In a small brick room, a cloaked figure sat before a meagre fire. Rainfall pelted the window-shutters. The storm howled a haunting tune in the rafters, dancing lock-and-step with the rattling door. The hooded figure dragged their chair across the cold stone floor closer to the fire, taking refuge in its dwindling aura. Above the fireplace hung sheafs of many plants, tied in bundles with small string bow-knots. Skippii recognised each herb, and yet, they meant nothing to him. He was in a trance, simply watching carefree from the room's dark corner.

A small black cat trounced across the room and jumped into the figure's lap. The two sat there for a long time staring into the fire. Curiosity tickled Skippii, and he took a step forward, inspecting the walls. Tapestries hung over the brick, catching the warmth of the fire's light. Again, he recognised them, but again, no meaning arrived from such a recognition. A scuffed mirror rested atop a draw beside the bed, but it did not possess his reflection. Rather, a thin woman stood off-centre, seemingly over his shoulder, gowned in her long black hair, radiating a silver light. He turned, but no such woman was there.

Slowly, he searched the room. A wash-bucket lay beside a bed of straw. Wet clothes hung above the bucked, drip-drying in the cold. Women's clothes. Among them, a red ribbon, the one which his mother used to tie back her auburn hair.

"Mother?" He spun, but his voice felt weightless. He waded towards the hooded figure as though through bog. His heart quickened as he pushed against the deluge, but still, he could not strive closer. "Mum?"

The figure stirred, lifting her head, face hidden beneath the hood. She turned to face the window. A vine of curly autumn hair glowed in the firelight.

"Mother?" Skippii tried again. "Can you hear me, mum?"

The figure rose, wrapped in a cocoon of blankets, and checked the clasp on the window shutters. Her soft fingers lingered on the wood, caressing its grooves as though stroking the face of one so familiar. With a sigh, she returned to the chair and the fire.

Smoke began to fill the room, but the figure did not protest, nor move to open the flue. Try as he might, he could move no further. He was helpless, just out of reach. The smoke blackened the ceiling and the walls. The cat fled, and Skippii shared its horror as he watched the figure–who must be his mother–begin to die a slow, acrid death.

You left her alone. The voice emanated from the very walls, shaking the bricks to form a granite sound. At its utterance, the smoke bellowed, swallowing his mother in a cloud. Her child. Her son. A man, now gone… and not the first.

"Mum!" Skippii yelled, but as he did so, his throat filled with stinging smoke, and he broke into a choking cough.

Alone, she shall suffer. Her toil is grievous, and each day, it renews more cruelly. Your mother grows frail. It shall catch her, sooner than she thinks. A woman, alone. It shall kill her.

"What, no," he babbled. "My pay, my wage-"

Squandered.

"I can do something," he choked. "I can send her something. I can help."

Fool. Your choice is made. No riches shall find her. No solace, no comfort. Nothing but regret shares her hovel. Stony walls and endless showers. How alone, she is now. How dreadfully alone.

The smoke withdrew from Skippii's lungs, dredging his strength from within, leaving him hollow. Only its final wisp remained, rising from an incense on a heavy wooden desk. Parchment was strewn across its surface, and stacks of wax tablets. He blinked, startled to see that the room had transformed completely.

Faint candlelight lit the walls of a red-dyed tent. Scribes meandered beyond the candle's glow, robed in white, like phantoms drifting in the dark. One such phantom gazed at him, veiled in a cold mist just beyond his perception.

At the desk sat an imposing man wearing a purple cloak and golden crown. Thoughtfully, he rubbed the weathered skin of his chin–dark like tanned leather–his eyes fixed on the candle's flame.

Behind him stood a scribe, almost faded from his view, dwarfed by the magnitude of the Imperator's presence. And behind the scribe, at the entrance to the command pavilion, was a snake of a man with cunning eyes. Tonnage VI's Octio, Spurius Altivus.

The Imperator's head drooped a fraction and he shut his eyes. His body went still. He sighed and grimaced. His lips moved, but no sound seemed to be emitted, or else, Skippii could not hear it. Then, scribes moved to complete his command, and the Octio smiled evilly.

"What did he say?" Skippii asked.

What you witness now, came to be five turnings hence. Your master learns of your treachery and flight. You feels your shame.

"I had no choice. I did what was best for the legion."

Many were the choices that governed your fate. Many were the chances to avoid such disgrace. And yet…

"Imperator," Skippii whispered. "I will return. I will hold true to my oaths."

The wise man squinted, gazing into the candlelight.

"I will serve Auctoria until death, on my soul, I swear it."

A gust of wind swept through the tent and flickered the candle's flame. The Imperator's eyes shot to Skippii as though he could see him. The man's expression rippled with such a complexity of contemplation that it contended the depths of any ocean on earth. Skippii read, in the lines of his brow, an iron duty, a paternal compassion, and an awesome wrath. Skippii quailed before his penetrating gaze, but could not tear himself away from the Imperator's dark, bottomless eyes.

Such a paragon, that you have failed. The voice tremored inside his skull. Such a trust poisoned.

The winds strengthened, forming a whirlwind of parchment and cloth. It tore the tent from its pegs and exposed them to the dark night. Yet the Imperator sat motionless, staring into Skippii's soul. Shaking with shame, he took a shuddering breath and lifted his hands as a child asking to be lifted into their father's arms.

"I couldn't-" His voice broke, and he growled, clearing his throat. "I was trapped! What would you have had me do? Surrender? I will return. I swear it."

The storm swallowed the world like a tidal wave. The vision faded, and his voice died to a whisper. "I will return."

The day was bright. The sky, clear and blue. He was sitting outside his companeight's tent, preparing his gear for the march. Encamped, as they were, on the legion's perimeter, they were most often visited by the impedimenta. Word had reached the fornicaria that the legionnaires had received their bi-anual wage, and the camp was festooned with whores. They swooned for the men garbed in revealing silks, sitting on the legionnaire's laps, as though the good weather had suddenly made them friendlier.

He did not mind the ruse. Them and the tradesmen made for better company than legionnaires. Brutes. Stinking men crammed into tents. At times, he had paid a whore for her bed, only to rest and forego pleasure. Furthermore, he enjoyed the look on their faces when he rejected their advance. Who would not want to bed with me, they wondered. But today would not be one of those days. He felt weakened by vice, and the only medicine was indulgence.

All in good time. Children played nearby. Whore-sons and daughters, orphans and impedimenta hang-ons. One amongst them was his: a small boy with black hair and ungainly legs, like a lamb. He was always falling over, always leaping up after the older boys. Always getting beaten up. Always springing back.

Skippii, his mother had called him, thinking it was an endearing name. It was not a strong name–nor a proper name for a man–and so it suited the boy perfectly. That stupid spirit would get knocked out of him eventually. Sooner the better, he thought. He ought to do it himself–discipline the kid–but that was the sort of thing a father would do, and he wanted no part in it.

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The boy was wielding a stick as though it were a spear, attempting to stab a fat horsefly that buzzed around his head mockingly. But upon catching his eye, the young Skippii stopped and stared back. The boy–his boy–smiled a fool's grin, but when it was not returned, his face became puzzled, perhaps a bit worried.

Had she tricked him? Could this stupid child really be from his seed? There was no resemblance–no strength, no brawn. The boy was ten now, and yet he was shaped like a child of six. What use was such a whelp? Lowering his brow to the bastard, he blinked slowly, regretfully. No, he would not accept this child.

"Dad?" Skippii spoke. At once, he felt the words escape his mouth, and he saw them appear on the boy's lips. The contradiction puzzled him–shook his mind. Where was he? Whose eyes did he possess? Whose thoughts were these? Which legionnaire was this, who knew himself to be his father, but kept it a secret?

Unable to control the image, Skippii watched as the man averted his gaze and returned to his task, lacing his sandals. His hands looked familiar. But were they his? Was he back in his own body? But no, there were no small scars on his forearms from where he'd practiced knife tricks as a child; instead, his father's arms were coated in black wiry hairs. His feet, too, were large and wide, nails blackened with dirt. Which legionnaires had he known to look like that? A great many, from his recollection. It could be any one of them.

"Look up," Skippii commanded. "Look at him. Look at your son."

The man's gaze rose to the boy–to him.

"What?" he said.

The boy grinned a sort of greeting, but his mirth wilted before the old legionnaire's glower. Fetching a stone, the legionnaire tossed it at the boy with force. It struck him in the arm. A pang of pain–distant in memory–stabbed Skippii. He remembered that stone. That rejection. He flinched, grasping his shoulder, as the clarity of the vision tied knots around itself. His mind and body were split between three dismembered perspectives–three different people, times and places. And above it all, a pale woman watched, puppeteering the threads.

"Begone," the legionnaire growed. The boy fled, clutching his arm, back to his mother's arms.

The vision eviscerated. Skippii was plunged beneath icy waters. The cold was such a shock that all his separate parts came rushing back into himself. His body seized up, clenching his mind for fear it would slip away. The sun faded as he was dragged into the depths.

You are broken. The waters shivered with the voice. You was broken at birth. Your very presence is poison that dilutes mankind. Your father knew this. He was just. Your mother knew it not, and therefore she suffers. Your Imperator did not, and thus, he is shamed. Both curse your name.

Drowning, Skippii's heart burst like a grape. The agony of grief was like a storm, billowing in his vines. He screamed as it burned him. He writhed and tore at his face, pulled at his hair. Choking–caught at the precipice of a sob, but unable to let it out–he ground his jaw and convulsed into a ball. He shook in destitution, and fell like a rock into the abyss.

For many days, he sank as his mind was burned away, until finally, his body rested on the cold ocean floor. No thoughts remained inside his mind. No feeling that hadn't been burned away by pain. The silence was peace, like death, and he accepted it without a fight.

"Skippii." His mother's voice penetrated the void. "Hey, Skipper. Wake up."

Slowly, he opened his eyes. He lay upon the cold rock, a silver aura illuminating him. Beyond was darkness, twinkling with swirling snowfall–a thousand stars drifting in the night sky. His mother was not nearby… nobody was… and yet, did that truly make him alone?

Remain. Perish and disappear.

Skippii fingered the rock, scratching at a chip. His mind was elsewhere. Not even the voice of Cor sounded imposing anymore. He had shut himself from it. All that he could focus on was the feeling of disdain which his father had possessed for him. During the illusion, he had felt it within himself as though it was his own. It lingered in his blood–a sickening rejection–which he had carried all his life.

But why? Why was he not good enough for his dad?

The answer is no mystery.

Rising to his knees, Skippii stared at his hands. They were similar to the hands of his father–clumsy and strong–yet, they possessed a way of gentleness which his father's had not. His hands, which had braided his mother's hair; which had lifted Cliae atop a horse after their rescue; which had stayed their wrath and chose mercy in the face of Aetheria's defeat. Indeed, his hands were greater by many magnitudes than his father's. More powerful than he could know, for they were wielded by his heart–a heart which belonged to his mother foremost, and to the legion.

He stood, no longer shaking. His father had rejected him… his own child. What kind of man did such a thing? What kind of cruelty had he been spared by never knowing his father? Drusilla's simple words came to him then, spoken weeks ago. "A shit father's worse than none."

Skippii snarled, growing with confidence. What use was a father's seed without the gardener to grow it? In truth, his family had been broad. There were many legionnaires that the visions had not shown: Thales, the philosopher who had tutored him, and Whillhem, who had cared for him. And he had many brothers too whom he had bled with. And above all, his mother's faith.

"Your visions are deceiving," Skippii said. "They blend truth with madness."

Your gift was a mistake. It should never have awakened in one so weak and unworthy.

Skippii snorted cynically, for there was a truth to that too. Clenching his fists, he drew his magia from the source–from Cor itself. The ground beneath him warmed, defying the snows above.

"What does that matter? And what do you expect me to do with these visions? With my mistakes? Crawl away and hide? Who makes no mistakes? There is no failure in a lesson learned. My tutor taught me that, Thales. He was more of a father in just six months than my progenitor could have been in a lifetime. Why should I quail from such truths? Many men have it worse than me."

Your mother was abandoned.

"That too, is untrue. I carry her in my heart, and I am sure she carries me in hers. We will reunite. I will make it so."

Your master-

"My master is a wiser man than I. Let him come to his own ends, and I shall decide mine." Turning, Skippii searched for the source of the voice, but the world was only snow, swirling on an infinite blackness. "Is that all you've got? Is that what I am here to be shown? Well I have seen it. And so what? Make your assessment of me, Cor."

The ground shook at its name's mention. The snow slowed as though the storm was ending.

"I am here, bare before you," he shouted, arms wide to receive the Primordial's presence. "I have bested your trials. Give what is owed, what is mine."

Why should I crown you?

"Because you must," he said. "Because I demand it."

To what ends shall you wield my power? The Primordial' voice boomed, shaking his bones.

"For Auctoria," he said, almost upon reflex. "For my mother. For all mothers, whose sons strive for a world free of heresy, evil. Subjugation."

Name your enemy.

"The incursors, and any devilry that corrupts man."

What of the Gods?

Skippii stammered. He knew that his words would be oath-binding, and chose them carefully. "I will choose each of my enemies as they appear. I shall not be persuaded by politicians or priests. My principle shall guide me. Upon this, I swear. I will defend the good earth for humankind. I will aid the legions in bringing order to this world. I shall repulse the incursors, the heretics, and the despondents whose purpose in the Pantheon has long since grown redundant."

You shall reshape this world.

"If I must."

The earth pulsated, rumbling with an archaic sigh. The snows faded, as did their soft illumination. The dark walls closed in as Cor's presence diminished. Suddenly, Skippii found it difficult to breathe. His body felt pressed on all sides, lodged into the rock. His bodily senses returned to him as clarity arose from the dream-like state. Dirt filled his nostrils. His many bodily pains grazed against the stone. Suspended–entombed–it was impossible to tell which way he was righted. His heart beat against the stone like a knuckle tapping on the roof of a coffin. His breath hissed in his ears, growing deeper, yet weaker with each exhale.

Panic trickled into his gut, but he suppressed it. Focussing on his connection with the earth, he felt its peripheral warmth; the veins of heat, like streams, deep beneath its surface; vast pools of liquid fire, and other megalithic forces–the pulling and pushing energies rushing like a gale through its form. Deeper still, the heat was immense, and at its centre was an ocean of incomprehensible power. Though his body was far beyond its reach, merely reaching out with his mind released a miasma of fire and fumes.

All breath was taken from him, but it paled compared to the crushing grief of his visions. Rather than flee, Skippii bent closer. The edges of his mind singed as his skull was set alight. He felt memories fade and burn away; thoughts evaporated, all of them, his regrets. His woes. The many nights he spent as a child wishing for a father's arm. All erased, replaced by ash.

Skippii roared as the power ruptured him, exploding from him. The earth split, and both roared in kind, as he wrought the mountain asunder. Rising on a geyser of fire, he burst from his tomb into the light of day. Showers of golden lava spewed high into the air, raining down upon the mountainside. The fresh air rushed into his lungs as light filled his vision.

He came to a stop at the centre of a crater, whose base had cracked like the bow of a boat, leaking liquid fire. The lava bubbled and poured about his feet–his flesh as red as fire–and though he burned, he felt no pain. All of his possessions were smoking ruins, and all of his hair was singed.

A power like never before raged through his veins. Gazing upwards, he beheld the sunlight as all around, moats of lava connected to form one solid lake which rose up the crater's edge. Jubilation flared. He had bested the trials. He had convened with Cor and earned their patronage. His magia bloomed, stronger than ever before. But more jubilant by many magnitudes was this new clarity of his heart. His soul felt awash with flames as a never-before certainty radiated from him. He felt born anew. Purified in flame.

Striding to the crater's lip, he gazed down upon the landscape. A vast forest covered the Sleeping Mountain and its foothills, ending finally upon the flatlands far south, and the city Nerithon's walls to the east. From this distance, they were but a grey smudge on the horizon, a bulwark against the vast blue sea beyond. Storm clouds amassed in the sky, casting the city in a foreboding shade. There lay his charge. There, he would realise his destiny. And nothing would stand in the way of one such as him. The son of Cor. Heres of the Primordial earth itself.

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