4th of Ymiden 720
The city of Viden was cold, cruel, unforgiving and uncompromising. When he was at last released from prison, and given escort to the gates, he was glad to leave it behind him. On the road to the south he was left most of the time alone. If there were any criminals or murderers patrolling the paths and byways, they left him alone, presuming he had nothing worth taking. And they were right. He bore only one thing that was precious, and that was the special egg within his mind.
"Are we so very precious, Father?" It asked him at turns on the way to the south. "Why does no one wish to share our blessings. Cough, spit, and smear your secretions on them, Father! Share our blessings."
Zemos shook his head with a smile. The days in solitary confinement would have taken their toll on him if not for the egg's company, and his own tolerance for the cold and deprivation. He had not eaten much while in jail. Some water and black bread, but it was enough to sustain him, while the egg kept his mind alive.
Surely he would've ended his own life in that cold, lonely cell had it not been for the egg's company. But now, with the road widening to the south, and foot traffick coming within a meter's breadth of his own path, he felt more alive. He sensed life all around him, the buzzing on the wind. The sound of his egg's kin. He noticed every bit of road kill, ever mouse or rat or possum or rabbit that lie dead and half-eaten by maggots. Some of the more decomposed he gathered up in his robes, giving them a resting place that was comfortable. The flies buzzed around him, giving him company.
In his more quiet moments on the walk south, he felt the presence of the entity that had eluded him so long. A fly, with the face of a monkey, but the composite eyes of an insect. It screeched at him in his subconscious, gleefully alerting him to his proximity.
Zemos reached out with his mind's eye, trying to seek out the elusive beacon it sent out. But again, every time he moved his mental hand to seek out the spirit, it eluded him. Like a darting gnat, it flew out of reach with every attempt he made. It would not allow him to catch it. Not yet. Perhaps it wished to see if he was worthy?
In any event, he was coming to the village of Anther's Ettyne. The letter in the folds of his robes gave him right to parole, and work on a small textile farm near the village. A place that grew and processed flax. It was a process to which he could only claim marginal awareness. But he did know that it involved plant-based fibers, that were tossed in a pile and then stamped on or some such. He supposed he'd find out when he got there.
A mean-faced rancher stood by the fence leading into the patch of flax plant, a field that went on for many acres. There, on the rise below the hill, he could see several piles of rotting matter. The egg urged him to go forth, and dive into the cloying fibers of decomposing matter. "Green turns yellow, like the fur of a bee. Let us taste its honey."
But Zemos shook his head, denying the egg's request, for now. He lifted his hand to his brow, by way of greeting the man at the fence.
The city of Viden was cold, cruel, unforgiving and uncompromising. When he was at last released from prison, and given escort to the gates, he was glad to leave it behind him. On the road to the south he was left most of the time alone. If there were any criminals or murderers patrolling the paths and byways, they left him alone, presuming he had nothing worth taking. And they were right. He bore only one thing that was precious, and that was the special egg within his mind.
"Are we so very precious, Father?" It asked him at turns on the way to the south. "Why does no one wish to share our blessings. Cough, spit, and smear your secretions on them, Father! Share our blessings."
Zemos shook his head with a smile. The days in solitary confinement would have taken their toll on him if not for the egg's company, and his own tolerance for the cold and deprivation. He had not eaten much while in jail. Some water and black bread, but it was enough to sustain him, while the egg kept his mind alive.
Surely he would've ended his own life in that cold, lonely cell had it not been for the egg's company. But now, with the road widening to the south, and foot traffick coming within a meter's breadth of his own path, he felt more alive. He sensed life all around him, the buzzing on the wind. The sound of his egg's kin. He noticed every bit of road kill, ever mouse or rat or possum or rabbit that lie dead and half-eaten by maggots. Some of the more decomposed he gathered up in his robes, giving them a resting place that was comfortable. The flies buzzed around him, giving him company.
In his more quiet moments on the walk south, he felt the presence of the entity that had eluded him so long. A fly, with the face of a monkey, but the composite eyes of an insect. It screeched at him in his subconscious, gleefully alerting him to his proximity.
Zemos reached out with his mind's eye, trying to seek out the elusive beacon it sent out. But again, every time he moved his mental hand to seek out the spirit, it eluded him. Like a darting gnat, it flew out of reach with every attempt he made. It would not allow him to catch it. Not yet. Perhaps it wished to see if he was worthy?
In any event, he was coming to the village of Anther's Ettyne. The letter in the folds of his robes gave him right to parole, and work on a small textile farm near the village. A place that grew and processed flax. It was a process to which he could only claim marginal awareness. But he did know that it involved plant-based fibers, that were tossed in a pile and then stamped on or some such. He supposed he'd find out when he got there.
A mean-faced rancher stood by the fence leading into the patch of flax plant, a field that went on for many acres. There, on the rise below the hill, he could see several piles of rotting matter. The egg urged him to go forth, and dive into the cloying fibers of decomposing matter. "Green turns yellow, like the fur of a bee. Let us taste its honey."
But Zemos shook his head, denying the egg's request, for now. He lifted his hand to his brow, by way of greeting the man at the fence.
