Father Bartholt opened his eyes as the rays of the morning sun slanted in from the window, shining across his face and stirring him from his restful slumber. He rose with practiced speed, as he normally did, to keep himself from accidentally drifting back to sleep. He shuffled over to the washbasin and splashed the cold water on his face, then looked in the mirror to greet himself, the same ritual a familiar companion every morning. His blue eyes, flanked by many years of laugh lines, looked back at him merrily. He ran a hand through his gray beard and hair, smoothing it down where it still showed from the night, then turned to preparing for the day ahead. Roughly half an hour later, he was dressed in the blue robes of his order, clean, and ready to begin the day as he did every other.

He strolled from his quarters into the hall, observing the cool blue-gray stone of the walls, carved with many centuries of engravings and glyphs that told the history of the monastery. They too were a familiar friend to his life, a constant he could count upon. He leisurely made his way through the private halls to the larger one that surrounded it. He passed through, then down a flight of stairs to the lower level, where he crossed another hall. He opened a thick wooden door, and stepped outside.

The cloister of the monastery was a huge courtyard still shrouded with the morning mist. It was covered in smallish trees, and spacious enough to contain a small village. Stretched beneath his gaze were the farms, the training grounds, and gardens. Not far from him, down below, three young men, none older than twenty summers, were chopping firewood in preparation for the coming winter. One of them looked up, saw the abbot leaning against the rails, and smiled in the bright sunlight.

“How does the day greet you, Father Abbot?

Bartholt smiled back and waved. “Very well, Brother Patrus. And you?” he replied in his rich, paternal tones.

“The same.” Patrus responded while the other two boys exchanged their greetings as well.

The abbot said, “You lads need any help with that firewood?”

Patrus replied, “It's a lot to get done yet, Father, but I don't think Brother Haldor would be happy if he caught anyone helping us.”

The abbot laughed. “Brother Haldor needs to learn that Protocol is not, in fact, the name of any known god. Fetch an axe for me, Patrus, I'm coming down.” Bartholt descended the steps that led down to the yard, and approached the three boys. Without further words, the four of them went to chopping the wood. Bartholt, despite being well into his seventies, kept up almost effortlessly with the boys, his pile of cloven logs soon matching the others' in size.

After several minutes, the abbot smiled sportively, “How about a wager, boys? It'll put some motivation in us. We chop to midmorn, and whoever has the most done gets a cask of the new spring cider. Brother Guldin tells me it's a rare batch this year. Ought to be well worth it! What do you say?”

The three boys exchanged self-assured glances among themselves, then Patrus replied, “You've a bet, Father Abbot. Starting... now!”

The four of them began setting and chopping logs as quickly as they could. A constant hail of falling axes a busy beat that echoed across the yard, attracting the attention of several passing brothers and initiates. Soon a small crowd gathered to watch the contest.

Half an hour later, the morning mists had burnt off and the wood piles on all sides had grown to giant proportions, but to the three boys' astonishment, the abbot's pile was beginning to outgrow any of theirs. The old man was showing no signs of tiring save a bit of sweat on his brow. Under the hot sun, the boys removed their robes, as it was simply too warm to keep them on through their exertion. To their surprise, the abbot did as well, revealing a thick body, unusually muscular beneath his undershirt and trousers.

Several minutes later, the abbot had overtaken the three boys, and still worked through the wood with no indication that he was going to quit. The boys, on the other hand, were beginning to flag, slowing incrementally with every strike after chopping so quickly for so long.

Eventually, one of the crowd called out, “Midmorn! Axes down!”

The abbot and the three boys stopped, setting down their axes. The boys were drenched in sweat and looked as though they were about to faint, but they saw that their abbot's breathing was hardly labored at all, with a wood pile twice as big as any of theirs. Bartholt smiled, throwing his blue robes over his shoulder and setting his axe in his chopping stump with a thock.

“Too bad, youngsters. Looks like that cider is mine. Better luck next time, maybe!”

"Wait, Father abbot!" Patrus croaked, "How did you do that?"

"Years of practice my lads. You don’t get to be abbot without having to chop a fair amount of wood." he laughed as he walked away, heading towards the outer walls.

One of the monks in the small crowd said to the monk beside him, “What's that, the fortieth or so cask he's won doing this?”

The second monk nodded and chuckled, “The new initiates never know any better. All they see is an old man, the poor sods. The robes really cover up the muscles, don't they?”

Bartholt climbed the stairs leading to the high walls that circled the yard. The air was brisk on the walls, still heavy with the chill of the night, but it was bracing and the abbot grinned. He walked along the walls, looking out over the small island upon which the monastery sat. Outside those walls, rushing waters cascaded around the land, a soothing background noise ever constant. An enormous river separated the monastery from the rest of the world, secluded further from the distant forests in which it lay. Long drawbridges were the only way to get to the island and the monastery atop it, but every day they would lower the gates for weary travelers. They offered respite, asking only for tales to expand their libraries.

Not long after, Bartholt collected his winnings from an unsurprised Brother Guldin, he continued making his survey of the monastery at large, checking it before they lowered the gates across the rivers. He passed through the kitchen, where smells of roasting meat and baking pies filled the air. He drifted through the enormous library and archives, which took up nearly half of the monastery altogether. His hands ran gently, almost reverently across the many leather bound tomes and a smile came to his face.

But as he came to the sanctuary hall, that smile faded to confusion. He saw a man standing there, at the enormous stained glass windows staring at the runes etched around them. He appeared to be almost as old as the abbot himself, but he did not wear the robes that all the monks and initiates wore. This man was not a monk and the abbot had never before seen him tread the halls of the monastery. That, and the abbot should have been notified if the drawbridges had been lowered to admit any guests. He could not think of any reason that someone would have been let in without his awareness of it. Most inexplicable of all, no one was with this stranger, which made it seem as though no one knew he was here. The monk approached him, taking in the man as he neared.

He was tall, towering over the shorter man by several heads. Unlike Bartholt's own body, stocky from years of work, the stranger was lean with long muscles on his thin frame. His skin was pale as ivory, and long lobed ears hung from the side of his head. Most striking about the stranger was his thick silver hair and long mustache and beard. Delicately etched upon his skin were whorls and glyphs, dark against the shock of his pallor. His billowing robes were the deep sapphire of the ocean and the tunic underneath the bright azure of the sky, each folded and cut in a fashion that the abbot had never seen. They were delicately woven, and there seemed decorations on every hem. Thick rings sat upon every finger, a cascade of colors not present anywhere else on this stranger’s clothes. He was, at a glance, as odd as his sudden appearance.

Puzzled, but attempting to appear welcoming, Bartholt spoke to the stranger. “Welcome. I'm Father Bartholt, the abbot of this monastery. Is there... anything I can help you with?”

The man stood silent for several long moments and unease began to worry at Bartholt. The man appeared deep in thought, deeply lost to his own world. As the monk was about to speak once again, the stranger turned dark eyes upon him. It was but a glance, but the weight of that gaze carried with it the weight of lifetimes innumerable. It silenced Bartholt, his words stuck unspoken in his throat. The stranger turned his calm eyes back to the windows and finally spoke.

"I was here before, long ago. It was an academy in those times, but much has changed since I walked these halls. It is a more peaceful place now, I think." His voice was deep and rich, with an accent obviously formed from years of travel.

The abbot raised a tangled eyebrow. “Sir, I think you must be mistaken. I've been here quite nearly all of my life, and it has always been a monastery. And the records of past abbots go back for centuries; this has been a monastery for a very long time, longer than anyone can remember, anyway. And I don't want to appear rude, but how exactly did you get in here? Did someone show you in?”

"The students here were so full of energy and ideas, all so eager to please and so curious. Some of them were prodigies whose ideas could have changed magic if given the chance." The stranger continued, seemingly ignoring the monk, but he eventually turned to the abbot once more. "History is but the memory of a nation Father. And memory can be... unreliable." Tension slipped into the man's eyes as he spoke. His voice had become heavy and once more he looked strangely lost. "Tell me Father, why did you come here? What did you hope to learn on this island?"

The abbot was puzzled by the sudden question, but nevertheless endeavored to answer.

"My story is a complicated one, stranger. I did not come here originally to learn anything at all. In fact I came here as a traveler and was caught stealing from the monks. I was a troubled young man, a long time ago. The brothers helped show me that my path was leading only to my own misery. They helped me put my feet on the right trail, and so I joined them. I found peace that I had never known before. What did I learn, in the end? What does anyone ever learn over the course of their life? I suppose you could say I learned how to live. I learned how to help others in the way that I was helped. I learned of my place in the world. Why do you ask?"

"Trouble is a hallmark of youth," he said with a smile that quickly faded, "But it does not dim just because one grows older." The traveler folded his arms across his chest and his tone became brusque once again as he answered Bartholt. "I came here those long years ago, to learn the secrets of life. In these halls we studied the powers of magic, to unlock the power to bend time and space to our wills. We sought the greatest mysteries of how worlds are formed, and the more pressing mystery of why they took shape. But... I can't remember any longer, if when I came here it was for the right reasons." The stranger's eyes became distant once more as he stared up at the beautiful stained glass. "I can't remember if I wanted those secrets for the sake of knowing," he paused, and his voice became a small thing when he continued, "or for the reason I began seeking those answers."

Silence reigned for long moments as they stood in the sanctuary, bathed in the brilliant rainbows the light of the sun cast across the floors. The stranger looked down, casting his eyes to the ribbons of color and hesitantly he looked up at his companion.

"Father... have you ever lost someone you loved?"

The abbot appeared surprised, but for only a moment. He said in a quiet voice, "I have. I have no blood family, but the brothers and sisters here have been a family to me. I have lost many friends, to accidents, sickness, and time. But I suppose that comes with getting to be an old man like me. In order to get old, you have to outlive others. It is sad, but it is also the way of things. We must simply enjoy the time we have and be glad that we are afforded the chance to be a part of life's grand design."

"Death is a part of life, yes. It is a thing we must accept, that there will be those who go before us. The death of a parent is sad, but that is part of life’s journey. The death of friends, siblings, and... a wife is cruel, but that too, is the natural order of things. The death of a child however..." His voice flared to life, "That is a tragedy for which there is no name. It is not just the death of a loved one, but the death of a legacy. The death of dreams unseen and years unspent." the stranger grimaced, filled with a sudden anger, but his next words were almost too soft to be heard as he gazed upon the floor again. "The death of a son is beyond tragic, especially if it is your fault."

The abbot was unsure of what to say. He was silent for a moment, then ventured, "Stranger, if you need help, or a place to stay, or simply someone to talk to, our doors are always open to those in need. This is a place of peace, and of thought. And it sounds to me like you have a lot of thinking to do. What say we find you a room? You can stay as long as you need to. You will be left alone if you wish, or if you want someone to talk to, we can provide. This is a place of healing. And although I cannot say I know you, it doesn't take a lifetime of experience to see that you are badly hurt."

The stranger seemed deaf to Bartolth's kindness. A rage and grief roiled within him and Bartolth stepped forward to offer his comfort. With that simple motion, the tall man's head snapped back up. His gaze was once more filled with lifetimes well beyond his apparent years.

"I am grateful for your kindness, but I have not finished my tale, and I fear that you must hear the rest before you can offer me such sympathy." The pale man stood straight again, and calmly walked to the nearest wall. He carefully studied it for a few moments and nodded. "Your brothers have always seen these runes, present for as long as your brotherhood has dwelt in these halls. Yet, you have never understood them. Never known what they mean. I can tell you."

He lifted his hand and slammed his palm upon the smooth stone. The four black gems upon his rings suddenly shone with a coruscating light, each a color richer than any dye Bartholt had ever seen. That light ran across the walls and every glyph in the room burst to sudden brilliant life.

"This is my language. The language I composed, the language of my spellwork. And this is my tale..." With that the glyphs flared and all trace of the room around the two bled out of existence. All was blinding white. All turned black. In that blackness a single star seemed to giltter, a tiny thing that hovered in front of Bartholt's eyes. As he watched, the light grew, took shape, a great spiral unlike anything the monk had ever seen. Colors bled and ran, impossible beauty in the void the stranger had called.

Bartholt had never experienced anything like this in his life, but he chose to believe that the stranger meant him no harm. If he had wanted to kill the abbot, he most likely could have done so without so much as showing himself, considering the magical power that was clearly at his command. He steeled himself against the reeling sights and allowed himself to see.

Fog parted around the pair, figures dancing in and out of the cool mist. It was only then that Bartholt realized they were not in fog. They were standing upon clouds. The land was a distant plain below their feet and it stretched off for as far as the abbot could see. Lush jungles met beaches where the tides crashed upon them. Cliffs rose far to the east and looked out over the great shimmering oceans. This was another world. It left the monk speechless and soon the stranger spoke.

"These were the lands of summer, where the elves walked under great trees and built living cities into the sky. As their cities grew higher, they threatened war against the folk of the moon. These were my people." As his words echoed in the chamber, the image shimmered and showed happy families living in buildings hung from clouds. The structures were impossibly fragile, fine filigree things of glimmering beauty. "It was from this war that I took my family. I led us north, to the land of men, to the winter lands."

The image shifted and blurred with speed, innumerable leagues travelled in but seconds until a single mountain loomed high, covered in rime and blown by the winds. Castles and keeps littered the mountain's face, their fires glowing brightly through windows and atop towers. To the north, enormous glaciers loomed and dark howls met the screaming winds.

"I was the most powerful archmage these lands had ever seen, and I found myself the left hand of the king, his personal alchemist. My wife died shortly after, but my son helped to sooth my grief. He became my finest student, always eager for praise and with a talent that dwarfed mine when I was his age. He grew so quickly, or perhaps it just seems that way now... He became a young man before I knew it, but I had brought him to a world I had hoped to shelter him from. The kingdoms of man were also at war."

The world blurred once again, shadowed figures crawling from the darkness of the ice. "Demons, from the deeps under the glaciers, had been freed by the slow trek of the ancient ice. The king was mad with war, and much of my skills were bent to destroying the legions that besieged the lands. It was a war that saw many men die, their battles waged on ice and stone. All the while, the king trusted me to share my wisdom and experience with him."

"It was not until the king's men unearthed an ancient weapon that I had reason to deny him. The king wished me to use it, a massive artifact carved into the mountain itself, the doors to its chamber sealed by frost until his men unearthed it. I vehemently refused his command, no matter how often he raised the matter... But he had other plans. He- he asked my son to use it. My finest student."

The stranger's voice broke and he remained quiet for some time. When he finally spoke again, he seemed to rush through it. "My son journeyed to the artifact, thinking that if he could unlock its power, I would be proud of him. Of all the things I taught him, I failed to teach him the wisdom of patience and care and he... he..." The world around Bartholt flashed white, and an enormous globe of brilliant white fire and crackling lightning swirled outwards, consuming the mountain upon which it bloomed. The stranger watched it, his lip trembling with emotion and his brows grimly knit together.

"I knew the moment it happened. It lit the sky with a false dawn brighter than the auroras above and could be seen from leagues away. I knew what that explosion meant somehow, a weight of despair upon my chest and I felt something deep inside my soul finally break. Surrounded by the death cries of a thousand men and fiends, I fell to my knees, unable to take in anymore. Grief and power ripped my body apart and I became aware of worlds greater and smaller than anything I could have ever theorized. But those worlds were washed away by the sound of my rage. I laid waste to the King's palace first. Fire and lightning heralded my wrath, and the king died as my son had. The very strength of my fury cracked and shattered the glaciers and ice of the winter lands, sundering what had stood for epochs. And so I turned my back upon my homeworld."

The monk stood in the melting space, his words temporarily stolen from him by what he had just seen. He knew that he most likely did not understand the depths of this mage's true power. Those barest glimpses showed a man that could end worlds should he desire, but here before him he stood, tall and yet somehow frail. As Father Bartholt stared, besieged by thoughts, his instincts reminded him of what he was meant to do.

"Stranger... what you have been through would shatter the heart of any man." The abbot's brow furrowed and his tangled eyebrows nearly met as he reclaimed his certainty. "Indeed, fate has been unbearably cruel to you. Certainly crueler than it has been to me or anyone else I have ever known. But I can see very clearly that your very soul is consumed by guilt and sorrow, and while certainly sorrow is to be expected... you need not feel such self-hatred." The old man, knowing full well that he had just witnessed this stranger reap destruction of untold limits with his fury, approached the mage and put a strong tanned hand on his shoulder, looking him straight in the eye. "You cannot blame yourself for your son's death. He was torn from you in a fit of life's cruelty, but it was not a result of anything you did or could have done. He is gone, but surely even now his spirit feels the love that burns in your heart. Is this how he would have wanted you to feel?"

"No. He would not. But you misunderstand, abbot. This was not the end of my tale. It is but the beginning." The stranger stared directly into Bartholt's eyes and they seem to grow. The illusion around them and the moonfolk's eyes became one. The frigid winds were replaced by the howl of reality itself. The tumult of chaos, colors beyond understanding twisting in impossible geometries, surrounded them. From these eternities, entire worlds seemed to fly forth, worlds of endless shapes and natures.

"I travelled the worlds for eons, worlds whose waters were the aether of creation itself, where ideas are given form at the moment of their thought. Worlds whose every ocean could fit upon this entire island. I wandered these worlds searching for answers. The answers to life and death, to time, and reality... all in an effort to undo what happened to my son. I founded schools upon countless of these worlds, academies like the one that once stood here. I learned the secrets of agelessness on the farthest flung planes. I was consumed by my need to know the secrets of Dominia's creation. The birth of worlds. The death of worlds. Still, the secret of why worlds formed, the existence of the Eternities themselves eluded me. Eons turned to millenia and the quest became its own goal. My grief was burned out by the very thing it inspired." The stranger turned to the abbot.

"In all that time... I forgot the reason why I wanted those secrets so badly." He gazed upon the abbot, a numb look in his eyes. "Then, something happened. A ripple that spread throughout all of creation, a swell that shook time and space. A small wave that woke me from my long slumber... and those memories forgotten came flooding back. It was like losing my son all over again, to experience that agony afresh." The illusions faded and again the two stood in the sanctuary, the late morning light streaming through the great glass windows.

"The guilt that I carry is not over the death of my son, Father." the stranger said forlornly. "It's-" His voice broke and tears welled in his eyes. "It's because I- I cannot remember his name." the tears he had been trying so hard to hold back fell and he let out a quavering sob. "I can't even recall his face!" He shuddered with every breath, the grief of millenia shaking his body as he wept.

This time, the abbot did not reel in place. He only wordlessly approached the ancient mage and embraced him without fear or shame. He knew it was dangerous, and he knew that this man had the power to eradicate him with nothing but thoughts, but he did not care. He released him, placing both hands on his shoulders and looking the man directly in the eye. "No one blames you but you. I have been shown your story, and while my opinion is only that of an old mortal man, I think you have nothing to be ashamed of. You love your son, and I'd bet my last coin that in whatever realm he rests in, he knows it too. Further eons might pass, but even I can feel that the strength of your love for him will never fade, not even if the stars go out and all is cold and black. That's what matters. That's all that ever matters. You of all people should know that."

"I spent too long in the dark, blinded by my desire for knowledge to listen to the wisdom I may already have gained. What you say may be true, but I've already known the loss of that love. I do not know if I could ever lose it again, but I must find what I can to always remind me. It is why I have returned. I hoped... that perhaps I could find some trace of him in these halls." The tall mage looked over the abbot's shoulder, staring down the way the man had come. "I fear though, that I had already lost my way when I built this place upon this isle."

The abbot replied, "This place's original purpose was lost to us anyway. All we do is live our lives in peace and offer the same to others. And that includes you, stranger. From what I've seen, you deserve rest. A place to begin healing. Will you stay with us for a time, or will you move on?"

"Rest would be so welcome right now. To simply cease my studies and live without concerns for a time..."

"Father?! Are you in there?" Patrus called from the hallways. The young man came into the sanctuary, his features locked in a worried grimace. "Father, there you are. We've been worried. Nobody could find you. What are you doing in the sanctuary?"

The abbot whirled around, surprised to hear the brother's voice. "I've just been talking with a visitor. Not sure how he got in, but-"

"Father? Are you feeling alright?" Patrus smiled nervously as he stared at his superior. "Ah, you must've been at the cider already," the younger man laughed with a wry grin.

Bartholt whirled, but the tall mage had vanished. Where he stood, strange smoke curled, glowing wisps of blue mists pulsing in its heart. The mists spread as they rose, branching as it slowly disappeared. The abbot frowned and took a step into the smoke. He felt something skitter across the floor and bent down to see what he had kicked. Upon the ground was a small flawless crystal. Inside, in tiny writing, he could make out a glyph etched impossibly within the stone. As he held it, it pulsed once warmly and the rich voice of the stranger spoke in his mind.

"Thank you Bartholt. I never told you my name, and for that I apologize. You may call me Zhiran when next we meet. I shall try and return some day, but I yet have purpose. Until that time, be well."

Father Bartholt held the crystal in his hand for a moment, then placed it in a pocket of his robes. He turned to the brother and shook his head exaggeratedly while smiling, saying, "I had just a bit. To sample the flavor, you know. Brother Guldin was right, it's a fine vintage. It's nearly lunch time, isn't it? Why don't we head down to the kitchens and get us something to eat. Have to have something to balance out the cider, yes?" The abbot laughed heartily.

But inside, his mind churned. He did not know what to expect from the powerful stranger that had come and gone so swiftly. He went about the rest of his day as usual, but when it came time to retire, he found his rest elusive. He lay awake in his bed, meditating on what he would do if the mage should return.

As he stared upon the ceiling, the monk decided that he would do as he had always done, and help him as best as he could. He could see no reason to do otherwise. Bartholt had never once hesitated to help a soul in need, even when it would cost him personally, and this man Zhiran was no exception. The abbey was a place of healing, and as far as he was concerned, it would stay so.

When the old abbot drifted to sleep that night, it was with a smile on his face regardless of the mystery, certain that as long as he was alive, he would help the stranger if he returned. It was his place in life, his calling, and he would not have it any other way.

Zhiran placed the crystal aside, the illusion of the memory fading as his study returned around him. He sat and gazed about, the room changed once more to its natural rich and earthy colors, dark wood and gold woven together in filigree arches that spanned great crimson pillars. The ceiling was the living canopy of a forest, the floor of polished blue marble run through with gilt veins. It was a far cry from the simple academy he had founded upon that plane, hewn roughly from rock and hope. A weary expression spread across his brow and with a sigh he rose from his seat and walked to the balcony. A veritable city stared back at him, his domain and the seat of his power. The greatest academy he had ever forged, the greatest that had perhaps ever existed. The sky shimmered far above, light wavering through the waters below where the ground should be.

For all his power, the ability to create this world within a world, this place could not sooth him as the cloister upon the isle had. He had not yet returned as he had told Bartholt he would. He effortlessly summoned the crystal to his hand and turned away from the majesty of his city. Perhaps he should return, take a year and lay down his burden, if only for a bit. Would that be selfish? Had he not earned a rest after such long years?

He walked through his tower to the central chamber, the great library of his spells. It was unlike any other library that existed for it was not a place of parchment and ink, it contained no books or scrolls. The sound of gentle chimes filled the air as he strode into his great hall. Multihued light danced before him, across the walls and floor as he entered. High above, a brilliant light shone as if the sun was cast from beneath water and thousands of crystals scattered it into rainbows of amazing complexity. Zhiran released the crystal, and it flew upwards to join its hovering siblings waltzing magnificently through the air. The crystals ranged in size, from tiny gems to enormous stones, all cut with the precision of an artisan. The inside of each crystal was delicately etched in impossibly tiny script, all in the language of Zhiran's spells. These were his memories, the sum of ten thousand years of research and life. Could he walk away from this? Leave it in the hands of his students, the people he had called to dwell in his domain?

"Archmage."

Zhiran turned and saw Terina standing at the doorway. The elf bowed her horned head and he nodded, amused by the formality she had yet to shed. "Come in Terina. What news have you?"

"I've concluded a divination in the galleries and I think you need to hear what I've found." She crossed to him, her hooves clicking lightly upon the fine stone floor. She handed him a mirror, a simple silver disk. She tapped the edge and an image swam into being.

"Ah... I see. Rashima has left her Brass City." Zhiran nodded grimly and exhaled roughly. "I had hoped to rest Terina, but it appears I must prepare instead. The Queen of Black Sands has left her demesne."