In Which Time has No Concept

In Which Time has Little Concept
From Sylvenya: A New Journey by M. Cattle

Etoile shuddered in the cold breeze, teeth chattering even though his jaw was clenched tight. He wasn't confident in his success, even in front of Etienne, who was clapping rhythmically to set the pace of the summoning. Etoile peered over the edge of the shingle-work of the tower roof: the ground was faded and obscured by cloud cover and sheer distance: distance too great to afford a misstep. The peridot-eyed magus squinted and darted his vision back to his friend, calling to him with shaky voice. "Let's begin, before I change my mind," said he, and though it would have been soon enough hours ago… However, he thought, it must be done.

Etienne's encouraging smile deflated and flattened, with his furrowed brows in a worried fit. Heaving a silent sigh, the young bard tapped his foot, yielding a jingle from his anklets. "Frére," he called, "are you sure you want to do this? You don't have anything to prove to the Magus Majora, and…" The magus's young friend was cut off by a steely green glower from the edge of the rooftop. Etoile, its owner, knew he had never summoned previously, and, dangerous as it was, all of his comrades were almost brutally slaughtered because he wasn't skilled enough to protect them himself. Clenching his fists as well, Etoile spoke again at last.

"We're doing this now, Etienne. Start chanting."

The golden-eyed bard frantically obeyed, with shakily accurate articulation and impeccable rhythm: the true talent of his occupation. Etoile mixed the summoning components together one after another: ashes from a phoenix in gelatinous adhesive, ground phoenix beak and talon in the new mortar, and sacred oil into the frigid steel chalice in perfect rhythmic accuracy.

Certainly this couldn't have been the most unpleasant combination of ingredients Etoile could use, or so he thought: a gray, inconsistent material with faint glimmers and the feel of thick cement, with a gravelly burnt scent to match. Etoile soon regretted the mixture's creation as he brought the vile concoction to his lips and held his nose. It must be done.

The beast would soon take him once he stood in the ashen circle. It must be done.

The magus cleared his mind and took a step, reluctantly holding back his gag reflex as he swallowed the awful experiment.

It must be done.
---

The ceremony began as Etoile took another step into the circle of ashes. All around him began to glow as Etienne and his surroundings faded away, until all that the young magus could see was a dark tunnel, lit by passing red flames. The heats of the pyres were absent, as if they didn't actually exist at all. As the lights flew by, Etoile tried to keep his mind empty, tried to keep from filling his mind with quiet reflection: being stuck in spiritual limbo for eternity because of a bit of self-narration was a stupid way to die, or at least become a comatose vegetable for a few months and then die. Not that he'd remember it anyway- but just then, the young magus realized he was already thinking and redirected his attention to the lights, which were now rotating slowly around him.

Falling, falling, falling and more falling: young Etoile Vert thought it was getting old. But just as he thought that single, short thought, the pitch darkness around him exploded in a crimson flare of bright heat, slapping at his cheeks and his bare, cold fingers. He closed his eyes. It is done.
It took Etoile a few moments to realize that it wasn't done, and that he wasn't dead: not yet, at least. Raising his eyelids to a squint, he could faintly make out that which he had come for. Glowing feathers stroked at his cold, rosy nose and coaxed his curiosity into opening his leafy-green eyes.

What is your bidding, O Master of…?

The voice that had wormed its way into Etoile's ears slowly trailed off. Clearly, the magnificent beast was expecting someone else.
Before him floated a flickering crimson crest atop an elegant scarlet phoenix, whose surprise showed not in its face but in its hesitance. Questions arose in its mind that slowly wafted into the magus's consciousness:

What has become of my master? Time could not keep so many lives of the phoenix without him losing track of those past. Is my master expired?  Etoile couldn't say. No one in Sylvenya knew exactly how long a phoenix's life lasted: it had been a mystery to every scholar born and passed on.

Are you my new master?

Etoile swallowed as he began to speak, but the phoenix knew his question and its answer.
I will grant your request and accept your sacrifice</i>. Etoile winced. That may have been the better of the two answers, but only marginally. He swallowed with great effort, prepared for the worst, and spread his arms wide, tossing aside protection of himself.
Etoile felt strangely warm and comfortable before he lost spiritual consciousness and blacked out completely.

It is done.


To be continued.