The horrible vision, the tear in reality. The Half-Man was before me again. And I knew at once this was Driscoll the Historian, and we were in the Hall of Monuments. He no longer scared me. In fact, he was exceedingly comforting. I dreamt of him every night. Or at least, I've dreamed of him at least twice. But it felt like a hundred times.
He took my hand in both of his and dropped a fine chain into my palm. His hands felt firm, though they lacked warmth and visible form. Then he tied it around my right wrist.
"Just the right size, after all these years."
"What sort of key is this?"
"I think you'll understand better later. Just don't take it off until you do."
"Why do you talk like that? It's annoying. Just tell me. What is there to veil?"
"I." He started before he knew how to respond. "Yeah, I see how you'd be confused. I'm confused myself. But I have to do my job. Here, come see this."
He strode over to the head of the hall then hung back, letting me take my time with the series of faded tapestries all around.
A man faded into anonymity in grand clothed stands behind a woman. She looks eerily like herself, same long dark hair and small frame, though her face is moth-eaten. All around them is the opulence of a granite hall, arranged tastefully with treasures, warm colors, and rich fabrics.
Katherine lingers for a long time, gazing at herself next to a man of such a captivating presence. His features were soft and effeminate, but he had an attractive figure. Despite the apparent age of the tapestry, the scene felt so modern, like he could walk out of the portrait to greet her.
In the next scene, the hall is in decline. Behind Katherine, an entire wall has collapsed and been buried in snow. The man has turned his face, fading away. Katherine is left alone, once again without a face. She shivered at the disfiguring depiction of herself.
The scene shifts to an invisible man's shadow serving her. She looks detached and alone. The man from earlier, just outside, has his gaze is fixed upon her.
She walks over to the next scene, seeing a depiction of herself frozen and barren. She is speaking, but no one else is present.
In the final tapestry, the man stands over the defeated forms of three shadowy figures in the chapel. His victory, though complete, feels cold—detached. The once-grand figure from the first tapestry is now a shade of his former self, spectral, barely clinging to existence. In the distance, the woman waits still, her stance and expression unreadable.
Katherine crept closer to better examine the shadows. She was drawn into their cold, oppressive presence. Their forms were barely discernible, shifting, half-real, as though from another plane.
"Creepy..." She breathed. Without freeing her eyes from the faces of the fallen, lost in the snow, she asked aloud, "What happened to him? He was so vivid in the first portrait. But here, he's so grave."
"It cursed him."
His voice, usually carefree and chummy, had taken on an unexpected softness—almost introspective. The change was jarring, a glimpse of something deeper, older. It wasn't the voice of the Driscoll she had come to know—the one who tripped over his words and smothered her in gifts. No, his words were an echo from a time the tapestries never revealed. A Driscoll untouched by the long haunt of his hall, a man who was once whole. For all his anecdotes about his master's hopeful prophecies and martial prowess, he never spoke much of his personal connection to the man.
She turned to the half-man, but he had no face to read, so she looked at her feet instead. He remained in somber silence.
"So this is your master? A hero who fell to this three-headed beast?"
"Not quite. But he will in the end."
"Are they prophetic? Because the third seems to be us...That's you, isn't it? Yet...I never saw the hall like that. I've never seen him before...Anyone like that, really."
"Um, well, uh...The nature of time...Yeah, I've lost my sense for it. I really don't know..."
Katherine studied him curiously. Up until this point, he might have looked strange, but he felt and acted substantial enough for her to forget they were a different substance. After her peaceful nights of idle chatter, joking around, and exploration the halls, the deep undercurrent of dissonance and isolation caught her in its murky grip. Her earliest suspicions whispered in her ear against consorting with ghosts. His mind wasn't like hers. And though he had built a camaraderie with her, it wasn't based upon any evidence of trust or shared challenges. It was built on gifts and unfulfilled promises.
She took a few steps back, fingering the bracelet he had given her and scanning the familiar walls of the scrying room.
Was she silly for doubting him?
"I'm sorry...I know my master's journey is heavy, and I'm..."
His voice broke, then a few moments of strained silence.
"I am the custodian of these halls, his servant, yet, my mind is disappearing like dust. He was a hero, and you were his first love. But another suitor approached you. He was angry after you, a jealous suitor, who would not concede you over to my master. Though your love never faltered, and I think you still feel it now, the other man summoned him for a duel. Though he fell, he cursed my master bitterly, leaving the victory hollow. Though he might live, he can no longer reach you. He may watch from after but never touch you. He filled a palace with treasure, signing it all over to you, and you may have it, but...you may not have him. Not until this curse is broken. And it will break. But the slain will never live again."
His voice trembled at first with regret or doubt but ignited into anger. He had never been so animated before.
"Who were you, before this?"
Driscoll did not answer. He continued pacing briskly, now handling his broom and dustpan with a rough vigor.
"Why aren't you in the tapestries but in this moment?"
Driscoll seemed to decline to answer, so she set herself upon the throne at the head of the hall. Though frozen, she had wrapped it in old tatters enough to be bearable for lounging. She had never seen Driscoll so energetic. How she longed to be able to read him.
Finally, Driscoll's sudden bout of janitorial work slowed and became more meditative. Then he cast away his tools entirely and joined her.
"I..."