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Before the Tower there was nothing.
There was not even ‘before’.
There was not even ‘now’.
It just was not.
I just was not.
The sun hurts its eyes — if only they would speak just a bit slower. Lower. The Traveler is tired and the sun hurts its eyes — it knows it shouldn't be. Mere trick of the light on a bio-sensor. It's not even supposed to know what hurt feels like but again, how is it supposed to learn if it doesn't feel. The Abbey is crowded with Serf refugees and Devotees who are passing around fruits and water, and the Bard Envoy is still waiting for an answer the Traveler can't give.
“Not now,” it says, knowing it won't be enough. It tries something else. “What you seek, I don't have. What you seek, I will have soon.”
The Bard Envoy frowns, impatient. “Wait, I will not,” they say, but this time the Traveler ignores them.
A young Devotee was waiting for their turn to speak. They step forward, now side by side with the Bard Envoy who is eyeing them from head to toes. The young Devotee bows — the Traveler winces. It told them many times that bowing was unnecessary.
“We can't find the Preacher,” the young Devotee pleads again. It's maybe the tenth time that day that the Traveler had to hear this. “Help us find the Preacher.”
“The Preacher is no more,” the Traveler says, exhausted. It doesn't know how to explain. “The preacher is dead.”
“Plants were dead,” the young Devotee retorts in confusion. “Water brought plants back. Help us bring the Preacher back.”
The sun hurts its eyes. Their voices are echoing under the keystone, resonating against the walls of the Abbey. The Traveler sits on the floor right where it was standing and sighs, its head falling heavily into its hands. Leave me alone, is what it wants to say. Leave me alone for just a minute. Let me help you when I'm well-rested and willing and patient because I am not those things anymore today. The young Devotee kneels before the Traveler, their face torn in worry.
“I want to help you,” they whispers softly. “Tell me how.”
“I can't revive the Preacher,” the Traveler explains, eyes screwed shut, head swaying slowly from left, right, left. “This door has no key. This plant can't drink water. Please — tell me you understand.” Slowly, the young Devotee nods. “Then tell your people that you need a new Preacher.”
With another nod, the young Devotee stands up and walks away. The Traveler can still see the feet of the Bard Envoy. One of them is tapping on the paved floor.
“Wait, you have. That, I can see,” the Traveler says with a faint smile. The eyebrows of the Bard Envoy twitch in annoyance.
“
: you-man-want :”
The Traveler raises its head up a bit too fast.
“Again.”
“From you, what that man wants?”
So it has started. The Traveler knew it didn't have a lot of time before the Rot starts causing damages to its brain — or to the machine that is its brain. For if before the Tower there was nothing, there will be nothing after the Tower.
“Not a man, that person is,” it answers slowly, focusing hard on the words that begin to slip away from its grasp. “Their Preacher, they want me to find. That I can not. Dead, their Preacher is.”
The Bard Envoy scoffs like the Devotee's preoccupation were trivialities. “Answer me, you did not,” they insists. “Back to the tower, the Serfs we need.”
“Free, the Serfs are. Serfs, they are no more. With the name they will choose, we will call them."
The Traveler lays its hands flat against the wall to help itself up. The Rot is inevitable for a being like itself. The Anchorites explained it was a residual effect of Exile — like a virus spreading fast inside the Traveler's flesh and circuits. Soon, it won't understand any of them. It will have to start anew — a version of itself will have to start anew. The Anchorites will transplant, code, sew and fix it back together, but how many parts of a being do you need to replace before changing said being? When will the Traveler stop being the Traveler once the Rot takes its bone marrow, its core files, its bio-sensors?
“Look,” the Traveler simply says, drawing a hand towards the crowded insides of the Abbey. “See. Learn, for learning for you I cannot anymore. A nurse, this Serf now is. A prayer, this one now is. A merchant, that other now is. Serfs, they are no more. Part of the Devotees, they are — part of the Devotees, they'll stay. If a new name is their wish, a new name they will have, but back to the Gardens they will not go.”
The Traveler watches as the Bard Envoy finally looks around and sees. The Abbey may be the wastebasket of the aftermaths of their journey, but it's also the cradle of something unexpected and beautiful. The Bard Envoy may even recognize some of their own people, mingling with the Devotees.
“Homes, they have not,” the Envoy says roughly, clearing their throat. “Stay, where will they? Not big enough, the Abbey is. Homes, more than a name, they will need."
“Welcomed are your suggestions,” the Traveler suggests.
“Scientists, our Brothers are. Their help, for you I can seek.”
The Bard Envoy turns around and walks into the crowd. The Traveler stays prompted against the wall, eyes burning. Serfs need homes and a name. Devotees need a Preacher. Bards and Alchemists need purpose. It steps forward carefully towards a Warrior.
“No duty given,” it says, designing itself, but the Warrior shakes their head.
“No duty needed for Warriors. Fortress is safe. Happy to be here. Rest.”
The Traveler nods and finally sits down next to the Warrior, who keeps looking at its face.
“What is hurting?” they asks.
“Sun. Eyes.”
“Sun? No Sun. It's night."
The Traveler blinks slowly. The burning light is everywhere. Is it another symptom of the Rot? It's like all surfaces are mirrors, shimmering and reflecting, melting its retinas. It's about to say something — words crumple inside its throat.
“
not-sun, what-hurt-man ?”
“Again,” it pleads, eyes fluttering close. It could just sleep for a moment — take some well deserved rest. Just a moment. “Again.” The words of the Warrior are fluttering too, moths flying into the bright unknown light and burning on it as they land. Paper wings, insect words. “Again,” but nobody speaks anymore.
“Again.”