He was too afraid to sleep. In the night, there were nightmares and shadows that lingered, reaching closer, trying to grab him. The days grew colder, and the nights longer. There weren't many places where Kanrel could hide and truly rest. Each mile brought more dread, and the little signs of people traveling south in hundreds—the abandoned campsites he passed along the way—brought no peace of mind. The snow piled, thrice it had snowed in the past week, and not one living thing had he seen.
Food was running low. He had been rationing the moment he had first gotten a taste of the deer that he had murdered, and now only a few strips of it remained in his pouch. He wondered whether it was better to just keep walking down the road and hope to reach Aucklyn before starvation would have him for itself, or should he hunt for anything that might roam the forests this time of year. Surely he'd run into a rabbit sooner rather than later.
He chose to keep walking, and if he were to see signs or an animal, then he'd hunt. Straying too far from the road might prove to be a lethal gamble for the sake of uncertainty. It was better to bet on the certainty that lay at the end of the road.
Along the way, he couldn't help but glance behind, or above, or to the left or the right. He kept searching for shadows that seemed wrong. Always ready to hurl a code at danger, lest he found himself a part of their torment. He had his own, with his own regrets, and even if oblivion itself were a thing more alluring than remembering. He would much rather not replace one torment with another, which could prove to be worse than what he had.
But the longer he thought and doubted himself and what he had allowed to happen, the more alluring the thought of it became.
A murderer, like him, ought never become a man again; he ought either suffer the hellish torment of regret, or simply be executed by those whom he had wronged. The sweet embrace of forgetfulness is one too gentle for someone only deserving of punishment.
Multiple times a day, his thoughts would spiral, returning to the same self-condemnations that he had reached weeks ago. After each nail he struck to himself, he found himself numb to the moment and forced to keep walking despite the constant brink of collapse, physical or otherwise.
Through all these spirals of self-reproach, a revelation distilled itself above all other thoughts: you yourself cannot win against yourself; your mind will always know all that there is to know about you, and you yourself cannot know all about it. Only if you are without shame, without self-hatred, can you proclaim yourself to have won, though even then, in reality, you have lost.
You cannot run away from yourself, not when forced to be with yourself at all times. Lest you drink and drink until you forget who you were; until you fall asleep in the snow, thinking it to be the softest bed, and the warmth that arises to be just love itself.
There just wasn't anything he could drink to be that way. He was denied the ability to become drunk. There was no such thing as wine. Just walking despite everything.
For just how long does an insect have to roam before it reaches a place where humans live? Surely just days. It must be just days. It had to. If it were longer, a week, or weeks, then it would starve and soon freeze, only to become dirt in the summer, now always devoid of the scraps that once kept it alive.
Night fell fast, but Kanrel yet went on. He preferred not to coil beside a tree in the snow; he hoped to be lucky enough to find a cottage or left behind camp equipment, though it was unlikely, for so far he had come across only remnants of campfires and nothing more. And would he ever find a house so far from Jersten and Aucklyn? Who'd live so far from human contact?
The road ahead was illuminated by the magical fire he kept up. It was long and winding, having no end to it; it was just a gap between two forests he walked between. The snow ahead had packed into even banks at least a foot deep, and each step proved to be more laborious than the previous one. The even fields of snow extended as far as the eye could see, disappearing behind the next bend on the road, or into the darkness of the forests on either side of him.
At times, the wind would push him from the back, a strong touch that forced him forth, but still called him to glance behind; to make sure that no shadow had crept closer. There was none. Nothing at all. Just his own footprints that followed him, on and on, only stopping where he did.
He returned his gaze ahead, letting it rest on where he'd leave his next print, and the one after that, and so forth without a stop, looking away at times, to the left and the right, to where he came from and to where he was going, but further ahead. He was safe, though never once did it feel like it.
Then...
He was forced to stop. There was something in his way. An irregular thing ahead; something he had not seen existing before him, only behind.
Footprints. Not of a rabbit's, or a moose's, or even a raven's... They were human with boots attached to them, half covered by a new layer of snow. They were perhaps a day old... He frantically looked around, then ran closer to the prints, afraid that they'd just disappear into the snow.
He looked at them closer; they weren't heading up or down the road, but instead across it, from the right side to the left. They weren't much larger than his, but the stride was much longer, yet the prints weren't as if the person had run, just simply walked. The person, man or woman, must have been quite tall, much taller than he was.
He hesitated a moment. Should he follow them? To stray from the road he had chosen to walk down... But it must have been a hunter, for who would, during winter, traverse so far from his or her village? He swallowed. If he found that person, they might have food for him.
He stepped toward the direction the prints were heading, past a leafless birch tree, and he could see how the prints went deeper and deeper into the forest. They seemed to disappear behind a set of trees and then a ridge. He took a few more steps, then stopped again. His skin crawled.
They could be a cultist... for who else, other than a hunter, would find themselves so far from a village during winter? The person could prove to be too dangerous. There could be traps ahead, or even an ambush... or something much worse... a whole hidden settlement, lived in by more cultists, awaiting someone to sacrifice to their false god.
His stomach suddenly growled. Kanrel sighed and stepped past another tree, closely following the prints that were much more visible beneath the cover of trees and their branches. It had been decided for him: this sudden sign of human life could prove to be well worth it, or so his stomach thought.
If it had been a summer's day, or any other season of the year except winter, would he have seen a path formed by frequent use, or was this just a one-time thing for whoever had chosen to walk this way?
The footprints went past trees, tall birches and spruces, and grey alders, most stripped of colors other than their gray, white, and brown. Though the spruces, beneath their coats of white, still showcased their deep green needles.
The presumed path snaked, dodging dense sections of close-by spruce trees and even over long-ago fallen birches, serving as natural bridges over whatever lay beneath the layers of snow. The wind felt on the road was not there to push him forth; he could hear it flow past and over the trees, gently shaking them, and carrying powdery snow that soon met the warmth of his magic, and wet his hair like mist would. The path went along a slope, which it descended only to enter a different section of the same forest. The prints still served as his lead, ahead they disappeared past another sudden turn because of an incline of a hill densely populated by trees.
Every few steps, Kanrel found himself glancing behind, only to see his own prints and the prints of an unknown presumed man following him. And deep in the forest, he saw shapes, formed by the shadow of trees, cast onto the snow.
Kanrel followed the path as it turned right, and there the path began winding down, along another incline, toward what seemed like a flatter part of the forest. He stepped over another fallen tree, this one thin and long dead, as he entered a clearing, where, ahead, he saw a strange slope. The prints went toward it, but Kanrel had to stop.
He sought other signs of life than just these prints. But he could see none. He listened closer to the wind and the voices of the world, which it brought along with it... But there was nothing out of the usual. He had just two choices: either follow the steps or turn around and return to the road, to what seemed like the safest option.
But... he had walked for over a mile. It was dark, and he was tired. He was hungry. The prints might go on for many miles yet. There was no guarantee that he'd find anything worth his time tonight. A risk for little to no reward. Other than everything. It could mean everything to him. He might see, for the first time since forever, a human. At that point, the starvation didn't matter, the lack of sleep would lose all its meaning, and only the chance of touching something as alive as himself meant anything at all.
He swallowed, for this one moment, his doubts and stepped forth, yet following the prints as they went ahead, toward a strange slope in the middle of the dark...
Slowly, the slope made sense. For it wasn't one, not at all. It looked as if it were because of the trees that half obstructed it from his view. It was the roof of a small cottage, covered by snow. It was like a small hill surrounded by trees. It had no lights...
It was dark. So very dark.
They must be asleep. Kanrel thought and quickened his pace, no longer looking down or caring about the prints themselves; they were still there, but now the cottage was the clearest sign of human life.
Yet he soon frowned and slowed down. Ahead, on the snow. The footprints stopped.
Instead, there lay clothes, half covered by snow, frozen by its touch; they veiled a pair of boots and a knife. Not far from the bundle left behind lay a white, furry-looking thing. A dead rabbit.
Kanrel reached the stack of things, he crouched over it, leaning closer, and carefully went through it all. He felt a familiar lump in his throat as he lifted the dead rabbit and got up with it. The clothes could stay, so could the boots, the knife, and the belt.
They'd be found by someone else, some other day.
Kanrel stepped over them, taking the last few steps the owner of the cottage had not, reaching the door he must have wanted to reach, and soon ready for himself a warm meal from the rabbit that he had caught.
His touch met the handle, which turned with great effort; it must have been frozen as well. The door opened with a gentle creak, and his light soon lit the way, allowing him sight of a small room where things that one man living in his lonesome might need to survive through any season of the year. He stepped inside, closed the door behind him, and searched through it.
There was a brick furnace, a small bed filled with blankets and furs; the floor was wooden, and there lay the furs of a bear in the middle of it all. Near the furnace were pots and pans, as well as some cutlery, placed aside onto a cupboard. On the other side of it were stacked bundles of firewood that reached halfway up to the ceiling. It was perhaps enough to survive the winter. Kanrel wasn't quite sure.
Just across it, beside the door, was a table and next to it multiple shelves of things, hunting equipment as well as carvings made from wood, depicting animals, such as bears, deer, wild hogs, and even hawks. On one shelf, multiple books, perhaps journals, stood side by side. And on the table itself lay, neatly placed, a journal, multiple feathers made into quills, a closed bottle of ink, as well as a lantern.
Kanrel set his things near the bed and went ahead to light the furnace, he filled it with wood and lit it with a code, after which he returned outside with a knife in hand to remove the fur of the rabbit. It proved to be much more difficult than he had at first thought, mainly because the poor thing was frozen. He had to warm it with a code; only then could he skin it, and soon after gut it. His hands were bloodied, and so was his dinner, so he washed them and the parts of himself tainted by blood with a code, then returned inside. The cottage was now much warmer than before.
He found himself a suitable pot that could fit the whole rabbit as well as enough water to boil it. Things like seasoning and such did not matter, not at all. So he just formed a code to bring forth enough water to fill the pot, which he placed onto a hook above the fire. To quicken the process, he made the water boil, and then submerged the processed rabbit into the pot, and covered it with a lid. It would take a while to cook, but soon, at least, he'd have something to eat...
To kill time, he sat by the desk, opened the journal, and began reading through it. It detailed what seemed like most of the past year or so:
- - - - -
Spring has come, and I already feel less insane than weeks before; the cold, dark winters make me as gloomy as ever, and I long for the warmth of summer, as well as its bountiful gains from hunting and fishing.
Years back, I might've longed for a woman's touch, but I find the time spent alone much less taxing than the time spent in daily pretense with other pretenders, liars, and fools. As the years go by, the more I know and become certain that my decision to leave Lo'Gran, to traverse north, even past some of its villages, was the proper choice for me.
No more needless bureaucracy, no more liars or cheaters other than myself; no more nights spent in drunken haze, nor whores to satisfy a lust that cannot be satisfied. To the world, I am more or less dead, yet I've never felt more alive than I do on this first spring's day.
- - -
Today I sat by the river, fishing, and I wondered what it would be like to be a fish. Would there be things like love or lust, loneliness or satisfaction, or would my life, then, be nothing more than the basics that one might need to survive? Would I only seek a worm to fill me, for a mate so that I might breed, only to find myself one day on the hook of a man fishing by the river?
Surely I feel shame, for have I not killed many fish by now; thus I must claim that I fish not only for gain, but to feed myself, so as to live. Though I wonder, because of a fish, if my life is as worth or less or more than that of a fish?
- - -
The more I live, the more I am certain that there is no such thing as truth that can be found within. Not yourself, not of yourself. What one must do instead is to look outward and find truth from somewhere there, wherever it might be.
But one ought not dismiss what can be found within either, for someone else can find truth from there; it is just that you aren't allowed to do it yourself, lest you fool yourself into believing someone who would lie to themselves just so a moment of pain feels less than it is; or fool yourself into believing that someone else's tragedy is somehow lesser than yours; or that your love, and the people around you are more important than those much further from you.
Do not believe yourself, from within you, you cannot find the truth of you, or even about you.
- - -
Can a pool of water, a lake, a river, or the ocean be clear if there lies a reflection? Is it not all muddled by the blue of the sky, its clouds, the nearby forest and its trees, and whoever happens to walk past, beside, or over it?
- - -
Today I saw a strange phenomenon: a black cloud that burst far from the north, then replaced all the clouds that usually are above; these ones seem closer, and they veil the sun, enough to leave it red.
I wonder whether there lies a firemountain far in the north, like those that exist on the Isle of Tarshi? Perhaps one day I find myself bored with this forest and its rivers and instead travel further north to become the first man to see how small the world looks as seen from the slopes of the great Northern Mountains?
Though I doubt that I'll find the time or the strength, I am growing older and older. I already see some gray hair growing, and perhaps death finds me before I ever get the chance to find out for myself if firemountains exist so far up north...
- - -
Winter might come sooner; the days grow much colder. I fear that I might not have enough wood to warm me through it.
I blame the dark clouds that hide away the warmth of the sun.
- - -
Today I saw people, lots of 'em, walking down the King's Road, from north to south. They must have come from Jersten. Has something happened, perhaps related to the clouds above? Perhaps a firemountain has burst molten stone down the slopes and left the town in ruins.
Though I am curious, I dare not approach. They have their own problems, and I have mine. It seems that I must wait a day before I may cross the road to check the traps.
- - - - -
Kanrel stared at the final few words. The next pages were empty, and he wondered just how many words the man had left to tell the world. Just how many words might've fit this journal, or the next one, years from now?
It felt like a shame; a story left unfinished and untold, to the point that no one would know what had happened to the inhabitant of this cottage.
He grabbed one of the quills, wet it in ink, tapped a few times to be rid of the excess, and wrote:
'The person who lived here is no more; he died on a winter's day, while bringing home his next dinner.
He never reached home, and what was left of him was just his boots and his clothes.
The shadows took him…'
Kanrel soon frowned as he looked at what he had written. It felt like only half the truth. It simply wasn't enough, so he swallowed and then wrote some more:
'The shadows took him, but I am more to blame for his death. What has happened here, in Jersten and possibly much further, some of it, if not all, can be blamed on a singular foolish man.
Whoever reads this, a week from now, or months, or years, or decades, if ever there will be another soul to see what I have written here, then know the name to blame for the useless, senseless deaths of so many, such as the lonesome man who lived in this cottage.
Blame Kanrel Iduldian, the man who released Ignar Orcun, the Angel who cast our world into shadow.'
He stared at the letters for a while, letting them dry. He placed the quill to the side and closed the ink bottle with its cap. He got up from the chair and returned to his boiling rabbit. Perhaps an hour had passed since he began reading. He looked inside the pot and figured that it might need another hour or so to cook.
The next hour, he spent packing things that he might steal for himself for the journey ahead. He would only eat and sleep here, then leave when the morrow comes. He even undressed and washed himself as well as his clothes with a few codes.
After which, he removed the pot from the fire, found himself a plate, and levitated the boiled rabbit onto it. His stomach growled at the sight of the thing, then he ate, still not like a human, though this time he at least had some cutlery to use.
He ate perhaps half of it, and the rest he packed into a cloth he found. He hung it outside from a tree, and hoped that no bird or other living thing would have it for itself to eat. He lay on the bed as the furnace still heated the cottage with a new set of firewood placed inside it.
Kanrel tried to sleep, but his thoughts made it impossible, it felt like. 'If I fall asleep, will I be here tomorrow? Or will I just be a bundle of clothes on the bed and a pair of discarded boots beside the fireplace?' And when he eventually fell asleep, he saw dreams where he met a man, inside this cottage, with graying hair and beard. They talked to one another... but then came the shadows, and took them both away.
He woke up on the floor. The furnace had long ago burned through its fuel and now lay dormant and cold. The air in the cottage itself was cool and barely warm enough to keep him from shivering. His lower back hurt, but despite it, he got up and got his things. He made sure that there'd be no kindling in the furnace. He cleaned the pot he had used and set it where he had taken it from. He did the same to the cutlery and the plate.
Soon, he opened the door and walked out. The rabbit meat that he had not eaten was still outside, so he packed it into his things and began making his way along the path in the middle of the forest that would lead him back onto the main road.
He saw his own footprints, slightly covered by a faint layer of snow, and followed them. Ahead, he saw the bundle of clothes and the pair of boots. He braced himself and stepped over them. Only to stop a few steps afterward.
It felt wrong to just leave them as they were. A sigh escaped his lips, and he turned around. He crouched over the bundle once more and slowly picked up everything. The shirt, the coat, the pants, the boots, the belt, the knife, the socks; everything that there was. He returned to the cottage, warmed them all up with a few codes so that he might fold the clothes into a neat pile beside the bed; so that he might place the boots beside the door, as if the man still were there; as if the cottage had now become his grave.
Then he stepped out and closed the door a final time. The thought of burning the whole thing went through him, but he discarded the thought. Such a thing would only remove the hermit's entire existence, leaving behind no other trail than just a pile of ash. Kanrel didn't want to remove a memory; the existence of someone else in its entirety. He wasn't the Veil; it wasn't what he wanted for others.
He followed the trail of his own making, the mix of prints made by him and the man long gone, leaving the cottage as untouched as he could. Maybe someone else would someday find it, and along it the truth of not only what Kanrel had done, but also read through the life of a man, who must have had so much more to say and write down than he had the time for.