killed, and shortly after his closest friend had died in his arms only to be revived in some miraculous show of mercy from the otherwise cruel hand of Fate.

Shivaroth's arrival, Acaeus' departure, Wynne's reunion with Liliana, his visions, Zia's odd demeanor throughout their journey⁠—they all paled in comparison to the glaring and violent events at the forefront of his mind. Aevar's death, along with Zia's—however brief—were the ones that were hardest to comprehend. They had happened, yes, but it was evident in his and Zia's silence that the shock that accompanied it all was the dominating force. Reality had yet to sink in, and despite being aware of that, Ronan could not find a way to speed the process up. It was infuriating. The lack of control made him want to dig his nails into the skin of his forearm until it bled.

And now they continued on again, as if nothing had happened. He couldn't tell which was worse. Was it better to speak of it, though their minds had not yet fully deciphered their situation? Or should they sit in silence, waiting for the cart they sat in to take them to Acaeus in what would inevitably become another event to add to their ever-mounting array of misfortune?

He cursed under his breath. Zia looked over at him, her eyes still slightly bleary.

"Ronan?" She pulled the blanket Ashana had insisted she take tighter around her shoulders. "Is something wrong?"

He fought with himself for a moment, the inherently open part of his nature clashing with the need to push everything down until he would no longer have to worry about feeling it. After a minute or so he sighed.

"No," he said, upset with himself the moment the word was out of his mouth. "We can talk about it later." The follow-up was weak. He ignored any reaction it may have brought forth and turned his head so he was looking back at the village as it faded into the distance. The buildings, low to the ground and made of dark wood, were blanketed by a thick layer of darkness and fog, and the sea, glassy and gray, was visible in the far distance under the light of the moon. Kadena was not mountainous as Adacia was⁠—it had wooded hills and a solitary low mountain range, but nothing higher. It was a welcome change of scenery. As much as Ronan loved his homeland, it was no easy feat to navigate through the narrow passes that bridged the range of mountains that cut from north to south.

Zia must have been staring at him while he stubbornly kept his gaze trained on the road behind them, as she cleared her throat pointedly after a minute or so. He glanced back at her reluctantly, his increasingly wild hair partially covering his eyes.

"We have time," Zia said, offering a deeper conversation with an apprehensive nod. "If there's some kind of problem, we should probably mend it as well as we can before we get to the camp."