The Last Iriomancer

It was the year 9,343, and the world was dying.

This world, that is. Eriadrin’s world was perfectly stable (if not enjoyable, due to gale-force winds ripping apart the very fabric of the universe).

To Eriadrin, that wasn’t the problem. True, thousands of mortals were dying as their homelands crumbled beneath his feet.

But the real problem was that for the first time in 3,000 years, Eriadrin was dying as well.

That was supposed to be impossible.

A flash of red crossed his vision, sharp and sudden. A dull pounding began behind his eyes, rising into a desperate, unbearable agony. He instinctively drew on Orange, expecting the rush of renewal that typically came with his healing, but the pain only intensified.

He caught his breath. That had never happened before.

He stood still and breathed deeply, enduring the agony, while the pain slowly faded away. Storms, but this world was frustrating! He covertly reached into his satchel for his amber gemstone but found it empty. Of course - the suppression of color on Irioth, and the reason he had left.

It was storming hard to be the last Iriomancer in a world without color.

For the first time since appearing in Irioth, turned to survey the landscape before him. There were the usuals - peasants fleeing in every direction as they watched a demi-god materialize from the depths of the void - but, besides that, everything appeared relatively normal. There was the familiar grey vacuum above, the colorless wasteland stretching to the horizon, the hopeless ruin of a once-noble bastion of power before him, and…a short village being standing in front of him with arms crossed, scowling down at him from half his height?

That was a novel experience. He chuckled for the first time in - oh, about thirteen years - and turned to begin his scouring of the land.

The thing appeared in front of him again.

This was becoming quite aggravating indeed. He held out his hand in the ritualistic sign of death and prepared to cast it into the abyss (to be fair, it should at least know of its imminent suffocation in the void). He opened his mouth to speak the Words of Dissolution, when—

“Mister,” it said, “you’re standing in my garden.”

Eriadrin cocked his head. These things could speak? He had forgotten there was still intelligent life on Irioth. He had just begun to speak the Words again when a bold thought crossed his mind. If this was a rational being, perhaps he could make use of it…

“Sir, I will need to call the authorities,” it said. “The Luminarch will be sure to punish you for trespassing.”

At this Eriadrin nearly laughed out loud. The Luminarch?? There hadn’t been a true Luminarch in Irioth for over three thousand years, and if this “Luminarch” of theirs ever met a true master, they would die of shame for presuming to take up the sacred title. Even Eriadrin couldn’t be called a Luminarch, for all his many talents.

He felt a minor aggravation in his leg and looked down to see the thing kicking and pushing at him, grunting as it struggled to make him move. He considered for a moment, then did something radical.

“Forgive me for the inconvenience, my lady. I was merely deep in thought striving against the powers of Darkness.” The words rolled off his tongue with a surprising melody. How strange. He hadn’t been sure he could still form words, and they felt wrong to say - almost unnaturally clumsy, although he knew he spoke with more grace than any mortal could dream for.

How long had it been since he had last spoken aloud? Centuries, at least - perhaps longer. Words were a mortal thing, and he had long since grown past the need to debase himself for something so crude.

However, it was the polite response, and usually served to impress (after all, he had once been a Warden Against the Dark). The only question was whether the thing was a lady. Was it? Ah, yes, the signs were there. Good. It would have been most aggravating to make such a mistake in his first interaction with mortals after so long.

…Was she still speaking to him? It seemed that she was saying something. Storms, it was hard not to lose himself in his thoughts!

“…you can ‘strive against darkness’ all you want on the other end of the road, mister, but get off my potatoes!” The words were accompanied with another inconvenient feeling in his leg.

Eriadrin considered for a moment before deciding that it would be best to win this one’s favor. After all, she could help greatly in his search. He glanced down at the dry, crumbling soil, the strange arrangement of tubers, and the dull, grey leaves of plants clinging to life in a lifeless world.

He nodded and took a step backwards, where he promptly stumbled over a small, broken fence. He lost balance, the world tilted strangely, and—

He was beyond this. He was a god (or a demi-god, at least)! Reflexively, he drew on Yellow, but his headache only returned in full force. Disoriented, he hit the ground hard, barely catching himself on his hands. Pain flared. He glanced down, annoyed—and froze.

Tiny grey pinpricks welled up against his pale skin.

Blood.

He had forgotten he could bleed.

Eriadrin lay for a moment on the ground, searching for Orange in his mind, before remembering it was gone. Storms, he needed to fix this soon.

He straightened himself slowly, with all the dignity he could salvage, and turned back to the short girl.

She was…walking away?

Eriadrin’s jaw dropped.

That was…it? No ritual bow, no acknowledgement of his power, no reverent trembling in the presence of a living legend?

She had looked upon him—the last Iriomancer, the Phantom of Color, a Warden Against the Dark—and dismissed him as if he were some commoner trampling her tubers?

Unacceptable.

Eriadrin cleared his throat and strode after her, the dull remnants of his headache throbbing through his skull. “A moment, girl.”

She didn’t turn around. “I don’t talk with strangers, mister.”

Storms, she was an infuriating little thing!

As the girl walked away, Eriadrin saw his chances slipping away like sand through a sieve, and did something desperate.

“Color!” he shouted after her. “Just tell me. Have you seen any color?”

The girl stopped in her tracks, then turned around slowly.

“Oh sure,” she said with a sarcastic drawl. “I saw a rainbow yesterday—right after the gods descended and blessed my turnips. You think I’ve seen color?” She snorted and shook her head incredulously.

“Yes, color!” Eriadrin yelled after her. “Anything—anything at all!”

“There’s no color in Irioth, mister,” she said. “Not since the Phantom cursed our world, 3,000 years ago - if you believe the stories.”

Eriadrin forced himself to catch up with her. “What stories?” he asked, dreading her response, but needing to know anyway.

“You don’t know the stories?” she asked. “Not just daft, but deaf too, apparently. Personally, I think they’re old wives’ tales. But they say that the Phantom of Color left behind one final Prismheat - as a test.”

Eriadrin felt himself stiffen visibly. He did not  like where this was going.

“A test, my lady? What kind of test would that be?”

“A stupid test,” she snapped. Eriadrin pulled back, surprised by the stinging bitterness in her voice. “A test that claims the lives of good people.”

She strode forward again. Eriadrin decided to let her go when she turned back and sharply stabbed her finger in his chest.

“They say the Phantom hid the last Prismheart in the temple ruins when he stole our colors. They say someone will bring it back, eventually. They say only the worthy will succeed.”

She paused a moment, her tone biting acid, as if she held him responsible for all the wrong in the world. “Well, I say that they’re all stupid idiots. There is no Last Prismheart. There was no Phantom. There are no colors. Is that what you wanted to hear, mister?”

Eriadrin was taken aback by her cold fury, but he forced himself to smile. “That’s exactly what I am looking for, my lady.”

She seemed at a loss for worlds. “You believe all that nonsense?” Her anger seemed to fade as she shook her head again. “With that thinking you’ll be daft, deaf, and dead, soon.”

She started to turn away, but Eriadrin laid his hand on her shoulder firmly.

“You will take me to these ruins,” he said in his most imperious tone. She could not—

“No,” she replied with just as much overbearing pride. She deliberately grabbed his hand and removed it from her shoulder. “Not a chance.”

“Why not?”

She spread her arms and gestured as she spoke. “One, because it’s a stupid legend I don’t believe in. Two, because I don’t take orders from strange men who appear out of nowhere in my potatoes. Three, because it’s dangerous.” She turned slowly, speaking more to herself than to him. “And the last thing I want to do is feed more cursed souls to those abominable ruins.”

She turned away, and Eriadrin knew she would leave for good.

He decided to do something truly desperate: tell her the truth.

“What if,” he whispered quietly, “your stupid legends are my only chance at staying alive?”

Eriadrin walked around to face her and put his hands on her shoulders.

“It’s true,” he said. “If I don’t find the Last Prismheart, I will die - in days. I can feel it. Would you condemn me to death, simply for being a stranger who believes in stories you deem false?”

She was quiet, so Eriadrin pressed further. “Listen, if you are right, the Prismheart is a legend and I will disappear out of your life forever, at no cost to yourself save a day of your time.”

He leaned in closer. “But if you are wrong, imagine what would happen. You would be part of the legend. You would be immortalized forever in song. You would see color. Think about that.”

This time, he was the one to walk away. “But alas, I shall seek the Last Prismheart myself. If you will not take me there, I shall go alone. Fare thee well, my lady. I have found your company novel but I don’t believe I will miss it very much. I always preferred—”

And there she was, standing in front of him again. “You’re trying too hard, mister,” she said as she strode off the road in front of him. “And when we find the ruins empty, I get to say I told you so.”

*        *        *

It was dark when they finally came to the shattered wreckage of a once-noble bastion: the Temple of Nightweavers. As he gazed upon the crumbled stone, Eriadrin couldn’t help but remember the way it had been: a thriving thoroughfare of the most powerful people on the planet. He had spent many years in study with the Nightweavers, before…

It was no matter. Seyna was speaking. (He had remembered to ask her name, only three hours into their trek. He thought it considerate. She did not appear impressed.)

“Here,” she said, pulling up short and gesturing to the colorless ruins all around. “This is the temple. Go in. What do I care if you die? It’s not like you’re someone important.”

Eriadrin left her behind. What did he care about her? This was about saving his life. He was striding confidently onto the broken stone walkway when—

AGONY hit him. He screamed in panic and fell to the floor, writhing in anguish as he slammed his head against the rocks again and again.

“Make it stop,” he choked through dry lips, his voice rising to a scream as the torment wracked his body. “Make it stop, make it stop, MAKE IT STOP!!”

Suddenly he felt arms around him, helping him stand. Seyna was there. She looked concerned. Why would she be concerned? He had thought…

“Come on,” she said in a low whisper. “I don’t know what you are, but I won’t let you die without telling me what in Irioth is going on here.”

He shook his head - but strangely, the pain was leaving again. He could handle this. He was…

He was dying.

They ventured slowly into the temple together, holding to each other for strength. The hall was shattered. The doors were rotted. Once a bastion of power—now, just another corpse in a dying world, the relic of a forgotten legend.

*        *        *

It was hours later when they found the Vault. He had thought they would find it easily, but the pain came back again and again, ever worse than before.

The doors here still stood, silent watchers of the millennia passing by beneath their hard, grey gaze. Eriadrin nodded to Seyna with the last of his strength. “This is it,” he said. “If the Prismheart is real, we will find it here.”

The doors creaked open, slowly and ponderously, and they stumbled into the final hall together.

Eriadrin’s eyes swept over the monotone ruins and quickly settled on a grey altar at the far side of the hall. “There it is,” he said quickly, desperately, as the pain started to rise again. “Take me there. Take me there now!”

They stumbled forward in desperation, and it was all Eriadrin could do to keep himself from screaming in agony. He fell writhing to the floor but forced himself to keep crawling. Seyna…Seyna had left. She seemed in shock. He barely heard her whispering to herself behind him.

“Father…” she said as she bent over the darkened stones and picked up a cloth on the floor.

It was no matter. It was nothing. He had to reach the altar. He MUST.

The end was in sight. He was saved. He clawed himself up to stand before the altar.

And there lay the Last Prismheart.

Shattered.

Empty.

Eriadrin seized the greying shards and screamed in rage, desperation, and torment as the razor-sharp fragments dug into his hands.

He didn’t care. It was hopeless.

“I took it,” he whispered to himself. “And I took too much.”

He felt someone behind him. There were hands on his shoulders.

“What is it?” someone asked quietly. Seyna. Her name was…Seyna. It was becoming hard to remember…

“It’s gone,” he whispered, turning to face her. His voice slowly rose to a roar that shook the very foundations of the ground itself. “IT’S GONE, I TOOK IT, IT’S TOO LATE!!” he screamed as the pain flared to an unbearable torment within.

Seyna gasped and stepped back. “You took it?” she asked, her voice barely a whisper. Her gaze became angry, accusing. “You’re the Phantom, aren’t you? You’re the one who stole color from Irioth. You’re the one who spawned the legends! You’re the one who KILLED MY FATHER!!”

Her voice rose to a scream as she berated him in tears. But Eriadrin paid her no attention as his eyes caught something in the corner.

The Prismheart…wasn’t the answer. There was still hope.

Seyna’s screams fell on deaf ears as Eriadrin fell to the ground again, writhing forward one inch at a time. The torment mounted with her voice until Eriadrin’s world was consumed in hot, deafening, torturous agony. And yet he continued on, painstaking slow, until he lay before it.

A crude painting, old and faded, of a ship sailing before a storm.

COLOR.

He seized it in both hands and shouted in relief. He could take it in. He could hide it within himself. He could draw it forth for power. He could live again. He could live forever.

Suddenly, he noticed that everything was dead silent again. Seyna stood before him, hands over her mouth, eyes red and stained with tears, as she beheld color for the first time in her life.

Slowly, reverently, she crouched down next to him and held the painting.

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered. “It’s what I always thought it would be.”

Seyna gave a deep, long sigh, and turned back to him.

“Here,” she said, thrusting the painting to him and looking away. “It will save your life, won’t it, Phantom? Take it. Take it and live.”

Eriadrin held the old, tattered canvas, his hands trembling, and the world seemed to stop. He looked at the color that would sustain his life, then back to her.

She had never seen anything so beautiful before. She had never seen color before.

“Give it back,” she whispered between light sobs. The anger was gone. The pain was gone. The betrayal was gone. All that was left was a tired, sad, lonely girl.

“Give it back,” she begged. “Please.”

Eriadrin looked one last time at the life that would sustain him—and let it go.

The painting crumbled gently into dust, releasing a single, frail pulse of color.

“I. Give. It. Up,” Eriadrin commanded through clenched teeth, forcing himself to stand, fighting against pain, fighting desperately for life—for her life.

Colors BURST through him like a maelstrom of power. He gasped and roared in agony as light coursed through him, then spread in a wave of brilliance.

The stones transformed. The sky lit up. The moon burst into silver light in the midst of a rich velvet sky.

Eriadrin collapsed to the ground, empty and drained. It was gone. It was all gone.

Seyna knelt in wonder, staring at a shard of the Prismheart—and seeing, for the first time, herself.

Her eyes were blue, with the piercing clarity of a mountain river. Her hair was golden, flowing like the rays of the sun in its greatest strength. 

She knelt beside him in reverence, and he heard the quiet sobs of a girl seeing majesty for the first time in her life.

“It’s beautiful,” Seyna whispered to him as the light faded before his eyes.