Ascension Gate: Heading Back (R4-7)

The whale descends down under the clouds, and Tom is almost tempted to hold his breath. But this is no ocean that he grew up in, and he struggles to sit, pulling his legs up under him and testing at bruised ribs with a groan. The dark whale bumps against a rocky outcropping, and Tom sucks in a breath, pushing off and following the same path down its side that Cyneric took. But unlike the prince, he hits the ground safely, with only a stagger and a twisted ankle to swear over as he limps his way towards what looks like the beginnings of the steep path down.

He stumbles twice, but something unseen catches him, and he presses fingers to heart both times in gratitude, unsure if it is his powers, or the work of Mother Ocean, not yet abandoning him after calling for the whale. The force guides him, pushing him down along the ridges until he rounds a corner and his pony lifts its head in greeting. The sacks left there are spilled open, the dried fruit and grain scattered across the ground, but it nickers at him, swishing its soggy tail and stamping a hoof.

The pat he gives the animal is grateful, and for the first time trusting. “Come on boy, let’s go home.” He sighs, climbing up into the saddle and thumping his feet with a wince at bruises.

This path is familiar to him- and as he allows the pony its slow plodding pace, he keeps his eyes averted. There are bodies here, and men whose stories needlessly ended short. He would have passed the cave where he first brought Aisling as well, except for the push of the unseen directing his horse towards it.

Tom slides off his pony’s back with a jingle, walking forward cautiously. Two men he did not kill sit cold and dead on either side of the cave, the blood long washed away from their lips. There is a wheezing cough from inside, and Tom reaches for his knife, before hesitating and opting for a cloth to cover his mouth and nose instead.

He creeps inside, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness, the fire having long gone out. Deep against the back of the cave, a heavy man sits, the thin lithe form of a girl in his arms. Tom’s foot hits a rock, and the man lifts his head slowly.

“She’s dead.” He wheezes. “Girl’s dead. That means the prince…?”

Tom crouches before the man, eyes boring in to his face. “Dagner.” He murmurs. “Loyal. Not honest, but then, what human is?”

Dagner blinks, coughing up another glob of blood. “Didn’t mean to touch the fire. Girl said not to. Started hurting. Had to get the prince out.”

“Yes, yes you did.”

The frantic question in Dagner’s eyes leaves, as does his energy. His head drops back down to the girl, and Tom feels the force pressing down over him once again. A medallion drops to the ground beside him, and he glances at it before running his fingers over the engraved symbols. They are Candune. The last remaining relic of that damaged family.

“But my prince… the girl, she screamed, and then…”

Then died, if her still form is any indication. Tom shushes the man, brushing fingers over his eyes to close them. “Your prince is well. He has passed the fourth gate, and now makes his way to the last. He did not wish to cause you harm, and so chose to travel alone.”

There is no need to try and convince the simple man of the truth in his words- Dagner’s face breaks into a joyous smile, and then freezes as Tom’s knife juts upwards through his jaw and behind his eyes.

“It is a cruel death,” he whispers quietly, “To leave a friend dying of burnweed.”

The merman pulls his knife back, lifting the daemon from Dagner’s limp arms. He tucks the medallion into his pouch, shifting the girl’s weight across his chest and turning to face Dagner one last time. “You lived a worthy story, friend. You will not be forgotten.”

And with that he strides out of the cave, lying Aisling’s form across the pony’s back before picking up the reins, trudging slowly down the mountainside under the unceasing storm.

“Let’s go home, little sister.”


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Night has fallen, and the bard stops his horse, glancing down over the valley below. Cottage windows glow with warm candle light, and one of them has place at its dining table for a runaway child, and, perhaps if he is lucky, an old man with a pipe and lute.

The bard shakes his reins and the horse steps quickly down the paved road.