1st of Spring, 515 AV
It had been a long year. Did anyone - save for Caesar - understand just how long it had been? He had crossed paths with love, with life, with God and with joy. Only two years ago, he had arrived at Syliras and started a new life. A life that was happy and soaked in friendship and all the intrigue of humanity . . . the curiosity, the danger. He'd found love in Gallagher, his best friend, and the peering prospect of romance in Aoren who had taken from him his first, chaste kiss. There was much joy to be had away from the desolation that was his Old World, that of Ravok. At least, that was how he had decided to describe it for the first few months in Syliras. As he went on, though, he began to grow guilty. He received a letter that revealed his father's death and the succession of his family to his brother. He began to miss his family. He felt sad at the loss of his dad, even though they never got on too well. He felt that his brother - who used to be everything to him - would change, and he wanted to go see him. But he couldn't. He had already gone away after a fit of angry words.
Through guilt, he sought a lover's embrace. So he came to Gallagher, who had only been his friend, and he made their close companionship something far closer. Through acknowledgment of the reason for this unorthodox relationship, he grew guiltier. He sought to escape again - to undo what he had already done, and so he sought out Aoren to move for Zeltiva. A new life again. Always, a new life. A pretense of being good, when in reality he was only weak. He'd abandoned everything twice over. He abandoned his family, his friends, his lover . . . his dogs, his God. When was the last time he had prayed to Priskil? Quite some time ago. She was away with the wind like some trailblazer. She was where he couldn't see or feel her - because he neglected his connection to her, because he drained himself of all attachment to something that might judge him even if it was lovingly.
It was only justice, then, that found him in the arms of slavers, with Max and Argos - his hunting dogs - rotting and bleeding all over the floor, being eaten by flies like some other person's problem. Like some unfortunate accident that he'd witness on the side of the road and frown over. He never thought he'd be the one to witness a loved one die so blatantly, and be unable to do a single thing about it.
Perhaps this trauma, this fear, this fleeting persona that was Caesarion had become numb over it all. He'd become numb enough to not let what followed hurt so much - the branding of a slave, the painful exercise in futility that constituted pleasing Telemaran. Everything that came next was only a blur in reality while his mind desperately wandered back to the happy days.
By the end of it all, what invaded him was a thought. What did it mean to be enslaved? He had fought for his entire life to protect those who were weak and without a guide. He had practically walked the path of Nikali - always being good to them, the poor little souls of Ravok. He had wanted to make them happy. He'd even tried to love them, as if their father-caretaker. He was crippled by this great goodness in him, crippled in his journey to Syliras and beyond. While he protected the weak and the undeserving, he himself had become a canvas for the most gruesome work of art. He became a victim to the same atrocity his family had committed for generations.
So what was his great sin? Was it always running away? Was it the guilt? Was it the weakness? Was it the sin of being Panthos, stained by the history of a slaver? He did not know what of all these things he had done wrong, but he knew that it had to be something. Why else would God turn Her back away from him? He had to deserve it - how otherwise could all of this have occurred?
So - when he finally came to, and [really] came to, off in this desolation that was his new world . . . he begged her to let him know of what he had done and why he was here, in chains, when all he had ever wanted to do was be good. He tried so hard to escape the evil of the place where he was born. He worked tirelessly when he could have lavished in filth and hedonism. He tried to love people instead of own them, and somehow that was a bad thing; it'd got him owned himself. Why? She could not answer, he thought. It had been so long since the prayers began, and she never answered. Perhaps she was not strong enough to know.
Whatever the case, he had begun to change for the worse. He had begun to grow darkened by his experiences - corrupted at the touch, bitter and cynical. And at the end of the day, when he looked in the mirror, he saw only one thing. It was the image of one hopeful man, so turned by hopelessness, clear skin soon being filled with bruises . . . a bright smile whipped into a sullen frown. Free hands were filled with objects to gratify the master's will, his existence becoming a supplement to another.
What was slavery? It was the disposal of one life for the betterment of another. It was - essentially - the using of one body as if an inanimate object, treating a feeling creature as if it had no feelings. He always knew this. He had always felt the pain of acknowledging it, accepting simply that such a despair would always live in a world that didn't want to change.
It had been a long year. Did anyone - save for Caesar - understand just how long it had been? He had crossed paths with love, with life, with God and with joy. Only two years ago, he had arrived at Syliras and started a new life. A life that was happy and soaked in friendship and all the intrigue of humanity . . . the curiosity, the danger. He'd found love in Gallagher, his best friend, and the peering prospect of romance in Aoren who had taken from him his first, chaste kiss. There was much joy to be had away from the desolation that was his Old World, that of Ravok. At least, that was how he had decided to describe it for the first few months in Syliras. As he went on, though, he began to grow guilty. He received a letter that revealed his father's death and the succession of his family to his brother. He began to miss his family. He felt sad at the loss of his dad, even though they never got on too well. He felt that his brother - who used to be everything to him - would change, and he wanted to go see him. But he couldn't. He had already gone away after a fit of angry words.
Through guilt, he sought a lover's embrace. So he came to Gallagher, who had only been his friend, and he made their close companionship something far closer. Through acknowledgment of the reason for this unorthodox relationship, he grew guiltier. He sought to escape again - to undo what he had already done, and so he sought out Aoren to move for Zeltiva. A new life again. Always, a new life. A pretense of being good, when in reality he was only weak. He'd abandoned everything twice over. He abandoned his family, his friends, his lover . . . his dogs, his God. When was the last time he had prayed to Priskil? Quite some time ago. She was away with the wind like some trailblazer. She was where he couldn't see or feel her - because he neglected his connection to her, because he drained himself of all attachment to something that might judge him even if it was lovingly.
It was only justice, then, that found him in the arms of slavers, with Max and Argos - his hunting dogs - rotting and bleeding all over the floor, being eaten by flies like some other person's problem. Like some unfortunate accident that he'd witness on the side of the road and frown over. He never thought he'd be the one to witness a loved one die so blatantly, and be unable to do a single thing about it.
Perhaps this trauma, this fear, this fleeting persona that was Caesarion had become numb over it all. He'd become numb enough to not let what followed hurt so much - the branding of a slave, the painful exercise in futility that constituted pleasing Telemaran. Everything that came next was only a blur in reality while his mind desperately wandered back to the happy days.
By the end of it all, what invaded him was a thought. What did it mean to be enslaved? He had fought for his entire life to protect those who were weak and without a guide. He had practically walked the path of Nikali - always being good to them, the poor little souls of Ravok. He had wanted to make them happy. He'd even tried to love them, as if their father-caretaker. He was crippled by this great goodness in him, crippled in his journey to Syliras and beyond. While he protected the weak and the undeserving, he himself had become a canvas for the most gruesome work of art. He became a victim to the same atrocity his family had committed for generations.
So what was his great sin? Was it always running away? Was it the guilt? Was it the weakness? Was it the sin of being Panthos, stained by the history of a slaver? He did not know what of all these things he had done wrong, but he knew that it had to be something. Why else would God turn Her back away from him? He had to deserve it - how otherwise could all of this have occurred?
So - when he finally came to, and [really] came to, off in this desolation that was his new world . . . he begged her to let him know of what he had done and why he was here, in chains, when all he had ever wanted to do was be good. He tried so hard to escape the evil of the place where he was born. He worked tirelessly when he could have lavished in filth and hedonism. He tried to love people instead of own them, and somehow that was a bad thing; it'd got him owned himself. Why? She could not answer, he thought. It had been so long since the prayers began, and she never answered. Perhaps she was not strong enough to know.
Whatever the case, he had begun to change for the worse. He had begun to grow darkened by his experiences - corrupted at the touch, bitter and cynical. And at the end of the day, when he looked in the mirror, he saw only one thing. It was the image of one hopeful man, so turned by hopelessness, clear skin soon being filled with bruises . . . a bright smile whipped into a sullen frown. Free hands were filled with objects to gratify the master's will, his existence becoming a supplement to another.
What was slavery? It was the disposal of one life for the betterment of another. It was - essentially - the using of one body as if an inanimate object, treating a feeling creature as if it had no feelings. He always knew this. He had always felt the pain of acknowledging it, accepting simply that such a despair would always live in a world that didn't want to change.
