Epilogue: An Unforgotten Duty.

A tavern in Thunderfell, several days later.

An incongruously handsome man sat alone at a table, far too clean and well-dressed for the low-quality of the establishment he found himself in. Unlike the last tavern he'd been to, this one was definitely seedy, located in an exceptionally dangerous area of old Thunderfell known locally as the Pits. Foul odors wafted through stale air, the mix of unwashed bodies and spilled drink reigning predominantly in a cramped room that was only cleaned when something truly gruesome hit the floor. Despite the tight confines, the man had nearly a quarter of the room all to himself; the eyes of the tavern’s rough clientele glazed over whenever they so much as glanced his way, and even the tavern's lone waitress seemed to have forgotten his table existed.

The man nodded approvingly and hefted a mug of ale— a tiny flash of golden light from his hands giving the mug a more thorough cleaning than it had likely gotten in years— giving the beverage a long sniff before taking a sip. The ale proved bitter, sour, thin, weak from being watered down, and with an oily film on top that created a deeply unpleasant texture. It was without a doubt one of the worst ales he'd ever tasted, served in one of the worst environments available.

Perfect.

The main door squealed open as rusty hinges screamed in protest at the poor state of their maintenance, and the figure entering flinched back— though that may have been the smell. They were even worse dressed for the area, wearing a royal blue, gold-trimmed cloak over a set of noble's finery that would have looked more at home on a king at court. The figure was androgenous, but still bizarrely beautiful, somehow disdaining the mortal concept of sex but still demanding to embody the peak of all standards of beauty.

No one noticed the regal figure’s entrance, even when their perfect face sneered in open distaste.

“You have spent too much time here, Cor’Mael. Mortality is clearly rubbing off on you.”

“Is it? I hadn't noticed. Come, sit, have a drink. I'm told it's the best on offer today.”

The figure stepped gingerly through the room over to the table, their sneer hardly faltering even after taking a seat. They took one look at the proffered ale and grimaced in disgust.

“Ugh, what is this filth? Is this a joke, Cor’Mael? I'll not sully myself to this level for your amusement. Have you completely forgotten the Pride of Heaven—”

“The so-called ‘pride of heaven’ is what caused this whole mess!” Cor’Mael snapped, “Pride has been allowed to eclipse purpose. The intent of the Heavens should always be to serve, to protect. But for pride, compromises were made, and now consequences have come home to roost.

“This ale—” he raised up his own mug, the liquid within sloshing around unpleasantly, “is an allegory; a test, Veltaph, that you have failed. No one willingly drinks this swill; its making is a distillation of mortal misery at every level. The fact that this room is packed, with full mugs at every table, is a sign. Seeing it should have filled you with shame, because its very existence is a mark of our failure.”

With that, he drank deep of the filthy ale, tilting his head so he could maintain eye contact with the now-flustered figure across from him. Veltaph’s flawless features flashed between anger, embarrassment, and disgust before settling on resentful silence.

“I am to receive your report on the Awakened.” They eventually bit out, grudgingly.

Cor’Mael made an almost negligent wave with one hand, a small burst of golden light flowing from his fingers straight to the eyes of his haughty companion. They briefly had a look of extreme concentration before their eyes snapped back to the relaxed figure of Cor’Mael.

“You have greatly exceeded your mandate, Cor’Mael. The Awakened is dangerous, and the level of assistance you are providing it risks everything on this world.”

“He’s just a kid, and he would've stayed that way if we hadn't grown complacent and repeatedly ruined his life. Do you even realize what kind of mindset he was in? He was a bad night’s sleep away from going off like an apocalyptic firework when I was Called. Again, our fault. If I'd stuck to the mandate we'd be having this conversation over the smouldering remains of this universe. Instead, with a little basic common decency and some interaction with people who aren't trying to manipulate or murder him, it turns out that underneath all the anger was a decent kid trying desperately to hold on in a situation that he couldn't possibly have prepared for. I'm just giving him a hand.”

This content has been misappropriated from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.

“The Eyes of Heaven are upon you in this, Cor’Mael,” the figure warned, “they may take umbrage with your… methods.”

“I have been Called.” Cor'Mael hissed darkly. “I have taken the first-sworn Oath of the Third Host. We are the eyes below. See them, and remember. If the Eyes of Heaven wish to challenge the validity of my Calling, then they are welcome to come down from their high pillars and inform me in person.”

“Careful, Cor’Mael,” Veltaph intoned, standing carefully. “For you tread upon dangerous ground.”

“Don’t we all?” Cor’Mael replied casually, shooing the interloper away with one hand dismissively and signaling the end of their meeting. Veltaph stormed out in a huff, and the moment the door closed behind them it was like a spell broke over the whole room.

“Oh! Beggin’ your pardon Mr Corman,” the harried voice of the poor waitress came as she abruptly remembered his existence, “Your food’ll be right up! Would you be needin’ another ale?”

“Keep ‘em coming Evie.” He said with a cheerful wink that set the woman blushing furiously. “And just call me Leigh, remember? ‘Mr Corman’ sounds so stuffy.”

“Oh, ah, um… as you will it, Mr Leigh, sir!”

Still blushing, the waitress scampered off to the kitchen, and he chuckled as he settled back into his chair for a long night.

Veris Haethram sat quietly at his desk, its familiar layout unchanged from his long absence. He wouldn't even need to look, just reach out and… there, fresh ink and paper. [Telekinesis] would bring him any reference books from his library without even needing to be aimed— he knew exactly where everything should be. The familiarity was comforting, but he couldn't escape the pain he felt at the empty space where another desk should sit next to his own.

Just like Addy, to hide the pain rather than face it. Though I suppose running to the furthest depths of the world was hardly better.

He sighed heavily, unwilling to allow himself to sink back into melancholy. He'd spent ten long years playing gardener in the Deep Hollows, and that should have been enough time for a man to pull himself together. But home was just so familiar, and even after so long he kept expecting to turn a corner and be bowled over by an exuberant—

“Darling!” Adeline’s voice startled him from yet another memory, her words carried on a simple spell through the manor. “We have a guest, won’t you come down?”

“Confound it all woman!” He shouted back irritably, “I am attempting to solve what may be the great Calamity of our age. I have no time for guests!”

A quiet pop announced his wife's appearance behind him— straight through his wards again, blast it all— before she grabbed him painfully by the ear.

“You can stare morosely at the wall some other time. If you embarrass me now, I swear to the Heavens I'll give my vote to Headrick for the research charter.”

He gaped at her blatant betrayal while shuffling around to ease the pulling on his ear.

“You— you wouldn't! You fiend, this is blackmail!!”

“Try me.”

“Aarrgghh!”

He was forced to capitulate in the end, unwilling to risk calling her bluff, though he resolved to remain as unpleasant as the rules of hospitality would allow.

I wonder what up-jumped, overbred, milquetoast, high-society buffoon she's decided to foist upon me now… Damn social climbers.

Rubbing at his stinging ear with one hand while keeping the other hand out for his wife to grip, they descended the stairs to the manor's parlor. Injecting as much venom into his glare as he dared with Adeline so close, he regarded the odd young man currently perusing an old biology text on [Blight Pits] of all things. What he saw perplexed him.

Clearly of lowland heritage with that dark hair and narrowed eyes. Damn oddest enchantment work on that coat as well, is that tribal markings? And a Pathwalker, second step from the feel so not terribly impressive, but quite beyond the usual range for nobility… who is this?

At his questioning look, Adeline smiled with that unique smugness known only to women and certain breeds of cat, respectively. Irritated, he cleared his throat to announce their presence. The young man looked up quickly before smiling in a way that made Veris immensely suspicious.

“Hey old man, it's been a while.”

“Old man?? Why I've never—”

He froze as the faintest trace of magic filtered through the air, shocking him as he recognized its origin, no matter how impossible.

“Kosimar!?” He shouted in disbelief.

The young man grinned impishly, though it couldn't hide the traces of exhaustion on his face.

“Yep! I finally made it, and you are not gonna believe what it took to get here.”