The Years of Apocalypse - A Time Loop Progression Fantasy

When Mirian woke, it took her a moment to overcome her disorientation. It couldn’t have been more than a few minutes. The wand of levitation was still lying in a patch of dirt where it had rolled. She could tell she’d have a nice handful of bruises. When she stood, her vision briefly narrowed, and the nausea hit her again. She stumbled forward and braced herself against a nearby tree, the tactile sensation of the rough and cold bark grounding her.

She pocketed the wand, then slowly made her way back to town, occasionally stumbling as she walked.

What is going on? she wondered. Is it the time loop? Something with whatever is in my soul? She needed to talk to someone about it. But who?

The most obvious place was the hospital. The priests knew soul magic, even if they called it something else, and more importantly, they knew the soul magic of people, not just of plants like Xipuatl. She made her way there. Something about her must have looked awful enough, because after talking to the desk attendant, she didn’t need to wait long. She met with Cleric Marovim in one of the ritual rooms, a younger man who she’d seen before at the hospital, but never properly met. His dark hair and olive skin marked him as south Baracueli, and both of them were happy to speak Cuelsin. Northern Baracueli rarely bothered to practice the language much, but it was the language she knew better.

As he pressed his hand to his heart, Mirian was pleased to discover she could feel the faintest signs of him working soul magic. It was much like the subtle tingle she felt at arcane magic, but different. As with arcane magic, it was an entirely different sense that defied easy description, but she thought of it as having a different color.

Cleric Marovim closed his eyes as he worked, hands hovering over Mirian. After a moment, he opened them. “You have Soul Destabilization Syndrome. Probably the worst case of it I’ve ever seen.”

Mirian wracked her mind, but came up with nothing. “What’s that?”

“Your soul is… chaotic. Parts of it are breaking loose. The soul, mind, and body are all linked in the holy triarchy. Disrupting one causes the other two to suffer. This is why healing the soul also heals the body. However, the reverse is true, which explains your symptoms. Frankly, I’m surprised you were able to even walk here.”

“Oh,” said Mirian, fear gripping her. That sounded bad.

“There are several causes. One, you have been attacked by a necromancer. They may not have used an actual ‘curse’ spell, but rather just attacked the soul. I don’t suppose that’s it?”

“Certainly not,” Mirian said, though as she said it, her own self-doubt crept in. Were there any necromancers hanging around Torrviol? Had one of them secretly attacked her? It seemed like the sort of thing she would have noticed, though.

“The next likely cause is the over-consumption of mana potions,” Marovim said, and immediately Mirian thought oh shit. The look on her face must have been enough for the cleric, because he said, “Ah. That would be it, then. How many mana potions have you had in the last few days?”

“Two a day. Well, sometimes three, if I’m doing extra practice.”

Marovim’s face went white. “Per day? And how long…?”

“Two months.” She wasn’t sure how the time loop affected that, and she was sure the cleric didn’t either. “I was only drinking one every few days before that…”

“Xylatarvia certainly smiles on you, then. You must have a strong soul. Most people would be dead. Soul-death is… not a pleasant way to die, I have heard.”

“Oh,” said Mirian again, feeling the floor drop out from under her. Could the time loop even save her from that? It felt like one of those things she shouldn’t try to find out. “It’s A-class mana though, just like what our auras make. Why…?”

“I heard of a man once who died from drinking too much water. Everything is dangerous if you have enough of it.”

“Right. Uh, how many mana potions is safe to drink, for future reference? I must have missed the day they talked about it in class….”

“Two per week. Per week,” Marovim said, adding raised eyebrows to the emphasis. “Some people tend to do okay with three. Usually, it’s not a problem because no one needs that much mana—or has the money for it. You’ll want to lay off the mana potions for a few months.”

“And can I cast spells? Is that dangerous?” Mirian wanted to ask about using soul-magic, but that wasn’t likely to go over well, or get an answer.

“I would lay off the spellcasting for at least a week.”

Eugh, Mirian thought. That was going to be annoying. “Is there anything you can do to help?”

“Usually, yes. But at this level of destabilization, it would be dangerous to do anything. Sometimes, time is the best healer.”

Mirian thanked him, then went to rest. She’d need it; tomorrow she’d be meeting with Mayor Ethwarn and the militia preparations would begin.

***

Respected Jei was able to get her both the leyline data and access to research on the Divine Monument again, though this time through less legitimate channels. She seemed as surprised as Mirian to learn that mana potions could cause such a problem. “It has never come up before,” she said, and seemed to be embarrassed that she hadn’t known.

After the meeting with the mayor, Mirian spent the rest of the day pouring over the notes with Jei. Her mentor weathered the questions for hours before finally saying, “I will have a headache if we continue. You need your rest as well.”

The next day, Mirian met with Professor Cassius and the newly appointed Captain Moliner to go over Akana’s plan of attack and the defense of Torrviol. This time, she could say with some confidence that the Baracuel Army would arrive on the 25th, well before the Akanan spearhead made it to Torrviol, and could plan for their deployment.

Barred from magic, including even artifice, Mirian had a great deal of extra time, even with her meetings with the militia and mayor. She went to the Luminate Temple, where Priest Krier had prepared more texts for her to study. No rancorous mob ever made an appearance; whatever had stirred them up, she had clearly headed off. As the Battle of Torrviol neared again, a great deal more eyes now watched the edge of town. Mirian used her new connections in the government to get Valen appointed as an intelligence agent of the militia, so she had her finger on the pulse of more than just the rumors; she could convey to Mirian the official reports of other agents.

Valen called the operation “shabby” and “amateurish,” but on Seventhday, after the arrival of the Baracuel Army, a patrol picked up an Akanan agent making a desperate dash for the woods. It was no one Mirian had ever seen or heard of before, but she memorized her name and face. She was one of the transit workers, it turned out. The spies really had insinuated themselves everywhere of any importance.

In the evenings, Mirian sat down with Nicolus with old Akanan newspapers she’d checked out from the Bainrose archives and talked politics over dinner. To Nurea’s horror, Nicolus would use the pages of newspaper to wipe his hands. “What?” he said, with Nurea looked aghast. “They’ll be good as new soon.”

Firstday, the letter from Nicolus’s uncle finally arrived.

Mirian met him in the living room where several plush, embroidered couches were positioned to look out the large eastern facing window. Nurea had made up little slices of bread with olive oil, diced olives, and a delicious sharp cheese, and so they ate those while Nicolus read the letter aloud. “Dear Nicolus, I hope this finds you well, blah blah blah, there’s the code phrase that means he really wrote it under his own power. I am in—in hiding? Gods’ blood! Hold on, hold on.” Nicolus stopped reading out loud, his eyes rapidly skimming the letter. When he was done, he set it down, leaned back on the couch, and said, “Mirian, you’ve got your work cut out for you stopping this war.”

Mirian groaned. “There’s always more to it, isn’t there?”

“Yeah,” Nicolus said. “The Akanans are saying a Baracueli guy assassinated their Prime Minister. That’s why they declare war.”

Mirian sat upright abruptly. “What!? When?”

“The 21st. He says the war fever is insane. Prime Minister Jondar Kinsman is—was, I guess—incredibly popular. Five hells. And yeah, there’s magical eruptions there. Now they’re blaming them on Baracuel. Before that, at least one explosion was blamed on a Persaman terrorist group called the… hold on, his handwriting is atrocious. Is that an ‘a’ or an ‘o’?”

Nurea, who was in the other room but clearly listening in, called out, “Dawn’s Peace.”

“Dawn’s—yup, that’s the one. Oh, I’ve heard of them. They’re giving the Baracuel Army a hell of a time in Rambalda and Mahatan down south. They’ve sabotaged a bunch of fossilized myrvite mining operations, too.” Nicolus tapped his chin thoughtfully. “And if you can’t stop the war… you’d have to get really good at convincing people things via bird. Do you know what happens to our armies down in Persama?”

“No,” said Mirian, head still spinning. “I’m trying to get a handle on one thing at a time. Actually, that’s a lie. I’m trying to learn about the Divine Monument, increase my magical ability, learn soul magic, learn Eskanar, figure out all the ridiculous Akanan machinations going on in Torrviol, and improve my artifice.”

Nicolus laughed. “Fair enough. I thought of a good way to meet, by the way. On the 1st of Solem, I sneak out at night to go sit by the lakeside.”

“What!?” Nurea said from the other room.

“Not a kid anymore!” Nicolus called back, and rolled his eyes. “I swear. Anyways, I’m looking for some peace and quiet. There’s the exams coming up, and all this drama with these girls—I think you know Calisto, I won’t bore you with the other two—and my dad had just sent me another letter about some more family property he’s putting me in charge of… and I just need time to think. I don’t know why, but looking out on dark waters soothes me, you know? The spot is north of the docks, just south of the spellward. There’s this little ruin there, a bit overgrown, and it’s perfect. You’re far enough away from the lights that it’s just the moon and the stars on the water.” Raising his voice slightly, he said, “And I’ve only been attacked by a bog lion there once.”

Mirian could just make out Nurea grumbling something about how she’d be glad if they ate him.

“She knows I’m just messing with her,” Nicolus said. “So I figure, then you tell me about something from my childhood that I don’t talk to other people about. When I was little, I had an obsession with cows.”

Mirian snorted. “Wait, that’s what you’re going with?”

“Yeah. My dad took me out to the pastures because he wanted me to start bonding with an eximontar—we have this whole family tradition of riding—but I was just fascinated by the belted cows. They were black, with this white middle, and the hair was all wavy and curly, and I just couldn’t tear my eyes away. My dad was nearly apoplectic that he couldn’t get me to look at anything else. He picked me up and placed me in the next pasture, but I ran off and ducked under the fence so I could stare at them again.”

“That’s hilarious. Why is that the story you don’t tell anyone?”

“Because it’s stupid! Also, my dad later beat it into my head that real men aren’t fascinated by the color patterns of grazing bovines, so when I was a teenager I was totally ashamed of it all. Also, he made me help butcher one of the cows when I was ten. Now I know kids will just latch onto certain things and you can never predict it, and it was just funny, but you know, it’s not the kind of story you tell your drinking buddies. So basically nobody except my dad and two household servants know about it. I was like, four or five, Nurea wasn’t even there.”

Mirian shrugged. “I guess it works then. Kind of an asshole move by your dad.”

“Yeah, he’s usually not that bad. He just had these terrible visions of me refusing to take my role in the family because I was going to go be a farmer and overreacted. Even smart people can be really dumb. Turns out, absolutely no risk of me becoming a farmer, I would die first. Way too much grunt work. What about you? What were you like as a kid?”

Mirian looked out the window, out where the wind was stirring up white caps on the lake. “I had a terrible temper. For the longest time, certain things would set me off and I would just snap and start screaming or fighting. Like when someone would slam a door open, or when another kid took a toy I was playing with. My parents got a specialized cleric to work with me. That’s basically as early as I remember. Not nearly as funny.”

“Any hilarious toddler stories?”

Mirian thought back, letting her eyes wander around the room. There was an old mechanical clock in the corner that neither Nurea or Nicolus had bothered to wind. All the tables were finely carved, with glass ornaments embedded in the swirls of wood. The curtains that were drawn to the side were embroidered with the winged eximontar of the Sacristar family. As her eyes carelessly brushed past these things, her mind found nothing. “My parents never talked about what I was like when I was a toddler,” she said. “I had a really bad dream once. I remember the cleric and I talked about that for a long time, and he helped me forget it.”

Nicolus made a face. “Really? A bad dream?”

“I dunno. It’s all fuzzy. I guess I just don’t remember. Any other details in your uncle’s letter I should know about?”

“Not really. He scolds me for not going down to the Palendurio estate with the rest of the family and says I need to get caught up on the rest of the family plan. Only, I don’t know how he thinks that’s going to happen, because the family plan was to move to Akana Praediar. Even illusion magic couldn’t save me, I don’t speak a lick of Eskanar. Oh, and ‘invest in secondary war industries,’ thanks Uncle Alexus, like I couldn’t figure that one out. Not that the Palamas and Corrmier families would ever allow us to get a controlling stake.” He sighed. “Not as helpful as I was hoping. I suppose we’ll have to experiment with phrasing. And if you start our alliance earlier, maybe we can get two letters back and forth.”

Mirian was silent. She’d gone back to looking out at the lake.

Nicolus looked out with her, tossing the letter onto a nearby side table. He took a deep breath in. “Have we ever… you know…?”

“We held hands, as the world ended,” Mirian said. “You were… in pain.”

He didn’t say anything to that. The wind had ceased, and the white caps on the lake had faded. They could see patches of light scattered about where there were breaks in the clouds, mixed up with the patches of snow that still remained from the little they’d gotten. “I suppose it’s true that you start to realize what really matters when you don’t have much time left.” He looked at Mirian and gave her a sad smile. “In some ways, I envy you. In other ways, I don’t. It all rests on your shoulders, doesn’t it? How much time do you get?”

“I don’t know,” Mirian said. She still wasn’t even sure if she was getting older or not.

“That’s the normal state of things. No one ever knows how much time they have left, until they do. When they find out, some take it well, some don’t. I should have talked to you years ago. I always had an excuse, though.” He shook his head.

Mirian looked at him. “Wait… really? Am I really that oblivious? You had a crush on me, all this time? But you didn’t even try to learn my name?”

Nicolus sighed. “You can’t really be blamed for missing it, because I hid it. I could list all the reasons I made up in my head. A lot of them were great, really convincing. Like I didn’t want to get you entangled with Calisto—she can be a real nasty enemy to have—and I didn’t want to ‘distract’ myself from the path I was going to have to take. My parents want me to marry some rich Akanan. So I thought, why even begin something that has to end? I told myself it would only hurt you, and hells, I didn’t even know you, not really. You were just that smart, cute girl in class.”

“I… I don’t know what to say.”

“Then don’t, until you’re ready. For me, it will always be ephemeral. For you, it’ll last for… as long as it lasts. It’s up to you now.”

Mirian swallowed. “That’s not fair,” she said, choking slightly on her words.

“Life never is,” Nicolus said.

“We’ll… talk later,” Mirian said, rising abruptly. “I need some time.”

He smiled, though it was a sad smile. “You know where to find me. And for the record… I’m sorry.”

Mirian left, and wandered about Torrviol. By now, she had minders who had joined her as soon as she left the Sacristar apartment. Together, they inspected the defenses of the town, though Mirian’s mind was fully elsewhere.

By chance, the clouds had parted so there was a gap in the sky above. She could just make out the faint outlines of the Divir Moon, hanging above them all like a sword.

In two days, the Battle for Torrviol would begin again.