Atilla stared back at him, stunned. "H-How is that possible? You don't look a day over twenty. How could you be 'The Elder' they all spoke about?" He exclaimed.
A smile painted his face, though they didn't quite reach his eyes. Upon closer inspection, Ceremus noticed how hollow they were. His brows furrowed. His gaze traveled along his body. He was dressed in a simple but well-tailored tunic with delicate embroidery along the neckline. Everything about him seemed ordinary, yet there was an undeniable confidence he seemed to carry alongside his amused and knowing smile.
Ceremus' mind immediately went to the prophetic dream he had. This man standing in front of him was the same man he had seen in his dream. But that man claimed to go by the name of Nicaphorus. So who was he? Were they the same person?
There was no denying the mysterious aura surrounding him. He felt it when he was face-to-face with him, even in the dream. Ceremus was unsure of what was going on, but now that he was standing in front of him, he had no time to waste, getting straight to the point.
"I heard you are the one who is supposed to guide me in finding the garmen vivificat. Do you know its location?"
Tiresias said nothing as he turned around and called behind him for the two to follow him. He led them inside the cavern where the entrance to the cave is veiled by a cascade of hanging vines, their leaves brushing gently against stone. He gestured for them to sit anywhere.
A faint glow emanates from within, with flickering lanterns casting long, wavering shadows against the rugged walls. The scent of aged parchment, dried herbs, and faint traces of incense lingers in the cool air, creating an atmosphere both comforting and arcane.
The sight amazed Atilla. Inside, the cave was surprisingly spacious, its walls smoothed by time and effort. A thick woven rug stretched across the stone floor, providing some insulation for their feet. Against one wall, a sturdy wooden shelf filled with an assortment of earthenware jars, each carefully labeled in neat script.
Inside, dried herbs, medicinal plants, and rare alchemical ingredients sat preserved in strong glass and clay.
Further in, a carved out alcove housed a collection of tomes, and scrolls stacked in uneven piles. Strange relics—ornate daggers and other trinkets rested upon a low table. There was a separate section dedicated to supplies and provisions—neatly arranged in sacks, containing enough to last him an entire year.
Tiresias walked up to what looked like a cooking area where embers still smoldered beneath a metal kettle. He took out three cups, opened a jar of his dried herbs and poured the still boiling water inside the cup, immediately invading the cave with a pleasant floral scent.
With the two seated in the chairs provided for them, the man set down their cups, giving them a fleeting smile.
"So, you seek the powers of the plant of life, correct?" He spoke after taking a sip of his drink.
Ceremus nodded his head cautiously as he observed the man before him.
"I see. And what makes you believe such a plant exists?" Tiresias asked him.
"I learned of its existence through a dream, a dream in which you were in. A man I had once saved on a small island told me about you saying that you would be the key to my answers. I thought little of it, chalking it up to the ramblings of an old man until someone I care for had fallen because of my negligence. He's teetering on the brink of death, suffering a fate that should never have befallen him. I do not wish for his sacrifice to be in vain and so now that I have found the man who can lead me to saving him, I wish to honor my promise." Ceremus said.
"Though I can admire your will to save a loved one, I am afraid this quest you've taken upon yourself is foolish." He said, making the king frown. "You should abandon your search. You will only fill your flesh with grief and bring the distant days of reckoning closer. Humankind's fame is cut down like reeds in a reed-bed. Nobody sees the face of death, nobody hears the voice of death—savage death just cuts mankind down. This is the cycle of life. This is our fate.
Ceremus couldn't help scoffing at his words. "I will be the judge of that." He said.
A light smile took over Tiresias' lips. "Extending one's life always comes with a price. And the person you are handing this supposed 'gift' to will have to pay that price."
Ceremus recalled the vision he had, where Nicaphorus told him that there was a payment that needed to be made in exchange for the plant. He didn't realize that Hael would be the one to pay for it.
His heart sank. "What is this payment? I shall pay it on his behalf, no matter how much it may be. As a king, I have the authority to do as I see fit." He said.
Silence enveloped them, and Atilla, who had been quietly sipping his tea, finding the taste enjoyable, nearly choked on the drink.
This was the first time he'd ever seen him look this desperate.
Tiresias regarded the man in silence, his golden eyes twinkling as he took a slow sip of his tea. "Once, there were two," he murmured, his voice carrying the weight of something half-remembered, half-forgotten. "Two plants, two possibilities.
Fate placed me at death's door, and in my desperation, I reached for what I did not understand. I knew nothing of the plant—neither its nature nor its power. I merely trusted that it would carry me through the threshold rather than let me fall beyond it." He swirled the tea in his cup, watching the liquid ripple.
"And it did," he continued. "I should have died that day. The fates had woven my end into the fabric of the world, and yet, with that single act, I unraveled it. The gods did not strike me down, but neither did they turn a blind eye." A shadow of a smile touched his lips, unreadable. "Now, I tread a path not destined for me, weighed down by years I was not meant to experience."
It may not seem so, but I near a century in age… and from the looks of it, I have a few more centuries ahead of me." He set down his cup with a soft clink. "A cruel mercy, or a kind curse—who's to say?"
Atilla let out a gasp in surprise while Ceremus' eyes widened slightly.
"With the second life that has been handed to me, I guarded what remained—ensuring the last of its kind remained untouched, unseen, so as to not fall into the wrong hands."
Ceremus' face darkened. "Are you saying that if Hael were to consume this plant, he would meet the same fate?"
Tiresias took a slow sip of his tea, his gaze unreadable. "Fate is a river with many tributaries. Perhaps this Hael you speak of stands at a crossroads, untouched by the hands of destiny… or perhaps the moment he partakes, the thread of his life will unravel as mine did." He exhaled softly, as if amused by the irony. "But I am no seer. I do not peer into the tapestry of another's future. He may yet walk away unscathed—or he may find himself bound to something far beyond his reckoning. Who is to say?" He gave a light shrug, as if the answer were of little consequence to him.
The longer Ceremus spent with the old man, the more agitated he became. There was something odd with the way the Tiresias before him spoke, and the Tiresias—or Nicaphorus in his dream. It was like they were similar, yet entirely different.
The man was enigmatic, with an evasive personality, speaking as if none of this concerned him, yet he could still sympathize with his currency predicament. There was an air of unpredictability about him as well. He spoke calmly and reassuringly for one moment, then suddenly overwhelmingly with intensity.
And the way he spoke, as if in riddles. It was unsettling, and Ceremus felt like he was losing, like he was no longer in control of the conversation.
"You surprise me," Tiresias said, cutting him out of his thoughts.
Ceremus watched him quietly; his every action was so elegant that Ceremus wondered if the man across from him was truly human.
"You don't strike me as a king." He finished.
Ceremus frowned, unsure of whether to take those words as an offence. But since he didn't detect any malice in his tone, he gave the older man the benefit of the doubt.
"How so?" He inquired.
Tiresias let out a soft chuckle as he watched the corner of Ceremus' lips twitch. He really was practicing control, which only further cemented his opinions of Ceremus.
"Deceit is the tool of a great king." He said as he took a sip of his tea.
He didn't utter another word as he let what he said linger in the air. The king himself raised an eyebrow, unsure of what to make of his statement.
"Those were words I would often hear when I served as consul."
This surprised the young man, yet it wasn't something unexpected to hear either. "You served under a king?"
Tiresias nodded. "Yes, long ago. So I'm familiar with the way they operate. When I look at you, I see no trickery, no hidden intentions or deceit. You are true and upfront, not one to mince words. Qualities that are unlike the king's I used to know." He said.
He leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment as he let out a sigh.
"Times have changed. Or perhaps you had a proper upbringing... which is it?" He asked.
The question startled Ceremus. It was so upfront and direct, but he felt compelled to answer it. "... My father…he raised me…"
Tiresias gave him a knowing smile. "A rare jewel, blessed with a soft heart."
Ceremus frowned. They were veering further away from the topic at hand.
"So this father of yours, what would he think about the current situation you are in? Going to such lengths, promising all the gold your treasury holds just to save your loved one. As a king, would he find your decisions to be wise?"
Ceremus stiffened.
He had prepared himself for many things before coming here—negotiation, persuasion, even outright refusal—but this? This felt like being picked apart piece by piece, his very nature laid bare with each passing remark.
Tiresias' golden eyes, half-lidded and unreadable, watched him with the patience of someone who had long since given up rushing for answers.
He swirled the tea in his cup, the movement slow, unhurried, as though the weight of Ceremus' fate mattered little in the grand scheme of things.