Embers in the Dust
The Fates

Loop after loop, he felt his emotions pull at him. After what could have been the tenth or thousandth time, he felt something grasp something that resembled his consciousness and take him away from the void he had spent so long inside. The first sense to come back to him was touch. The ground around him was cold but soft. He tried to breathe and found that he couldn’t. Suffocating, he clawed at the ground, then felt it fall next to him.

I’m underground!

With a handful at a time, he pushed his fingers through the soil, causing more and more to fall around his body, trying to pull himself up and out. His lungs felt like they might burst from the lack of oxygen. After an eternity, he felt his hand reach out and touch something cold, and as the light came in through the hole he had created, the grass fell in clumps around his shoulder and face until he could reach his other arm out and pull himself from his shallow grave.

Air rushed into his lungs, which caused him to cough and gasp repeatedly as he tried to regain his breath. He still couldn’t stand, his legs unable to carry him yet, so he sat on the edge of the hole he created and looked around him. He could tell he was on a hill, surrounded by other graves that sat in a cluster beyond a small village at the bottom. The sun was setting to the West. Behind him, he could see a large stone. Adjusting to having sight again, he read his name on it in elvish, the name he had initially given the gnome.

The gnome!

He fought his exhaustion to stand. Making it down the hill, he ambled until his blood rushed through his body as the adrenaline overtook him. As he entered the village, he noticed that most of the citizens had already made their way into their homes, where lights were being lit from the various fire sources they had, as well as a few newer inventions that he didn’t understand. He passed the sign in the common language for the village name, Rutherglen.

He passed the smithy through the town and saw it was closed. Then, he stopped at the bakery. The scent of fresh bread and delicacies carried him to the front door, his stomach growling with hunger and pain he had never known.

He stepped inside. An older gnomish woman was working just beyond a counter, kneading at a large clump of dough. The bell above the door rang, causing her to turn around. Her eyes grew wide with fright at the sight of the elven man.

“You- You were dead!”

“Where is he? Is he safe?”

“Safe? I-I don’t know!”

“Don’t know? What do you mean you DON’T KNOW!?”

“Please don’t hurt me!”

“Tell me where he is…”

“He went to that school. The fancy magic one that you two talked ’bout! I haven’t seen my poor boy since!”

“It’s a shame that you cast him out. How could you do that to him? Because he loved me?”

“Please, leave! I-I don’t want no trouble!”

He turned and exited the building, his anger growing at the thought of what they did. Down the street, he walked out of the village, then went North. The sun had set, and he had only the light of the stars above him to guide his way. He knew the way to Berkton.

From Rutherglen, he traveled Northwest to Skystead, stopping to barter his magic for clothes that would help with the colder weather. He found a small pond along the way, which he used to bathe himself, removing the dirt and mess from his grave. In Skystead, he stopped at The Sunlight Temple and offered help to receive a horse to make travel more accessible in the snow. From Skystead, he traveled East through Barkamsted and Duncaster. It was a twenty-nine-day journey for those that usually crossed the path, but it took him thirty-one, even with the horse. His legs fought against him, having not been trained to handle the long travel.

In Berkton, he could see the academy in the distance but stopped, unsure of how to handle the situation before him. From what he had learned, it was the first of Frosthold, almost six years after his death. He passed a closed tavern called Scorched Ale. Breaking into the building, he found it lightly filled with dust and a large pool of something red that had dried onto the floor. He walked up the stairs and investigated the rest of the building, finding it empty. Some of the food had not rotted in the kitchens, so he ate from what he could, then made a small pile of food he could eat later.

He grabbed one of the many liquor bottles, being careful not to step on the glass that littered the floor behind the bar. He was unsure what had happened there, but it was clear that it did not go well for the tavern’s owner. Finally, after feeling comfortable for the first evening in many, he walked back upstairs to the bed, closed the door, pushed a desk against it to keep it from being opened, and went to sleep.

His dreams, as they had been every night since he returned, were filled with a void. Something beyond the realm of the cosmos had called to him. Still, he could not understand or see what it was, and it usually left him to wake up after only a few hours in a cold sweat, his breath ragged in a similar fashion to when he had suffocated under the ground. He could feel something below him, constantly pulling at his feet as if persuading him to return.

Tonight, his dreams started, repeating the same as before, but this time another joined him. He turned his head up to the woman. She was almost double his height, but her face was hard to see, as if shrouded by a mist.

“You have been brought back.” She spoke, her voice echoing in his mind.

“Yes.”

“The Fates have been given a command by someone other than myself. They have given you life, but not the gifts from your bloodline.”

She stepped forward, and he followed.

“I see that someone in danger gives you this power of reanimation. The Weave is in need, and while I have many who heed my call, I offer you a choice.”

“Choice?”

“Protect him. Agree to this, and I shall grant you your arcane gifts, which you may use as you wish after.”

“I want to see him, but I’m unsure how he will take my return.”

“He longs for you. I have seen his thread, as I have seen all.”

“Where can I find him?”

“He will be traveling North soon. Follow. I shall grant you access to pass through the protection there.”

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“I am Ananke. Primordial of Necessity. There is another under my command already there, but the fate they walk may be too much for them.”

“Thank you, Ananke. I shall do this for you, for him.”

He woke, and for the first time since his return, he did not wake tired. He was filled with an energy he had not realized he was missing. Holding his hands in front of him, he concentrated as lightning bounced between them. He stood, then glanced at the desk in front of the door. On top of it, a wand sat. He stepped toward it, feeling the hum of his magic inside it. The handle was made of wood, but the rest and the designs on it were made of a gray fulgurite. It sparked lightly at his touch, recognizing him as its owner. He was not used to the almost sentient aspect of it, but it seemed to react not only to his touch but his thoughts as a ball of lightning formed at its tip.

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