The HaRT Knight Decaverse

Correspondence from the Afterlife

Letter 09

Monk's Wood Haven. Three days since Ezra.

A.,

The eons tumble onward, a ceaseless cascade of time unbroken by the confines of existence. It is a curious thing to address this parchment, knowing not whether the passage of time has left you untouched or swept you away into the current of oblivion. Yet, here I stand--metaphorically, of course--penning words that dance across the threshold of time itself, as if our souls still share a connection that remains undisturbed by the vast chasm that separates us.
In the evolution of my narrative, the common reference points have shifted, realigned to the milestones that have indelibly marked my journey. From the monumental day of my departure from Afallon, to the pivotal moment of Ezra's arrival--a name bestowed upon him, a cipher of hope amidst the bleakness of the blightlands. The chronicle of my existence is now intertwined with these defining junctures, a tapestry of memories that serves as a testament to my resilience, my metamorphosis, and the fleeting but profound connections that have graced my afterlife.
The legacy of Ezra, an enigmatic figure who emerged from the blightlands and into my haven, continues to cast ripples across the tranquil waters of the Monk's Wood. His arrival marked a transformative occurrence, a convergence that awakened within me dormant aspects of my own identity--the remnants of my humanity that had seemingly been consumed by the shadow of the Forbidden Garden. The past three days have been nothing short of revelation, as this boy--a survivor of circumstances that defy comprehension--shattered my preconceptions and rekindled a flame that had long flickered within the recesses of my being.
In the aftermath of his slumber, Ezra awoke, his eyes now aglow with an otherworldly silvery green. A luminescent hue that held a beauty born of the arcane, a striking manifestation of the transformative power that flowed through his veins. His voice, too, seemed to have been transformed by my remedy, transmuted into a deep and resonant echo that held the wisdom of ages beyond his years--a testament to the life he had carved within the blightlands, a world that had molded him into a solitary phantom.
Yet, his initial awakening bore the traits of the feral, the instinctual--he fell to the ground, much like a wild creature caught between the decisions to attack or flee. The transition from the wild to the civilized proved a challenge, marked by wariness and a snarl that mirrored the predatory. It was only upon the bridge of communication that the tide turned, revealing his capacity for reason and dialogue--a capacity forged through necessity, as the blightlands are seldom forgiving to those who cannot adapt.
Here follows an account of the exchange that unfolded between us:
“Where am I?” he inquired.
“Within the sanctum of the Monk's Wood--The Haven you've been scavenging off of for the last year,” I remarked. His countenance remained unaffected, displaying no vestige of remorse at my candid proclamation. Instead, his gaze wandered toward the swathed shoulder I had tended to.
“I was sick,” he uttered after a measured pause.
“Indeed, the blight nearly took you,” I concurred.
Raising his eyes to meet mine, he regarded me with a look of mild perplexity. “You healed me?”
I assented with a nod. “I did.”
His countenance now assumed an air of intensified bewilderment. Yet, it was not the blightsickness's annulment that confounded him. Rather, with a most unsullied innocence, he inquired, “Why?”
“Why what?” I queried, the perplexity mirrored upon my visage rivalling his own.
“Why would you heal me? Why help me?” he sought to discern.
“For the simple reason that I was capable,” I responded. A perplexing frown from him hinted at his inability to fathom such a rationale.
And then, with an air of deliberation, he stood, relinquishing the feline crouch that was akin to a jungle predator poised for assault.
“I don't understand,” he voiced, his utterance an embodiment of uncertainty. “What is it you hope to gain from helping me?”
This query aroused a dormant facet of my being, one that I presumed had long been relegated to oblivion. “I don't seek to gain a thing,” I affirmed. The quizzical gaze he trained upon me bespoke his struggle to assimilate this explanation. To dispel his uncertainty, I appended, “When equipped with the power to alleviate another's plight, the deed must be accomplished. Not contingent upon familiarity, nor influenced by personal inclinations. It is an obligation born of compassion.”
“Compassion? Why? How will that help you survive?” he persisted, now bearing a feature of curiosity that spurred a hitherto latent aspect of myself.
“In the greatest way possible. It gives me a reason to survive,” I professed. The furrowed brow he then presented indicated his struggle to unearth coherence in this ethos. Thus, I supplemented, “To subsist for the mere sake of subsistence culminates in a life bereft of purpose. Conversely, a life dedicated to aiding fellow beings imparts meaning to existence. And therein lies justification for survival. Pray tell, what spurs you to battle so relentlessly for survival?”
A protracted silence enveloped us as his gaze lingered upon me, unearthing the answer yet unvoiced. Likely, the concept had never heretofore occupied his ruminations. Nurtured as a feral entity within the blightlands, survival had been his solitary vocation. By curing him, I had stripped away the veil of ignorance that had enshrouded his perception.
His response did not align with my query. A succinct declaration emanated from him: “I'm hungry.”
Here unveiled itself another attribute, seemingly incongruous with my potion's effect. The boy exhibited an appetite that could satiate five grown men before satiation graced him.
While responses to inquiries were forthcoming, superfluity found no harbor in his discourse. Yet, behind his gaze simmered an intellect that disentangled and scrutinized each syllable I uttered. A semblance of bygone days when I once held the mantle of educator stirred within. His mere presence is enough to remind me of who I had been in the living world.

Yours, Most sincerely,
Amobiel

PS. It saddens me to add this postscript. Ezra is gone. His departure was as swift as a dream's fading touch. After a brief nap, I awoke to a raided kitchen and Ezra's absence. In the span of three days, he breathed life into my existence, kindling a sense of familiarity I had long forgotten.
The kitchen, now stripped of both food and his presence, carries the weight of his absence, leaving me pondering the enigma of his leaving. In those few days, he became a tether to my past, reigniting memories and hopes. Yet, the mysteries of his departure remain unsolved, a testament to life's fleeting nature.
Though our time was short, Ezra's impact was profound. His departure leaves an ache, a reminder that connections, no matter how brief, can leave an indelible mark.