Tiresias' words seemed to reproach—almost condemn—yet he laced his next words with kindness.
"A wise king," he murmured, "is a man of calculation, of restraint. He weighs the lives of his people against his own desires and chooses accordingly." He then paused. "A good man, however.. He does not hesitate with the one he loves."
Ceremus' grip tightened around the armrest of his chair. "And which do you think I am?"
Tiresias smiled, a quiet thing, more amused than mirthful. "You are young," he said simply. "Still learning what it means to bear the weight of a crown." He tilted his head slightly, studying Ceremus as if peering into the depths of his soul. "I wonder… in time, will you remain as you are? Or will the weight of responsibility shape you into something else?"
Ceremus did not answer. The question unsettled him in a way he did not like.
Tiresias, like usual, did not press him. He simply exhaled, setting his cup down with a soft clink. "Your father—this man you speak of—would he be proud of you? Of the man you've become? Of the means you've used to rule over his people? Or would he grieve the son who has tarnished his name and his legacy?"
A sharp pang lanced through Ceremus' chest. He inhaled deeply, trying to steady himself, but the old man's words lingered like a whisper in the back of his mind.
Would his father grieve?
Would he be proud?
The silence stretched between them, long and thoughtful, until Tiresias let out a quiet chuckle. "Ah, but I digress. I speak too much of things that are not mine to unravel." He waved a hand lazily in the air, the movement dismissive. "Tell me, young king—do you still wish to possess this plant?"
His tone was light, yet the weight of his question was anything but.
For the first time since their conversation began, Ceremus was uncertain if he could give an answer.
He knew in his heart that this was what he wanted to do, yet the more rational part of his brain was wavering. Why?
Atilla glanced between the two men before his gaze settled on Ceremus. He could tell the king was thinking long and hard about his next move, which was understandable, given how much was at stake.
But he couldn't help feeling a little resentment with Tiresias, spouting words that would undoubtedly sow the seeds of doubt in anyone's mind.
Over the course of the last few weeks, Atilla had come to know the depth of Ceremus' affections for Hael, how much he cared for him and how willing he was to cross the burning fires of the underworld, if it meant bringing him back. The young knight was no adult, and he certainly wasn't a king, so he didn't understand the heavy burdens that came with it. All he knew was that for the person you loved, being willing to do anything for them, sacrificing yourself. Putting your faith and trust in them, protecting them at all costs—feelings like that couldn't be deemed as selfish or irresponsible.
If giving all the money in the world to save the one you hold dear was what Ceremus wanted to do, then so be it.
"You have given your word, Your Majesty," Atilla said with measured calmness. "you cannot go back on it. Sir Hael is waiting for you. If you were to give up on all of this, then who would save him?"
Ceremus' eyes flickered towards Atilla, searching the young knight's face. Conviction burned in his grey eyes, strong and unrelenting.
The king suddenly felt ashamed. Here was a child several years younger than him, yet his belief was firm—serving as a reminder, a reflection of the beliefs he once held.
Tiresias let out a slow, measured hum, his fingers tapping lazily against the side of his teacup. "Your answer shows your age," he mused, his tone neither mocking nor approving.
Atilla stiffened at his words, his hands clenching into a fist.
"It is not a matter of breaking one's word, dear knight," he said. "It is a matter of understanding the weight of the choice before you. You speak of devotion, of love, of sacrifice—admirable sentiments, truly." His gaze drifted back to Ceremus. "But a king is not simply a man in love. He is a ruler tethered to his people, bound by duty and consequence. Every action he takes… matters."
The room was quiet, save for the soft crackling of a nearby fire.
"...So you believe I am reckless." Ceremus concluded after hearing his words.
"I think you are desperate," he corrected, "And desperation, my dear king, is the most dangerous of all motivations. It blinds. It deafens. It convinces even the wisest among us that we can act as we see fit without having to bear any consequences. You are a perfect testament to this."
Ceremus' eyes darkened.
"I do not intend to dissuade you," Tiresias said once he saw the expression on Ceremus' face. "I'm merely trying to ensure that you will consider your actions moving forwards. It is best to learn from one's mistakes now, while you are still young, then be doomed to regret them later."
When looking at Ceremus, all he saw was a child still learning to walk on his two legs. Despite reaching adulthood already, he still lacked the discernment that came with age.
His smile that had vanished before returned to his face, and for the first time, Tiresias' empty eyes held some emotion to them. "So, tell me, King Ceremus—do you still wish to proceed now that I've explained to you the weight of what you seek?"
Ceremus lifted his chin, his gaze meeting Tiresias' without faltering.
"I do," he said, his voice steady. "And I would bear it a thousand times over if it meant saving him."
The old man watched, examining him before a shadow of a smile appeared on his lips.
"Very well," he murmured. "Let us begin."
~*~
The three walked outside into the cold, with Tiresias leading the way.
They walked past the spot where the bar once stood and made their way towards the river they had just travelled across.
Tiresias only spoke once they had arrived at the riverbank. "The plant you seek lives at the bottom of this river that will restore life to the one who eats it. Once you've found it, pluck it from its roots and it shall be yours." He said as he regarded Ceremus.
The man in question felt his heart sink deep into his chest as he recalled the previous ordeal they had gone through with the Kalamma River. "You are telling me I must jump into the waters of death to retrieve this plant?" He asked in disbelief.
Tiresias nodded.
"You have faced the first step. What's another?"
Ceremus had to fight the sudden, violent urge to strike him. Even without looking, he could tell the old man's measured, light tone revealed amusement. How could he speak so flippantly when, only hours ago, Ceremus had nearly joined his father in the afterlife?
Atilla, who had been listening in silence, suddenly understood. The talk of kingship, of fathers, of the burdens of duty—it had all been a test. Testing him to see if he had what it took to enter the waters without being drowned alive.