mo(u)rning, pt. iv

When I went into exile, I went north past that line where there are parts of the winter where the sun never rises at all. It was a carefully orchestrated blind panic, terrified that my enemies would find me, or worse, that my friends would, that they'd see me lost and alone without a plan or a purpose and they would finally realize that behind the charm and the smiles and the perfect composure, there was nothing. That I didn't have an answer for everything, that I didn't always have a plan. I didn't even usually have one. That for so long I had trusted that everything would work out, and it did, right up until it didn't.

Without Iona it would have been impossible. I don't know what strings she pulled, what favors she had to call in, in order to even find a ship willing to sail north in the dead of winter, much less a village willing to shelter me. I spent most of the journey in the cabin, seeing no one, trying to study the various books and texts and maps I'd managed to salvage, as if there might be something in there that could turn any of this around.

After an arduous voyage, we made landfall in the frozen north, in a village that existed only by the grace of a monastery, channeling the energy of the earth into keeping the village . . . warm is not the correct term, but warm enough. Manageable. The empire--my empire, once--was built on these shrines and temples, spread through the continent. I had no idea they stretched even this far into the hinterlands; I couldn't begin to fathom why. But even up here, they looked after travelers and the lost.

In the endless dark of the polar winter, I lost track of time. I kept trying to study, to collect my thoughts, to make a plan, but I could never focus. I seldom left my room, often ignored the meals Iona brought me, and when I did sleep it was fitful, and I always awoke exhausted. When I fled I promised everyone that I would find a way to reclaim what was mine, but the enormity of what I had lost seemed inescapable.

I'm not sure what drove me to go wandering--even the most defeated mind can only handle so much time spent in one room, I suppose. The bitter cold of the polar air made me immediately regret my decision, but I carried on. It was something, at least. And then, when I looked at the horizon, I noticed it--just a little patch of dawn. I don't know if it was the first sunrise of the winter, but it was the first I'd seen. I sat there in the bitter cold, shivering, and watched as the sun very briefly crested over the ocean, illuminating the sky, before vanishing once more. And I would swear that in those brief moments I could feel its warmth washing over me.