Reason stood at the edge of an abyss.
Not physically. Physically, they were set up in a dusty workshop — more of a repurposed barn than anything — so graciously lent for use to Runeheim by the Rogalian lord. Luckily, between the tools they’d brought with them and after patching up a few things in the shop, Reason was able to quickly get to work.
Reason had fallen into an easy rhythm of sawing through the unprocessed lumber. The scent of pine that hung in the workshop had a toasted note to it, singed by the friction of the saw, so fervently was Reason absorbed in their task. The work was not effortless, though, and sweat beaded under the carpenter’s fiery, disheveled locks.
Their mind, however, was far away from their humble station.
Though the autumn air was warm and humid, the memory of last night’s walk brought a chill to Reason’s limbs and chest. They could still feel the entity’s voice, frigid— like the icy rattle of a chain wrapped around their body and soul — and how helpless they felt in its presence.
It promised to give them anything they wanted.
Anything. /Anything./ Magic, power, adoration, success.
They had always desired more, in this life and in the past; always wanting things that were just out of reach, thirsting for the things that knowledge brought.
Surely such promises couldn’t be real.
A part of them hoped they were true, though. The two dreamed so big, worked so hard, and did everything in their power to inch them closer to their goals.
Reason could still feel the horrific sensation when it poured into their body and endeavored to push out their essence, and would have still given it all up were it not for the terrifying inability to touch Rhyme without burning themselves. It was that alone, that deep-set fear of losing the other, that had pulled the two of them out of the lullaby of promises it wove.
It was the one thing they could not bear lose.
Even with how spotty their memory was, Reason could painfully remember how lonely it was to be O’shea. There was no warmth in books, no buddies in the Rogalian war camp, no allies in the Fire Guild. Ripped from his roots as a child, and never allowed to plant any. There was only cruelty in Torchgutter, and even those closest to him, like Celandine, at best maintained a professional arms-length distance. Always surrounded by people, yet only had himself for warmth.
Still, the thought would not leave their mind, buzzing like a persistent cicada with the unyielding question of “what if?”
‘What if what was offered to us was real?’ Reason thought. ‘What if we could have all of it: magic, and love, and purpose?’
‘What if Rhyme could have anything their heart desired?’
Crack!
The wood snapped under Reason’s plane, crumbling in a puff of sawdust at a weak point at the knot. Reason swore loudly as they recoiled from the break, feeling a stinging feeling on their wrist from where the splintered wood scraped them. Damned Renett lumber, they should have known. The forests here were shriveling under the lord’s purview.
Reason sighed and wiped away the swirls of wood shavings off their workstation, taking a moment to gauge the snapped plank to try and work out how they could still salvage it. Perhaps if they had time they could at least do something decorative with it.
They returned to their work, their thoughts still adrift on the murky wind.
