It has all led to this. A hodge-podge of clues and calamities, hope crushed underfoot time and again as he wandered his way after what should have been his by right. But now, at long last, he is driven by less then meander hopelessly - he can stride with purpose, knowing that he steps foot on the lands of immortals. His home turf.
Kaladin was not an atheist. Neither was he religious. When he had been free, he had not believed in powers higher then himself - because who could be higher then he who was master of fate? However, ever since his imprisonment, he had found himself in prayer time and time again, eyes to the sky and wondering if anyone cared. But he had soon learned he was the only one he could trust. The gods of these lands were superfluous squanders of divinity, tossing their godly objects out from the heavens to watch in amusement as the mortals ran frantically in search of them. Had Kaladin still been a god himself, he would have reached up into the heavens and slapped them silly. But he was not - at least, not yet.
Over the time of his travels, he had slowly lost hope of ever reclaiming his former glory. And yet, with every mortal he'd encountered, he'd seen incontestable proof that this world needed him; it needed a benevolent god to see this mismatched puzzle taken apart, then piece it back together in matching order.
But those goals had slowly become hazy - like a dream that had been vivid, but disappeared into fog upon waking. Instead, his ambition had been replaced with familiar faces - the crimson-and-horned Camdis, the betraying but angel-faced Damascus, the storm-seeking Seraphina, even the star-strewn woman from the swamp whose name he could no longer recall. And every time he thought of his former power, he was faced with the selfish nature of his destructive intentions. It was not a philosophical question he intended to ponder, however - he had been created as a tool, and the purpose of a tool was specific and absolute.
And so the once-god entered a true-god's land, his hooves determined yet nervous upon the turf, every step ringing loudly in the shivering quiet. His eyes seemed to shine in the maze's gloom - reflecting the emerald dress of the towering hedges. I have no reason to fear, he repeated to himself, a mantra that seemed more and more unconvincing the deeper he entered into the unfamiliar labyrinth. If the relic is anywhere, it is here, he added, every movement deeper into the network of hedges edged with surety and apprehension. The world around him was now dark, with nothing more then the occasional ray of faint light to burst through the darkly-backed forestry. A god would have been comfortable here - but Kaladin was mortal, and so he shivered instead.
He met the first fork in the maze, and paused. Both paths seemed identical to naked eye, but as he closed his eyes he could feel a familiar humming coming from the left. It was the thrum of power, faint as a heartbeat but assertive in its suggestion - reminding Kaladin of what he could soon have. But he knew mortals too well - he knew they would not be able to resist the allure of divinity, as foreign as it was to them. If he were to claim this relic, he could not afford hesitation - and so he picked up the pace, moving to the left, eyes slitted and analytical as he plotted his course.
He was sure, now. He could hear it, like a lone bird singing after dark - freedom, calling his name. This maze was not just a challenge - it was a promise. And if Kaladin knew anything about deities, it was that they always kept their promises.
Kaladin was not an atheist. Neither was he religious. When he had been free, he had not believed in powers higher then himself - because who could be higher then he who was master of fate? However, ever since his imprisonment, he had found himself in prayer time and time again, eyes to the sky and wondering if anyone cared. But he had soon learned he was the only one he could trust. The gods of these lands were superfluous squanders of divinity, tossing their godly objects out from the heavens to watch in amusement as the mortals ran frantically in search of them. Had Kaladin still been a god himself, he would have reached up into the heavens and slapped them silly. But he was not - at least, not yet.
Over the time of his travels, he had slowly lost hope of ever reclaiming his former glory. And yet, with every mortal he'd encountered, he'd seen incontestable proof that this world needed him; it needed a benevolent god to see this mismatched puzzle taken apart, then piece it back together in matching order.
But those goals had slowly become hazy - like a dream that had been vivid, but disappeared into fog upon waking. Instead, his ambition had been replaced with familiar faces - the crimson-and-horned Camdis, the betraying but angel-faced Damascus, the storm-seeking Seraphina, even the star-strewn woman from the swamp whose name he could no longer recall. And every time he thought of his former power, he was faced with the selfish nature of his destructive intentions. It was not a philosophical question he intended to ponder, however - he had been created as a tool, and the purpose of a tool was specific and absolute.
And so the once-god entered a true-god's land, his hooves determined yet nervous upon the turf, every step ringing loudly in the shivering quiet. His eyes seemed to shine in the maze's gloom - reflecting the emerald dress of the towering hedges. I have no reason to fear, he repeated to himself, a mantra that seemed more and more unconvincing the deeper he entered into the unfamiliar labyrinth. If the relic is anywhere, it is here, he added, every movement deeper into the network of hedges edged with surety and apprehension. The world around him was now dark, with nothing more then the occasional ray of faint light to burst through the darkly-backed forestry. A god would have been comfortable here - but Kaladin was mortal, and so he shivered instead.
He met the first fork in the maze, and paused. Both paths seemed identical to naked eye, but as he closed his eyes he could feel a familiar humming coming from the left. It was the thrum of power, faint as a heartbeat but assertive in its suggestion - reminding Kaladin of what he could soon have. But he knew mortals too well - he knew they would not be able to resist the allure of divinity, as foreign as it was to them. If he were to claim this relic, he could not afford hesitation - and so he picked up the pace, moving to the left, eyes slitted and analytical as he plotted his course.
He was sure, now. He could hear it, like a lone bird singing after dark - freedom, calling his name. This maze was not just a challenge - it was a promise. And if Kaladin knew anything about deities, it was that they always kept their promises.
