The Dreamwalker's Path

3/ Temple of the Lost, Sanctuary

Now that the Alchemist was gone from his Clock Tower prison, a sort of eerie silence had fallen over the whole of Sanctuary. Before his release, it would have been impossible for those who had been born and grown up in Time’s City to imagine life without the constant tinkling of the Alchemist’s lullaby. In truth, it had never occurred to most of the natural occupants of Sanctuary to even imagine life as such, as it was a given that the Alchemist would always be there, and the clock would always chime accordingly. But now that It was gone and had been gone, Sanctuary had been left in the first real silence that it had ever experienced.

Sometimes the occupants forgot. The jostling, noisy crowds of Carter’s Street could sometimes, when working collectively, create an illusion of sound, between the hollers of the mongers and the jeers of the customers. But the fact was that, while their noise could fill the space during the daylight hours, there was nothing to occupy the ears of Sanctuary’s inhabitants during the evenings. No lullaby to put the babes to sleep. No assurance that the people were, in fact, safe.

And now the tower was crumbling.

Piece by piece, the brick and coquina stones and mortar crumbled away, scattering the market with debris. It would have to be taken down, eventually, for the safety of the occupants of Sanctuary. Taken down, or rebuilt. This was an issue in itself, as no one that anyone knew of knew anything about building or rebuilding or un-building; Sanctuary had always provided enough housing for the people who lived there all by itself. Half of the occupants simply expected the clock tower to just disappear all on its own—and perhaps it would. In the meantime, however...

But the crumbling of the clock tower was only secondary to its silence.

For the Historian, the absence of the noise was another type of inconvenience: for as long as he had been the guardian of those forgotten deities trapped within the Temple of the Lost, the Lullaby worked as a reminder to the occupants of those divine beings in his safe-keeping—a different sort of reminder than that of the common people; it was a reminder that even the most powerful was not as powerful as Time, and that no one had the right to usurp the natural order of the ever-progressing world. Especially not in Sanctuary, where nothing progressed at all without Time’s consent.

Now that the tower was quiet, those trapped by their own ill fate, had become restless. The Alchemist had escaped. They wanted to escape, too.

Thankfully, their own prisons didn’t work in the same way that the Alchemist’s had. For those in the Temple, their power and their freedom of movement directly corresponded to the number of people who truly believed in them and in the power that they possessed. They weren’t here because they had broken some sort of law or angered one of the key elements of the universe; they were here because, at the end of the day, they were no longer important enough to be remembered.

In that regard, Lyriel sympathized with them. He, too, had been forgotten, long ago by his own god.

The angel made its way through the main chamber of the temple, contenting himself with the occasional pause while he observed this or that particular petrified figure in the walls.

“Hello, Historian.” The voice drifted through the high ceilings of the chamber toward him. It was polite, but there was a hint of disdain that did not escape the angel’s notice.

Lyriel did not need to see the speaker to know who she was, but he waited for the white clad Hour to step farther into the chamber before he raised a hand in greeting: “Oh delicate Hour of Four, how delightfully unforeseen your presence here is. Truly I should count myself among the blessed few who might boast of having the experience of your uninvited presence...”

The Fourth Hour, tall and pale, with a face almost distinctly reptilian, strode into the chamber as though she hadn’t heard a single thing the angel said. Perhaps, Lyriel thought a little wistfully, she hadn’t. Perhaps she would exercise her already finely tuned ability to selectively hear.

“I’ve brought the volunteers who have agreed to help you in penance for their actions on Carter Street.”

“Oh, glorious.” Lyriel stretched the largest pair of his wings and then tucked them lightly behind his back. Without trying to appear too eager, he peered around the tall Hour to take a gander at the new arrivals. “Ah! That’s a beautiful face that I couldn’t forget, hello, Ms. Steeps. And yes, there’s Egcylth and—oh, I’m terribly sorry, I’m not familiar with the two of you. But don’t worry! We’ll all get to know each other soon.”

“Historian,” the Fourth Hour cleared her throat and clasped her long hands in front of her. Despite the fact that she was shorter than he was, she had found a way to look down at the angel. Perhaps, Lyriel thought, it was because her cheekbones were at such an angle that it looked like she was always looking down on someone.

And then the Hour’s thin lips curled into a sneer and Lyriel realized that, no, it was simply because she hated him.

Well and well! That’s just fine with me. There’s a reason snakes were cast out of Eden, you know...

Somehow he didn’t think she would be impressed by the comparison. And besides, the angel cast one more glance at the group of demons and humans that stood behind the Hour, Four was not the only Phanin in Sanctuary, and the others of her kind that he had met were perfectly lovely individuals.

So instead of insulting an entire species because one female had a twig the size of a Redwood shoved under her tail, the angel graciously opened his arms to his new volunteers and gestured that they should come forward.

“I think that I can take it from here, Four, if you don’t mind. I know you’d be surprised to hear it, but I am entirely competent in my work—yes, everyone come forward, I’ll show you around the Temple and we’ll find each of you a way to help.”

Cautiously, the group moved around Four and stepped farther into the temple.

“Are you certain that you’ll be able to handle this, Historian?” The bare skin that stretched over the bridge of Four’s narrow, barely defined nose wrinkled as she spoke.

And, Heaven help him, Lyriel managed to keep his eyes from rolling skyward. “Isanthe,” none of his usual sycophantism or spite colored his tone as he addressed the Hour by name, “I am at least twice as old as the oldest of your kind shall ever be. Have some faith that I have survived half as long as I have because I some idea of what it is I’m doing.”

He watched as the woman-esque Hour gauged his words and determined whether they justified whatever reply she so obviously wanted to give him.

They must not have. Or perhaps she was saving her words for another time. Whichever the reason, she tilted her head in begrudging acknowledgement and said only, “I will leave them in your hands then.”

The Phanin female took a couple of steps backward before she turned her back on the entire group and disappeared under the archway leading to the staircase out of the Temple.

“Good riddance,” one of the volunteers muttered, sticking his hands in his pockets and busying himself by looking around the Temple. “So this is where the gods go to die, ey?”

Lyriel regarded the volunteer with the open expression of his kind, “Yes and no,” he answered lightly. “Let me take you all on the grand tour; I will be happy to explain as we go.”