Reality is perceptual and perpetual.

"This place was truly holy." Thurlcroft said. Much to my suprise. He perhaps had some minor form of environmental recall. "Those who destroyed it and cast all into ruin are mimicked by the new masters. Mankind is ignorant. It could learn but would rather not."

"That is both the tragedy and the poetic justice of what we are." Cysalla said and held tightly to her lover's hand. "The greatest efforts are always taken by those who seek to serve none but themselves. All that we could be remains only wistful imaginings."

That is my blessed and beloved lady. Vision clear and heart strong and never hiding behind ridiculous wishes for impossible fantasies.

.

"Does being the direct descendant of a sacred and holy saint guarantee you a place in Heaven?" Nicoćeasću asked of me a day later as we stopped to rest our livestock in the meager shadow of a short but sharp sided ridge. "My babasa has always said that few see the Highest Above because men love themselves more than they love God "

"Heaven wasn't made for us and God doesn't need our love." Thurlcroft said as he checked the dray horses of our wagon. "We aren't Original Beings. We're an afterthought. An experiment. One that's surely gone wrong."

"Saints and their lineages never see any rewards. Not of a sort you would wish. We remain bound to the world, adding our knowledge to those who come after." I said and screened from my perception long vanished grasslands and vast herds of grazing beasts. "It matters not if I have no children of my own. My lineage is not a single line passing through history. Somewhere a cousin or distant niece or nephew will follow me and I will be here, a soul bound to this existence by memories that I will then share."

"So all the ghosts you already see, you'll become one too?" Thurlcroft said and frowned. "If mankind ends itself, will you be released?"

"I haven't the slightest. I see the past, not the future." I said as the milky white sky over us itself only promised pain without a single answer. "I was given this path. I did not choose it nor have any say in it."

"No offense here visionary but better you than me." Nicoćeasću said and made the sign of warding against foul deeds. "I struggle enough with what I can see already. God gave you no gift in this."

"The only true gifts of value I've ever received have come from people." I said and turned to meet Nigel's gaze squarely with my eyes clear and hiding nothing. "A gift that cannot be shared is only a burden. An obligation that is imposed and cannot be refused."

"I wouldn't know. I've never been given anything in my life." Nicoćeasću grumbled but all I heard were words that were meant for other ears. Nigel and I spoke, with just our eyes, things the other two would like as not never comprehend.

.

I carry secrets and carry them well. Until they cease to be. For example I knew that Nigel Westham was the seventh generational seventh son of a seventh son. He himself was unaware because who amongst you normal lot remember your ancestry beyond at most two generations? He was quietly blessed and silently portentious and I only truly recognized his glow once I became sober.

You may know the fables and folklore of the seventh son but you can't comprehend the improbability of seven consecutive generations of seventh of seven. No sisters. Each seventh marrying and procreating precisely seven more. I believe that Nigel was the reason I could set my addiction aside. Because he healed me of it. Not purposefully. Not by a deliberate act of will. He wished it to be so and it became so.

I know what you do not. Fable and folklore are founded in truths that we gradually chose to deny. I myself am the seventy-seventh compendium of my line. The numbers never align so precisely by happenstance. Reilen and Cysalla are the first of their line. Nigel and I were perhaps the last of ours. Together the four of us complete a cycle. The end guiding the beginning to its proper place.

Chaos is simply the tipping point with enthalpy on one side and entropy upon the other. As individuals we seldom have any influence upon the balance. Occasionally though there are catalysts. Enthalpy can sometimes feed entropy but never the reverse. The first is fixed, the second affected by randomness. A catalyst can fix a system in place or direct it to change. What that means to humans is that our delusions of importance will always shatter at some point. We do not control things and never have. We pretend that when coincidence just happens to coincide with our desire it is by our will.

The Mother of All has no favorites. Watch long enough and you will see this proven time and time again. All have a purpose. Even if that purpose is to simply bear witness or to be a supporting character in a play that we were never given the script for.

.

Bikbulat Vodenichirov became the drover of our wagon after LaRue was bitten by a venomous spider and died. He either didn't notice the bite or chose to think it inconsequential until he collapsed and went into seizures. At which point all we could do is watch him die and dig a shallow grave which we covered with a cairn.

LaRue turned out to have been wrong. The ground did not break a shovel but it required considerable effort to lay him down.

"Did he curse himself with his statement?" Nigel asked me in a hushed tone as the cartsmith and drovers stacked rocks in the evening's lingering heat. "Are words more dangerous out here?"

"Words are always dangerous, my dear young man." I replied as the dust rising from the efforts of the others glowed golden in the light of the setting sun. "One can never tell just what or who might be listening. Never say what you don't mean. Don't challenge the world to show you up for a liar."

"It's a dangerous enough life already." Nigel said as he offered me his canteen. Of water. Just water. "The truth isn't something you have to try to remember."