Gerra passed him the scroll, the insignia of the Fifth Order of
Elbion Maesters plastered across it, broken from where Gerra had read it.
Perhaps they're looking for me?
Maybe they've bartered for an escort home?
Wait-
"Addressed to Alistair? Why would-"
"What do-" He paused, realising it was pointless when he had the article in his hands.
God, what if this was something important Alistair needs...
He clumsily opened the scroll with his clay hands, still not being used to the feeling of no sensation in his fingers, struggling to control them. But once he had opened the lengthy scroll, he read it's contents;
And, in that small, quiet moment, sitting on that linen bed, the smell of lilies filling the air, he could finally, after all his years of suffering and moving on, feel his heart shatter into two.
He felt human no longer.
His whole body shook in place, as his clay-hands clasped violently around the scroll, ripping the fragile parchment paper it was written on. Incredibly, he didn't feel an ounce of sadness. Not a bit of anger. In fact, he didn't feel anything.
In that moment, all he could see was those who wronged him.
Alistair...
Alistair...
Alistair...
Elbion...
Everyone I've trusted wants me dead.
Everyone i've loved.
His clay hands started glowing a violent white colour, when the parchment suddenly burst into flames, the paper embers landing on the carpeted floor. His hands began to distort strangely, until they too began to melt and fall on the floor. He began to groan, as if he was in excruciating pain.
The curtains around the room caught fire, the window's creating a horrible squeak as they cracked near shattering. The lilies began to wilt, the pots they sat in melting like the clay of his false hands. Now, not only were Imamu's scars glowing, his whole body was emitting an awful, blood-boiling red, his eyes like the heart of a sun. He blinked violently as he shook, not knowing where to focus his emotions. In that moment, he felt like he couldn't breathe.
Then, as if he couldn't take it anymore, he let out a horrendous scream, the glass shattering around them, the linens of the bed catching fire, Sparhawk's hands clasping around his head as he bellowed. Until, finally, the fire, as if never having existed, puffed into black smoke, escaping from the windows. The colour he emitted disappearing.
I'll never forgive them i'll never forgive them i'll never forgive them i'll never forgive them.
He had finally given himself up to madness, and to the raw force Imamu had granted him. He had become, after all this time, the vessel he'd signed his contract for.
He sat.
Silently.
