A blessed silence pervaded the chamber, and that made the soft sounds of scampering all the more annoying.

Gorren kneeled before the reliquaries, long fingers clasped on his thighs. He was bare-footed and bare-chested, the ribs protruding from under his skin giving him a cadaverous aspect. The only clothing he wore was tattered breeches, hanging loosely by bony legs.

He slowly breathed out a puff of smoke, letting the accumulated tension of weeks drain away. It was cold in there, in the underground levels of his tower. The walls, ancient, rugged rock that dated far back in the past, retained much of the humidity of the ground. Still, he didn’t mind it. It was relaxing in fact. The cold soothed him, helped him to find his balance back.

Another of the many reasons why those soft sounds made his heckles raise.

“I thought i told you to clean the laboratory.” He said, flat voice echoing into the vast, cavern-like chamber.

The padding sounds stopped. Gorren was thinking about speaking more clearly when a tremulous voice replied.

“I-i have finished. I had nothing to do…” The voice trailed off.

Gorren didn’t answer. He was too sick and tired to get angry, let alone to point out that he had made himself quite clear about not wanting to be disturbed while he meditated. Maybe there would have been a miracle and he wouldn’t have to either.

The scurrying away of little feet that he hoped for didn’t materialize. Instead, a series of lithe steps, getting closer.

Gorren grimaced.

“This place…”

There was a little yelp when he threw his arm out to the side. Mana flared, and a coat messily tossed to the floor, flung into his open hand. Gorren got up, putting it on with sharp gestures. He took his time, grumbling under his breath all the time, and then turned to face the intruder with a pointed look.

Timothy shrunk under his gaze, looking marginally less haggard than the first time he had shown at the tower‘s door. He wore a robe far too big for him, head blue cloth spilling around his feet. The ample sleeves reached to his sides, with his hands disappearing in it. The boy nervously fiddled with one, large eyes flickering between the floor, the face of the old mage and the floor again.

“You can’t be telling me that you’ve already cleaned all that mess.” Gorren suddenly barked, eyeing him suspiciously.

Tim shuddered under his master’s tone. “I-i did, master.” He mumbled with hesitation. “It has been two hours since you’ve come down here.” He added quickly.

Gorren blinked in surprise at that. It had been so much time already?

I didn’t notice. This failure has been getting to me more than i thought.

He noticed that his apprentice was sneaking curious glances behind him.

He snorted, and stepped aside, gesturing for him to come and look. Timothy hesitated, then obliged. In two steps, his hesitation turned to wonder.

Before him, a multitude of sculptures littered the floor and covered the walls. Some were small, reaching barely to his chest, others high enough to almost touch the ceiling. Their forms were as varied as their sizes: lithe humanoid figures with wise expression and solemn vestments, their hands raised to bless, stood side by side with savage, half-animal creatures, caught in the motions of hunt and aggression. Grotesque shapes born of nightmares leered beside graceful forms of celestial beauty, just as forms roughly carved and exquisite statues of perfect craftmanship did the same.

All had eyes. All stared at him.

Timothy stepped back, suddenly conscious of those eyes of cold stone. He bumped against Gorren.

The old archmage put a hand on his shoulder. “Do you feel it?”

Timothy nodded shakily. There was a presence there, out of sight just enough for him to be unable to see it clearly, like a shadow under the water. It was old, so so old. Silent, watching, deep. It made him feel small, vulnerable.

“All humans can, but only mages to this extent,” Gorren said. “This place has… marks.”

Timothy turned to his master, curiosity overriding anxiety. “Marks?”

Gorren nodded and stepped toward the statue. Timothy didn’t follow. He felt like his legs had become of lead.

“What Gods are these?” He heard himself asking. He recognized some of the statues from back when he lived in the village. Lessara, the plump Goddess of the Harvest, watched him with a gentle smile and a blank stare from her place beside her severe-featured husband, Dannu, or Old Man Winter, like the adults liked to call him.

Gorren made a vague gesture. “All of them.” He said. “Or at least, all those i knew when i came here.”

“You built them? Master?” Timothy almost forgot the title. The old man had been clear enough that he had to always address him as such, and he didn’t care to hear another reprimand. But the silent attention he felt made him nervous.

“The statues? No.” Gorren stopped before an image. It was something reminiscent of a mix between a cephalopod and an insect with too many legs. Timothy shuddered when the old mage lovingly touched it. “I just… left a space open.”

Timothy wasn’t sure what to make of that and didn’t feel bold enough to ask. He shifted his weight from a foot to the other, at unease. That place gave him the shivers.

Gorren turned to face him, planting his fist on his sides and staring at him with narrowed eyes. Timothy jumped to attention, recognizing the attitude that his master took when it was time for one of his sudden lessons.

“What are the Gods?” He asked.

Timothy thought about it for a moment. “Beings higher than us.”

Gorren nodded slowly. “Simplistic, but essentially correct.” He gestured for him to come.

Timothy hesitated, not really wanting to get close to the statues, but Gorren gestured again, sharply, and he trotted to him, holding his robe as not to trip on it. The invisible eyes followed him, and he had to stop himself not to lean against his master. Something told him he wouldn’t appreciate.

“Observe. Listen.” Gorren swiped with his hand, including all of the statues with that gesture.

Timothy listened with rising marvel as the old man named each statue by its name. Byrona, of the Endless Rain. Karthum, the Scorpion-God. Half-Serpent Ytll. Aranil, the Unwavering. Those-Whom-Watch. Dark Kritolaos. The God Willow. And many many more, a hundred gods from a hundred places of the world, all gathered there in silent vigil, to wait and stare from eyes of stone.

Timothy was open-mouthed with wonder. He had never thought that so many Gods could exist, that so many places, so many different people existed behind the little horizon that his village had been.

“Do you worship them, master? That‘s why you knew all of their names?” He asked during a moment of pause.

“I don’t,” Gorren grunted.

Timothy was only half-surprised. It felt fitting with what he knew of the old mage, but still…

Gorren had to guess his thoughts because he snorted. “Why?” He walked to a small statue representing a cross-legged, thin man. “Obora, God of the Rain in the East, in the land of Yaru.” He pointed at it, expression stern before the statue’s contented features. “What do i care of rain? It just brings humidity, that i have to contain so that it doesn’t interfere with my experiments.” He briskly walked to another statue, this one of a howling creature with a lion head and a hawk body. “Tennerak, Lord of the Hunt of the Karadrian Wastes. There is any point for me to revere him? Do i engage in hunting during my days? Do i chase antelopes for their flesh in the savannah? I don’t, i’ll never will. And so i don’t worship him.”

Timothy was confused. He knew of Gods presiding over Rain and Hunt and they weren’t the same. There were others? He put those doubts aside for now, another more concerning.

“Isn’t that… disrespectful?” He asked, and added a quick “Master” a moment later.

Gorren snorted. “It is? None of these Gods do anything good to me. So, why should i pray to them? Sacrifice to them? Look now.” He pointed to a larger statue. This one represented a severe woman holding a cup aloft with both hands. She was swathed in robes which embroidery looked so delicate that Timothy could scarcely believe it was carved out of the rock. He almost jumped as he noticed the four spider-like limbs protruding from her back.

“Nissa, Goddess of Spiders and Alchemy,” Gorren said. “She provides me with my science and my ingredients. And for that, i thank and worship her.” And, almost to confirm that, he tilted his head to the statue.

“But…” Timothy fought for words. “But that is…!”

“Arrogant? Opportunistic?“ Gorren offered with a smirk. He opened his arms wide. “Why should i offer my worship to Gods that don’t offer me anything in exchange? Do you think that if Nessa took the ability to make alchemy from me, would i still worship her? I wouldn’t, because there is a pact between me and the Gods i revere. Their gifts and benevolence in exchange of my devotion. Simple as that.”

Timothy gaped, wordless before that callous disregard of the divine. Even an orphan like him, raised and grown at the fringes of society, knew that the Gods were more… more… deserved more than that!

He was still fighting for words when Gorren resumed.

“It is callous? Blasphemous? Disrespectful of beings who deserve our worship no matter what because they stand higher than us? I could call rain, if you like, just like Obora. Does that give me the right to be venerated? To demand it?”

“But… that’s not…!”

Gorren cut him off with a sharp gesture. “You decide.”

Timothy blinked. “Me?”

“You.” Gorren pointed at him with a long, bony finger. “Is it right? Is it wrong? Think about it, boy. Think! And then decide. Whatever it is, be it your decision, and nobody else’s. Do you understand me? This is your lesson.” He tapped his nose with a sly grin. “The world is full of people trying to fool you. Never accept something at face value. Think, always!”

Timothy stuttered, mind wheeling to catch up. How had the discussion suddenly turned that way?

“But…!”

Gorren hushed him with a sharp gesture, motioning for him to look. Too confused to reply, Timothy obeyed.

The statue was probably the tallest, so much that the ceiling actually swelled upward to accommodate it completely. It represented a cowled man (or woman?), its features completely obscured by heavy cloth. A root-like hand protruded by a closed cape, clutching a gnarled staff that would have been fit in the hands of a pilgrim. On the other hand, the masked figure held a chain, from which an ornated lantern dangled.

Watching it, Timothy felt something cold stir in the back of his mind. A shudder ran over his spine.

“Ur, the Seeker…” Gorren breathed, and Tim was actually surprised by his tone. Was that… awe? It was the first time he heard his master regard something that wasn’t alchemy-related like that.

Without prompting, the old man began to talk.

“It is said that there was a time when the sky was empty and none walked the earth. In that empty land, Ur was born, brought into existence by the lonely wind that whispered across the grass.” Gorren looked at the statue with an entranced smile. He seemed to have forgotten Timothy. “His nature was to ask, to seek, to try to understand, and just that he did. Alone, for ages uncounted, he walked the empty land, watching upon everything, trying to understand everything, no matter how small or big. Life blossomed in his wake, gods and others, but he didn’t stop. He continued in his mission, reaching the far end of the earth, rising to the summit of the sky and descending to the lowest depth of the earth, delving into the light of the stars and in the darkness beyond. He walked until there was no place in the universe he hadn’t seen, no knowledge that eluded his grasp. And then, only then, he stopped. With a gesture, he created his throne on the tallest mountain and from there peered at the land beyond. He saw chaos and raging war, the Gods and all the other beings that had spawned in his wake battling each other without meaning or reason, while the first humans cowered in fear, huddling inside of caverns and in the mud. A word Ur spoke, a single name that thundered across the heavens and lands, and silence fell. All beings, big and small, animal or sentient, they all stood still and were silent before the God on the Mountain. Ur became the First King, and by his orders, the world that now we live in was built. Order from chaos. Reason from bestiality. The humans, that lived like animals, were elevated by his grace, taught of that divine spark that dwelled in each and every single one of them, their reason, of which that same curiosity that brought Him on His throne was the nucleus of.” Gorren clasped his hands together, deeply moved. “What a man! What a God! Here’s someone that is worthy of Gorren An-Tudok’s devotion. Someone that i would follow, to the end of the Earth! Ah, to be able to follow in his footsteps! To seek knowledge, no matter what. To understand how the cosmos move! To raise to the highest mysteries! And then, to stand tall, and bring chaos into order! Isn’t this the greatest destiny a man can aspire to? Isn’t He the God that we should all aspire to follow?” He sighed, looking eerily similar to a love-struck boy.

His shoulders shuddered, and he whirled to stare at Timothy with a frown. He had completely forgotten about the boy’s presence. He wanted only to explain something good to that bumpkin, not go in that rant. He seethed with embarrassed rage.

There wasn’t a need for him to bother. Timothy watched the statue with a look of wonder, eyes as wide as eggs.

“It’s awesome!” The boy shouted, startling him.

Gorren quickly hid the disconcert with a grumble. “Yes, yes, it is.”

The boy turned from the statue to his Master and back, a giant smile on his face. He didn’t know if be excited about that incredible story, or because his Master knew it. He hadn’t ever heard of Ur!

“But wait.” He said, expression turning quizzical. “If the world was already there when Ur appeared… then who made it?” The Gods he knew of presided over things like Wind or Pasture, but there wasn’t anyone that had created the world or something.

Gorren coughed, still peeved about his slip of before. He was glad for the change of topic and strangely pleased by his apprentice’s show of inquisitiveness.

“Look better.”

Timothy needed a moment to realize that Gorren wasn’t pointing at the statue of Ur, but to the wall beyond. He widened his eyes.

What he had thought to be a simple cavern wall, was instead an enormous face. Not a man’s, not a woman’s, but a face without a doubt. It had sharp, angular features that gave it an air that was at the same time coldly alien and of an otherwordly grace. Its massive eyes were closed, but if there were to open, not a single statue would escape from its gaze.

“What… what is it?” Timothy stammered. He still felt the looming, invisible presence, but nothing, absolutely nothing he could perceive from that gargantuan carving. Somehow, that scared him more than anything else.

“The Om.” Gorren said solemnly. “That which binds us all together.”

“A-and…?”

Gorren threw him an irritated look. “And nothing. Lesson’s over.”

“But…!”

“Am i not your Master?”

Timothy was confused by the sudden question but hastily nodded.

“And don’t you owe me obedience? To me, that shelters, feeds, guides, and teaches you?”

Timothy vaguely remembered the “think!” lesson and nodded quickly again.

“Good. Then you will obey me now, and ask no more questions about this until i decide that the time is right, are we understood?”

Timothy wanted to protest. Something had stirred in him, a thirst for knowledge, an emptiness yearning to be filled. Still, the glare of Gorren didn’t leave room for argument. He nodded, less than enthusiastically this time.

“Good,” Gorren grumbled, grimly satisfied.

The old man performed a series of obeisances before a number of statues, biding the boy to do the same in a couple of times, then brusquely led him out of the cavern-like room, bony hand clasped over a wrist hidden under a too-long sleeve.

“Master?” Timothy asked, little legs scampering to keep up with Gorren‘s brisk pace.

Gorren grunted something.

“Will you teach me about this again, one day?”

The old man turned to frown at him. “I will, but in due time. For now, we shall get you a better robe. And another bath. Gods, boy, have you been rolling around in the mud? I won’t have my apprentice scampering around like a rabbit in a sack of coal. And after that, i shall look to that scratch of yours. And then to the kitchen. I will teach you to make porridge. And you better listen. You will have to cook it yourself.”

Timothy struggled to receive those rapid-fire instructions, just as he struggled to keep up. When he had taken that fated decision to knock on the tower’s door, he had expected a lot of things. That strange, mercurial, gruff century-old magicians, arrogant enough to be picky about his Gods and treat with them almost like an equal, absorbed by the search of knowledge to the point of obsession, wasn’t really something he had managed to foresee.

And still, nobody had ever looked at his wounds, nor cared about him enough to teach him something. Even while he tried not to fall in the folds of the robe, something warm stirred in the orphan’s chest, and he smiled.

Of course, he made sure that his master didn’t notice. Who knew how he could react?

Gorren returned by his trance with a gasp, the empty room slamming back into his senses. He stood still for long moments, breathing, waiting for his mind to readjust.

It never gets any easier, he thought, wiping his forehead with a trembling hand.

The trance-like state of the Izaarkar helped him to plumb his mind with ease, making him able to relive his memories like they were happening again. Still, it wasn’t devoid of risk. The reliving was so life-like that if the focus wasn’t kept at all times, one risked to lose himself in it. To make matters more difficult, the trance scrambled perceptions and partly even the sense of self. During a part of the reliving, he had felt himself to be Timothy instead of Gorren An-Tudok.

The old mage shivered. There was little he could imagine that was worse than losing his identity. To have all his life stripped away from him, with not even being able to realize that it had happened. Better to die than such ignominy.

He shrugged those thoughts away. Bah! Risk in exchange for a result, and he had the will and the ego to pull it off. No point in dwelling over it. A part of him ached at seeing those scenes again, but he refused to acknowledge it.

Instead, he turned to his work.

A globule of what looked to be liquid metal floated before him, half-way between the point where he sat cross-legged and the wall of multicolored lights. A thin tendril of the same substance stretched across the air, keeping it connected to the wall itself.

Gorren looked at it with a focused frown. He had passed countless hours studying the wall and the Crux behind it. He had even come out with a name for it: the Crucible, just because he liked the sound of it and it made sense to him.

But apart from the dramatic, he had been busy. He had studied extensively the Crux in its undiluted state, and his mind brought more than one scar to prove it. He had watched how, as it neared the material, it shed its essence, changing into something else while at the same time remaining the same. The closest comparison he could come up with was a snake shedding his skin. He had observed the nuances of the process, many impossibly subtle, others maddeningly paradoxical, saw how the Crux became a diluted version of itself, losing a part of its potential in exchange for solidity. It made his earlier attempts look like a baby trying to swim into his own drool. Was he humbled? He was. Also furious, but that he could channel into his research and so it was good.

Progress had been maddeningly slow, but now he felt himself to be on the verge of a breakthrough. Through countless attempts, he had learned a way through which the Lesser Crux could be harnessed. It was maddeningly complex, and he had to section his mind and have dozens of thought-processes ran together like clockwork to manage it, but he felt vindicated. Anything less would have felt unworthy of the work.

Still, it didn’t escape him that his mind seemed to be working at a speed that he couldn’t achieve even in the prime of his mortal life.

The Crux is changing me.

He wasn’t going to pretend that it didn’t scare him. If he focused, he could feel the creakings and pops of his mind, soul and body moving into new configurations, with the Crux’s influence like the sun over a plant. It was ominous, deeply so, but he had faith, in the benefic potential of the Crux and in himself. If he advanced fast enough, he was confident he would be able to understand what changes were happening and learn to direct them. He had to.

One thing at a time.

Closing his eyes, he focused on his thought-constructions. They appeared as graceful constructs to his mind-eye, each forming into an abstract shape formed by thoughts and images and power. He gathered them, then willed them to move toward the globule. A single image they held between them, a model created by carefully arranged impressions and memories.

Gorren had found that impressing a mental image of an object on the Lesser Crux could maybe trigger it to reproduce it. The image couldn’t be any vague memory, though. It had to be replicated down to the smallest details like many previous failed experiment could attest to. From there, the memory-trance, to relive what he wished to visualize with as much precision as possible.

It was difficult going, but he was confident that this time he’d succeed. After all, there were very few things Gorren knew as well as the staff that the statue of Ur held in his shrine. After all, it was the one he used when he needed one.

The thought-constructions sank with their charge into the globule, instantly consumed. The Lesser Crux twisted and turned, a drop of water seeking for a new form. Gorren impressed his multi-faceted will upon it, laboring to direct its quasi-boundless potential in the direction he wanted. He cajoled and coaxed, threatened, and prayed, infusing magic power all the way. Soon, he was covered in sweat, his limbs trembling under the effort to keep the process going. Pain, hot and searing, blossomed into his skull, radiating across his face and neck. It rose until he felt like something was trying to make his way out of his head, but he powered through, fingers sinking into his thighs until he drew blood.

Suddenly, something roiled and popped in his mind, as a boil had just ruptured. He was flooded with a wave of images and emotions. An old house, heaving with shadows. Under a willow, staring into the lonely river. In the burn, in the fire, jumping with exultation.

Gorren heaved a shuddering breath, pushing the rampant memories back into the vault where he kept them sealed. He needed a moment before feeling himself again. Then, he opened his eyes.

A staff floated in place of the globule. It was sleek and simple, with the top curling to form a thick knot. Its surface was eerily smooth, more than what woodworking and constant use should account for, and was etched with lines and curves wrought with a brilliantly azure, grain-like substance, formed into spiraling patterns.

Gorren held a hand out, and the staff floated gently to him.

As he grabbed hold of it, he marveled at how it felt exactly like his old staff. The same texture, the same weight, the same way with which its magical energy gently clicked with his own; even the same feeling of awe and humbleness he had felt each time he had grabbed hold of it, since that first moment great Ur had allowed him to.

If i didn’t create it right now myself, i’d swear it’s the same staff.

That made his old staff less unique? Not at all. His staff had been what it had been because he had charged it with his centuries of memories and power and use. To that construct, willed into existence by his own memory, arts and study, he had impressed all of that. It was just as unique as its progenitor. But maybe even more.

My first feat of creation.

Gorren felt deeply moved, looking over his creation with loving eyes. Satisfaction welled inside of him, too deep to be expressed with words. He just enjoyed it silently, letting it suffuse all of its being just as surely as the staff’s magical energy.

After a few moments, the wave of emotion passed, and he used the staff as a support to get up, ignoring the protests of stiff muscles.

His first great breakthrough… such a shame that he couldn’t exploit it as deeply as he’d preferred.

He swiped the room with a frown. Bare walls and bare floor. The only barriers that divided him from the Crux’s chaos and who knew what else. Might as well be a house of paper before a storm. No, that wouldn’t do.

He sneaked a glance at the tapestry, where the creature still scampered in his maze. He had learned his lesson by now. The Astral Plane was a dangerous place, more than he had hoped for.

The research came before anything else, but he couldn’t continue it if he was dead. No, from now on he would be focusing his efforts on amassing power and building a defense for himself. Only when his security was assured he would return his focus back on the research proper.

So, weapon research, it is. He sneaked a glance at himself. And i suppose i should get myself some pants. You know, divine creative magic used to make some cloth.

He sighed, shaking his head.

Bah!