Know Thyself

Anton forced himself to take a steadying breath before addressing his family's worried faces. "It's alright, Ma. There's nothing wrong with your stew," he said, struggling to keep his voice even. "I'm still feeling unwell, just like I told you yesterday. I'm just a bit tired, that's all."

Orla's brow furrowed, her weathered hands pausing in the act of reaching for him. "You didn't tell me you were sick yesterday." Confusion and concern mingled in her voice. "Why would you keep that from me? You have to make sure to rest well tonight. We can't have you end up getting worse."

Anton's heart skipped a beat. He hadn't mentioned feeling ill yesterday. The revelation was disorienting, another piece of evidence that his experiences were more than mere dreams.

Thonar set down his wooden spoon with a dull thunk against the table. "It's not that we can't afford a healer from the church," he grumbled, "but damn, they ask for way too much to cure common illnesses. Three gold pieces just for a blessing and a potion"

"I know, Dad," Anton replied, using the chair to pull himself up from the floor. "I'll skip the tavern and sleep in early tonight."

Muri, her eyes wide with childish concern, scurried around the table and pressed her small palm against Anton's forehead. Her touch was cool against his skin. "It feels a bit warm, brother," she announced with the grave authority of a physician three times her age. "You better take a good rest tonight."

Anton managed a weak smile at his sister's solicitude. At seven years old, she was determined to participate in every family matter, unwilling to be relegated to the periphery of their conversations. "Yeah, I know, Muri. I'm gonna sleep after dinner, so don't disturb me tonight, alright?"

She nodded solemnly. "Ok. But what about my story?"

"Story?" Anton asked, momentarily confused.

"You always tell me stories about magic and spells before I go to bed," Muri pouted. Muri wanted to be a mage when she grows up.

"Not tonight." Orla interjected, smoothing Muri's dark hair. "Your brother needs his rest."

"I can tell you one tomorrow," Anton promised, seeing his sister's disappointment. "A new one about the alchemist's shop and the potions that change your voice."

Muri's face brightened. "Really? Like the one that made old man Rubus sound like a squeaking mouse?"

"Maybe," Anton said, ruffling her hair. "But only if you let me sleep tonight."

"I'll be quiet as a mouse," Muri promised, miming locking her lips with an imaginary key.

Orla shook her head with fond exasperation. "Finish your dinner, all of you. Anton, I'll bring you some tea with honey before you retire. It'll help with whatever ails you."

"Thank you, Ma," Anton replied, grateful for the normalcy of their exchange. It helped anchor him amid the storm of confusion surrounding his apparent deaths and resurrections.

"I don't understand why I can't go into town more often," Muri was saying, returning to a familiar complaint. "I never get to see anything interesting."

"You go to the Temple of Marala with your mother," Thonar reminded her.

"That's not interesting," Muri groaned. "It's just a bunch of ladies praying and lighting candles."

Orla clicked her tongue disapprovingly. "The Mother Goddess provides for our crops and animals, young lady. Show some respect."

"And the bazaar is plenty interesting," Thonar added.

"I've only been twice," Muri countered. "And both times, Ma wouldn't let me look at anything but pots and pans."

"The town isn't safe for little girls," Orla said firmly. "Those adventurers carouse through the streets at all hours, drunk on power. They have no regard for locals."

Anton winced, remembering the callous way the adventurers treated him—as if he were some lesser being, a prop in their grand adventure rather than a person with a life and family.

After dinner, Anton slipped to the storage cabinet where his father kept the family's supply of protective items. His heart raced as he counted the sheets of alert rune paper.

Three sheets of alert rune papers lay inside the wooden box—exactly the number that should be there if he hadn't used one in what he now thought of as his "second death." Further confirmation that these experiences weren't merely vivid dreams but something else entirely.

His mind starts to churn with questions. His mother had been surprised by his mention of feeling ill "yesterday"—suggesting that the version of himself in each "death" had lived slightly different lives. There were inconsistencies, variations between timelines.

Anton made his way to his small bedroom at the back of the house. As he lay in bed, staring at the rough-hewn ceiling beams, Anton methodically cataloged what he knew. He had now experienced two separate deaths: burning in his home and being mauled by a tiger. Each time, he had "awakened" at an earlier point, with the opportunity to avoid the fate he had foreseen.

But how far back did he return? And what triggered the regression? Was it death itself? Or something else? He needed to understand the mechanics behind his visions—or whatever they were—before he could fully utilize them.

Orla entered with a steaming mug, interrupting his thoughts. "Drink this while it's hot," she instructed, setting the tea on his bedside table. She studied his face for a moment, then leaned down to press a kiss to his forehead. "Sleep well, my boy." His mother had left, closing the door softly behind her.

As he drifted off, one thought circled persistently: if he could experience and avoid death twice, could he master this strange power? And if so, at what cost?

His sister Muri visited that morning, bringing a steaming cup of ginger tea, its pungent aroma filling the small kitchen. "Drink this," she urged, pressing the earthenware mug into his hands. "It will help with whatever ails you." Her eyes, the color of summer wheat, searched his face with concern.

Anton accepted the offering gratefully. The warmth spread through his chest, though he doubted any herbal remedy could cure what troubled him.

Anton followed his usual routine the next day, though his mind dwelled on the strange events of the previous nights. After tending his flock through the day, Anton deviated from his normal evening path. Instead of seeking the boisterous comfort of the tavern, he directed his steps toward Marala's temple as twilight painted the western sky in hues of amber and violet.

The temple of Marala stood as a testament to the goddess it honored—not imposing through height or grandeur, but through its organic harmony with the surrounding cityscape. Built of reddish brown bricks, the structure seemed to grow from the earth itself. Climbing vines adorned its outer walls, carefully tended to bloom in sequence throughout the growing seasons. Great oak doors, carved with intricate scenes of the cycles of nature, dominated the entrance, flanked by stone pillars shaped to resemble ancient trees, their "branches" forming the arch above.

Anton approached the smaller side door inset within one of the massive ceremonial doors—those larger doors opened only during the celebration days when the temple would overflow with worshippers. The hinges whispered as he slipped inside, entering a space that smelled of beeswax candles, fresh herbs, and rich soil.

Inside, the temple opened into a circular chamber with a domed ceiling with vines depicting the canopy of a great forest, dappled with stars visible through the branches. Natural light filtered through cleverly positioned skylights, supplemented by dozens of candles nestled in niches shaped like tree hollows. At the center stood a living oak tree, its branches extending toward the sky above—a miracle of architecture that allowed this sacred tree to grow within the stone sanctuary with its vines and branches even serving as murals and engravings.

Priestess Aurelia stood near the central shrine with three young initiates gathered around her, each dressed in the simple light green robes that symbolizes leaf buds and thus marked them as novices. From his position near the entrance, Anton could hear her gentle instruction, her voice melodious yet carrying the weight of wisdom.

"The nature Marala oversees extends far beyond mere plants and animals," she explained, her silver-streaked hair caught in a simple braid down her back. "You must immerse yourselves in life's entire journey. Birth, with its pain and wonder; growth, with its struggles and triumphs; harvest, with its abundance and gratitude; and yes, even death, with its necessary release and return to the soil."

She gestured toward the shrines as she spoke, her movements flowing like water over stones. "Only by experiencing each phase, by truly understanding the cycles that our goddess governs, can you hope to receive her gaze and become her true priestesses. A priestess of Marala does not merely perform rituals—she embodies the very principles of nature's balance."

She continued, her voice taking on a more practical tone. "Tomorrow you will assist with the birthing of Farmer Holvik's goats. The day after, you will tend the sacred garden, identifying which plants need nurturing and which must be culled. This is how we learn—through our hands in the soil, our aid in birth, our care in growth, and our reverence in death."

Anton listened with quiet respect. His family had worshipped Marala for generations, their livelihood as agricultural and dairy farmers falling squarely under her domain. The Weylands had often received the goddess's blessings—easier birthing of livestock, resilient crops that weathered poor conditions, milk that remained sweet longer than expected. These small miracles sustained them through difficult seasons.

He had accompanied his mother to this temple since childhood, watching as one generation of priestesses trained the next. Yet Priestess Aurelia seemed unchanged by the years, her face bearing the same serene expression he remembered from his youth, though he had grown from boy to man. Only the silver threading through her once-dark hair marked the passage of time.

"Perhaps this is the blessing of the goddess," Anton wondered silently. Those who served Marala often aged with the graceful dignity of ancient trees rather than the rapid decline seen in many villagers.

The lesson concluded, and the initiates departed to prepare the evening meal for the temple's residents. Anton approached Aurelia, who welcomed him with a warm smile of recognition.

"Good evening, Priestess," he greeted, inclining his head respectfully.

"Good evening, Anton," she replied, her eyes—green as spring leaves—studying his face. "It's rare to see you visiting the temple alone. Do you seek counsel, or perhaps wish to make a confession? Know that the embrace and forgiveness of Mother Marala are available to all who sincerely seek them."

Anton shifted his weight, suddenly feeling like a ten-year old boy again in front of Priestess Aurelia . "I actually came to inquire about the calendar. How many days remain until the next celebration day?"

In Kirkvalor, the common folk measured time not by exact dates but by the celebrations that marked the beginning of each month. The year is divided into twelve months, with four gods each ruling three consecutive months. Yet only the temple keepers tracked the precise length of each month, which varied from year to year according to decisions made by the combination of clergy from all four gods, something that Anton had never fully understood. The Month of Growth might contain thirty-one days one year but only twenty-nine or even twenty-eight the next.

"My mother wishes to know when the Month of Decay begins," he explained. "She's preparing dairy offerings for the temple and doesn't want them to spoil before the celebration."

Aurelia's eyes softened at the mention of his mother. "There are eight days remaining until the Month of Decay commences. Please convey to Orla that her cream cheese was particularly appreciated during last month's festival. The initiates still speak of it." She reached out, placing her palm briefly against his cheek—a traditional blessing from Marala's servants. "The goddess sees your family's faithful service. May your flocks grow strong and your fields yield abundance."

Her hand felt cool against his skin, leaving a tingling sensation after she withdrew it. For a moment, he considered confiding in her about the strange power he seemed to possess—the ability he now needed to test more deliberately. But caution held his tongue. "Nothing that requires immediate attention, Priestess. Perhaps another time."

She nodded, not pressing further. "Marala's door is always open to you, as is my counsel. Sometimes the goddess speaks to us in unexpected ways. We need only learn to listen correctly."

Anton thanked her and took his leave, the exact date now secure in his knowledge. Eight days until the Month of Decay. He had to now experiment with this inexplicable ability with this date in mind. As he stepped back into the evening air, the north star emerging overhead, Anton felt both trepidation and curiosity about what his experiment with his ability might reveal.