Chapter 7: Long Silences

Violent flames and smoke billowed from the sprawling skyline of Anzora. The roaring inferno consumed all it touched. No one was spared or safe; it was a monster without an understanding of its innate chaos—no way for it to avoid its intended nature.

Gurgling Screams, horrific and unnatural, pleaded against the once calm and serene skyline; they begged and cried, slobbering and burbling to anyone that would listen. The smell of burning rot and ruin permeated the air, its nauseating aroma penetrating his nose and stinging his eyes. The imploring cries were only met by laughter; it was Cruel and depraved, its host taking evident joy in the suffering of many.

Syril walked towards the fire, the screams, the heat, and the chaos. Every step brought him further into the atmosphere of malice and anarchy – crushing him with despair and ruin.

Yet he placed one foot in front of the other and watched the now bright orange skyline shake and shimmer against the flames, the screams growing louder and more frantic.

The air was sticky with heat and fear, his own heart beat frantically against his chest, Syril's lips dry and throat hoarse. Beneath his bare feet, the city's lush grassland withered to embers and ash.

Yet he continued to walk.

A singular body rose from the chaos and destruction; it stood tall amongst the anguish and pain. Its features were unrecognisable against the hellish purgatory that lay before it.

Syril squinted, the smoke now burning deep into his eyes. Yet he could not recognise this figure, a black object against a burning world. It stood tall and proud on a mound of debris and anarchy – its body righteously erect against the chaos before it.

More laughter.

He could now see its source; the dark figure cackled, unwavering in its position. It emitted the most heinous and wicked laugh Syril had ever heard.

It turned, looking at him, staring into the pits of his eyes.

Syril watched as its mouth opened, its words unheard against the violent turmoil.

And then it was gone. The figure and its hellish labour ripped away like a rudderless boat on a raging sea. In its stead now a closet, a bed and a mirror, all of which he was relieved to see were not on fire.

His dreams were getting weird.

He rolled over, the bed creaked under him, and the heavy quilt was suffocating. He roughly pulled it off of him, throwing it to the floor. He looked around, his eyes groggy and mouth dry—a glass of water called seductively to him from the bedside table.

He blinked the sleep from his eyes as he inspected the room. It was small, only large enough to fit a bed and the tiny closet that sat crowded at its foot. The mirror mounted to the wall was equally as modest, its pint-sized frame slightly longer than his arm.

He stared, shocked, into the mirror. The reflection staring back at him was a far cry from his previously dishevelled appearance. He was now clean, polished, and very much not covered in blood; his hair was shiny, and, despite the case of bedhead, it was clean.

He wore an oversized white shirt that covered a pair of equally white shorts. His cleaned and ironed school clothes had been neatly folded at the foot of his bed beside a small, folded note.

'Syril,

Please join us in the reliquary for some lunch

- Miana'

Who the hell was Miana?

What the hell was a reliquary?

Figuring both answers would present themselves with time and sick of worrying about things he couldn't control, he opened the closet. He was desperate to change into something that wasn't so…

White.

Syril was disheartened to see the closet empty, loose coat hangers swung on the rack, and the wooden shelves lay bare. Syril sighed as he looked again toward his folded uniform, pushing away the anguish he felt in wearing it again.

He laid his uniform neatly onto the bed, shocked that all traces of blood, sweat and dirt had been wiped away. He pulled his pants on, feeling the watch appear in his pocket as he did so.

When he was ready, he looked into the small mirror, impressed at how easily he tidied up. He ran his hand through his hair, trying to tame the mound of bedhead that afflicted him. Then, satisfied that he no longer looked like a bush in a hurricane, he grabbed his jacket and opened the bedroom door.

The hallway was bathed in bright sunlight from a large window that had replaced the corridor wall; from the lack of stares his presence erected from the lower populous, he assumed it was one-way.

He figured he was at least five stories high, the shining roofs of shops and houses evident from this height. For a brief moment, he stood amazed. He watched the comings and goings of the various unsuspecting Anzoronians—each seeking a form of knowledge from the extensive and generously plentiful library.

He nervously gripped the watch and continued down the empty corridor. He felt his anxiety rise with each door he passed, unsure where he was going but unable to ask for help. All he could do was walk and pray that it was toward a friendly face.

Syril tried to listen for voices, any sign of life, but each door seemed as empty as the last. By the time he reached the end of the corridor, he was confused, anxious and a little angry. He was promised lunch, yet given no way to navigate this maze.

He made a right, walking away from the window-laden hallway towards one instead lined with intricate and colourful paintings.

One painting dated fifty years prior grabbed his attention. Four silhouetted figures stood over a large ravine, the brightest of lights radiating from the depths of its gorge. As if the sun itself had opened up the earth to rise amongst its inhabitants. It was hypnotising to look at.

Syril reached out and touched the picture. He could feel the paint strokes, the care that went into each brush flick. But, beyond its surface-level beauty, he could feel something more, a sense of finality and resolution within the paint.

He pulled the hand away, and the feeling evaporated. He felt strange, as if he had unwillingly invaded the artist's mind. He continued, watching as the paintings progressively became older and more withered as he moved through the hallway.

Some of the battles and landscapes in the paintings Syril did recognise. The once towering kingdom of Brimrath particularly stood out. Seabright was practically in love with the ancient city, and he often went on tangents in class, discussing its majesty and beauty.

Syril wasn't fond of it, not short in part to all the enslaving and conquering the Elvish kingdoms performed.

One portrait ground Syril to a halt; he looked up into the shimmering emerald eyes of Rivira Oloran, the Ethirian girl sent as one of the first Oath Keepers. She sat behind a small desk and stared gleefully down at him.

She was older yet still just as magnetising; the wrinkles around her eyes had darkened, and her hair had deepened to a dull grey. Yet as Syril stared at her, he could see the same mischievous smile etched into her face.

She wore a simple summer dress painted with sunflowers and blue skies. Her hands, clasped together over her knees, were no longer dainty and soft; instead, they were calloused and rough—the unmistakable marks of someone who had worked hard throughout their life.

He reached out to touch her portrait, feeling it calling to him. He felt the intent and emotions behind the painting stir within him, numbing him, capturing him.

"There you are", huffed the girl from the library, ripping Syril's attention away as she briskly walked toward him, "I've been looking everywhere for you."

"I'm sorry?"

"Why did you leave your room?"

"I was trying to find the reliquary," Syril responded earnestly, "someone called Miana wanted to meet me for lunch."

"The reliquary is this way," she said, pointing in the opposite direction to where Syril was going. "Follow me. I was going to bring you there anyway."

She started walking away; Syril had to jog to catch up.

They walked in awkward silence, Syril only a few steps behind the mysterious girl. She looked like she had come from an intense workout. She wore a dark tank top that showed off arms full of scars and toned muscle. One arm had a small familiar symbol tattooed onto its shoulder, and Syril realised that it was a replica of the emblem on his watch.

She had tied her dishevelled and sweaty hair into a flyaway ponytail. She had a soaked towel hanging from her neck, and her glasses hung from her shirt. Syril would have guessed she'd just been jogging if it weren't for the two small daggers tied to her waist.

"Who are you?"

"It's none of your business," she said, not bothering to look back at him.

"Well, that seems reductive," Syril interjected, "you know who I am. And I should think after kidnapping me; it's definitely my business."

"We didn't kidnap you." She said, failing to hide the defensiveness in her voice.

"What would you call it then?"

"Forceful relocation."

"Was that a joke?"

She didn't respond. But Syril swore he saw the flash of a smile across her face.

After a few more minutes of walking, they approached a large mahogany double door etched with various runes. Syril recognised a few as warding and defence runes, but most were runes he'd never come across in his studies.

It swung open before they could touch it as if it had expected their arrival. Then, like a dam bursting, sounds and light overwhelmed Syril, warm air washed over him, and the savoury smell of cooked meat and vegetables followed soon behind.

He felt safe to assume that they were in the reliquary. It wasn't fair to describe it as a hall; it was much too ambitious for that.

Syril could only describe it as a forest, the type that chirped and rustled with books, antiques, and people. Shelves stretched so far into the distance that they became mere specks on the horizon; what they had in length was doubled in height. And as Syril stood in awe at the sight before him, he looked to the roof.

No.

To a sky.

A sky swirled above him in a mystifying harmony of colours and clouds. At this moment, he realised the lack of external lighting or any lights for that matter. Instead, the light bore down from above, like a makeshift sun hiding behind clouds of colour and beauty.

The ground floor contained a myriad of small desks, each occupied by groups of gaggling teenagers and the odd adult. There was no uniform or order between them; each looked as comfortable and free-willed as the next. The only similarity he could find was the symbol from his watch, and only on those whose arms were exposed.

The laughter dulled to a shrill silence as the door swung closed behind them. The room paused, and watched as he and the girl wandered closer to the shelves.

"Ok, I'm serious. What's going on?" Syril quietly asked.

"What do you mean?"

"Why is everyone looking at us."

"You're kidding, right?" the girl turned to him, exasperated, "you cannot be this dense."

"I'm sorry I gave you the impression that I was anything but." He said sarcastically

Her eyes widened as she stopped to look at him, "Syril, do you actually not know?"

"What part of anything I've asked would suggest I know anything?" He angrily asked, only slightly conscious that his voice now carried through the still hall.

He blushed but stubbornly continued to stare at the girl and tried to push down the nauseating feeling that came from being watched.

"Syril…" She began, and for the first-time genuine remorse crept into her face, "I thought… since you came looking for us…"

Someone cleared their throat loudly beside them.

"Thank you, Liani. I can take it from here." The voice's owner spoke with authority and grace. The girl, whom Syril guessed was Liani, looked like she was going to protest. But she seemingly thought better of it, turned and walked away.

"Hello, Syril." The woman smiled at Syril, extending a ringed hand to shake, which he reluctantly accepted.

She was short, standing only up to his waist. A pair of black spectacles covered her eyes, and her red hair billowed around her as if the wind was constantly blowing through it. She wore a blue velvet suit with clashing pink tennis shoes.

She awkwardly continued to shake his hand, her covered eyes staring into his own.

"Oh, how rude of me. I'm Miana," she said, smiling widely at him, "But everyone just calls me Library!"

"I'm sorry, did you say Library?" Syril asked, now sure if he had heard her correctly.

"I did, yes."

"Why do they call you that?" Syril asked.

Confused, she tilted her head, "Because I'm the Library?"

Syril, who had taken about as much insanity as any one person could, should have expected this.

"You mean metaphorically?" he asked, blinking slowly.

"No, I am the Library," she said, a hint of offence now tinging her voice.

Sensing his increasing confusion, she waved her hand, and the desk a boy was quietly sleeping on disappeared. Its occupant fell unceremoniously to the floor, avalanched by piles of books and notes.

"See?" she waved her hand again, and the desk reset, the books and notes falling back into their haphazard piles. The boy, still under it, tried to get up and whacked his head into the base of the desk.

"so you're the literal library?"

"I don't understand what you're not grasping." She said, looking thoughtfully at him. He suddenly felt very self-conscious, "we're getting side-tracked. Let's get back onto topic."

"Oh, ok." Syril had no idea what the topic was.

She began walking in a seemingly random direction. Syril was still painfully aware of the stares and whispers of the others. He forced himself to ignore them, placing all his attention on the small woman in front of him.

She walked through the shelves, occasionally stopping to pick up a book, close her eyes, and then throw it into the air. Syril had no clue where they were going, and he didn't yet dare to ask. Eventually, they reached a break in the shelf, where she made an abrupt right turn and continued walking.

"Where are we going?" Syril asked after the fifth or sixth turn.

"Lunch, Silly," Miana replied.

"Oh, ok." Was all Syril could muster as a reply.

Their walk had taken them into a particularly messy section of the stacks. Books, seemingly at random, had been taken from shelves and scattered on the floor. Some piles looked as if they had been used as stairs to reach the more unobtainable sections of the bookcase.

Miana clicked her tongue.

"Uh, do you want me to help you put them away?" he asked quietly.

"No, thank you, Syril." She muttered, leaning down to pick up a book.

She opened it, closed her eyes and ran her fingers across the pages. Then, after a few seconds, she looked up into the sky, threw the book into the air and continued walking.

Syril watched as it rose through the air, arched, and raced off in a random direction. It moved so qui

"When I see Calvin…" Miana said quietly to herself, letting the faint threat trail off. Then she turned to Syril, her eyes severe, "that's my only rule. Don't disrespect my books."

"How did you know it was Calvin?" he asked, not wanting to antagonise the tiny lady throwing books around.

"I just do." She said, "I'm the-

"-Library, right," Syril interjected as quickly as he could, painfully aware of where that rabbit hole led.

They continued to walk in silence, the occasionally page turn or murmuring of distant conversation the only breakaway from their wordless march. Eventually, they reached what appeared to be an ending to the seemingly endless stacks.

Syril felt starved-fuelled relief as he peered through the gap. There, in what must have been the heart of the library, sat tables overflowing with food and drink. They were scattered uniformly across the vast empty centre, each circular table in line with another.

Hundreds had flocked to the feast, eagerly filling plates with as much food as possible before rushing to find seats beside friends. He saw Liani sitting in the distance amongst a scattering of people, all laughing at a joke casually thrown into their conversation.

It was a bittersweet reminder of his friends at the academy. He remembered how they'd gather amongst the gardens at the back of the school, hidden away by the brush and branches, out of sight from the teachers and academy guard. It was their oasis from the crushing monotony of class, a place they could joke, bicker and complain, concealed from the prying eyes of the academy staff.

It all seemed so far away and dull now, like a faint memory from a story he'd been told in pieces. It was hard to believe it was only a few days ago, and he wondered what reason they'd been given for his absence.

Did they think him capable of murder?

He was ripped from the memory by Liani, who had seen him through the stacks and waved casually at him. He noticed now that the hair he once thought dark brown contained flecks of red and white that danced against the soft light.

"Amazing, isn't it?" Miana said beside him.

Syril quickly realised he had been staring and quickly looked away.

"Uh yeah…" he muttered to break the awkward silence.

"It helps to keep the noise level down through the library," Miana elaborated, "otherwise we'd be up to our necks in noise complaints from people trying to study."

It took a moment for him to realise what she was talking about.

Everything was quiet; he could see lips moving and chests billowing with laughter, but no sound reached him.

What should have been a deafening crowd was more like a silent movie.

He was on the verge of asking Miana what was happening when he saw faint refraction of light in front of him. It looked as if still water had just been disturbed, pictures subtlety bent from their natural form, warping and waving gently before returning to normal.

And he understood. And for the first time in a long time, he felt excited. It was something he just…

Got.

It was the same Runes that Guards used at crime scenes to conceal their voices; Syril even recalled them using it in the hallway when he was put into handcuffs by the crazy detective. But, unfortunately, he'd never had a chance to learn what symbol was used or the more intricate nature of its creation; that was stuff left only for Guards and the law.

After all, teaching criminals how to quieten their nefarious deeds wouldn't make much sense.

The problem with sound barriers was that they shone and shimmered against the light. Their presence was immediately prominent, and a simple recording rune could often be used to counter it.

Well, if anyone dared to try.

However, the barrier he was seeing right now was on a different level. Syril guessed it was a permanent rune rather than the crude and heavy markings people of the law used. Judging by its transparency, its bonding would have had to be perfect, with no line out of place and etching too deep.

If it were artwork, it would be priceless. As it stood, however, Syril would settle for calling it beautiful.

He tore his eyes from the barrier in front of him, desperate to ask Miana who crafted something so intricate and fantastic, but Syril was greeted only by the mute and speechless books and shelves.

He was not proud to admit that a brief pitter of panic washed across his body as if he'd been doused in icy water. The prospect of interacting with hundreds of people, all of whom he'd never met and likely only knew him as the suspect in Seabright's murder…

Well, he'd prefer to be accused of murder.

But Miana's small, wry frame quickly drew his attention to the other side of the barrier. She was jumping, waving at him several feet behind the soundless wall. He couldn't tell if she was laughing or screaming, but either way, she drew immediate attention from those at the feast.

Maybe it would have been easier without Miana.

Trying not to think, he closed his eyes, swallowed his fear, and stepped into the lion's den.

When you walk through a door into the room of friends, family and acquaintances of someone you were accused of murdering, what do you think is the expected reaction?

Uproar?

Screaming accusations?

Pandemonium and chaos?

Well, whatever you're expecting, it was so much worse.

It was quiet. A shrill quiet that crushed the space around you. The type of quiet that left your mind deafened and ears aching. It was a quiet that fluttered through the feast, where conversations died off, and laughter halted abruptly.

A quiet where the cause is immediately apparent.

He felt the eyes of a crowd watching him, sizing him up…

He wondered briefly what was floating through their minds, what mixture of accusations and judgments they compounded together to justify their hatred. Perhaps they wondered how he, a scrawny kid, could overpower the orcish Seabright.

Or perhaps they were fantasising about delivering their own version of justice, a short, vicious and to-the-point version.

He let that happy thought play around in his head for longer than he would have liked.

"Syril, I assume you know at least in name who we are?" Miana asked.

She was beside him again, and she either didn't notice or was just uncaring about the stares and piercing glances of everyone around him.

"I have my guesses." He slowly said as he tried to focus all his attention on Miana

Miana looked casually around the room for what he assumed was an empty table. When she couldn't find one, she clicked her tongue, and Syril watched as one materialised in front of them.

"I'd wager your guesses are correct." She took a seat and clicked her fingers. Plates of chicken, sandwiches and potatoes appeared in the middle of the table. "I'd imagine after your eventful night, you'd be hungry."

Syril felt his stomach rumble ravenously. He wasted no time in piling up his plate and greedily digging in. It felt so good to eat again. He almost wanted to cry.

The conversation around the room slowly built back up to a low rumble, but it was hard to miss the occasional glances and offhand comments.

Liani walked up to their table, an orcish boy in a floral shirt and swimming shorts in tow behind her.

"Can we sit here?" Liani asked the pair, "Lyle stole my seat."

"Are you sure you want to sit with me?" Syril asked through bites of potatoes, "I feel like a bit of a pariah."

"We'd love to have you at our table Liani," Miana said, ignoring his comment. She made a sweeping gesture with her hand and summoned two more seats, "I was just waiting for Syril to eat some food before I gave him the whole spiel."

Syril, deep into his second sandwich, gave a thumbs up.

Liani and the boy pulled out chairs opposite his own, helping themselves to the food at the centre of the table. Miana smiled at the three of them.

"So you've met Liani, but have you met Calvin?"

Syril, who was now terribly aware that he'd forgotten to introduce himself, stuck out a hand to the large boy, "Nice to meet you. I'm Syril."

The boy shook his hand eagerly, smiling a toothy grin. Syril noticed a red welt on his forehead in the distinct shape of a book's spine.

"I know who you are. You're all over the news." The boy said, his voice bright and friendly.

"I am?" Syril asked, more out of politeness, "what for?"

"Seabright's murder," the boy narrowed his eyes, "so did you kill him?"

Syril choked on his sandwich. This was the second time someone had asked him that question so directly, "No, I didn't. Is that what they're saying?"

"Yeah," the boy piled his plate with more food before smiling at Syril, "apparently, you're incredibly dangerous."

Syril let out a small involuntary laugh before quickly covering his mouth with his hand, "Sorry, but did you see what Seabright looked like? Do you think I would stand a chance against him?"

"Against Seabright? No way." Liani said, using a pitcher to refill her cup with water.

"You know him?" Syril asked, flinching before correcting himself, "Sorry, knew him?"

"Yeah, of course, he was Oath Bound. I thought you knew?" Calvin looked genuinely confused.

"Why does everyone just assume I know things?" Syril asked, shocked and exasperated.

"Because of your…"

But Calvin's sentence was cut short by Liani, who had spilt boiling potatoes onto Calvin's lap. Who, in turn, responded in yelping pain as he hastily stood up, sending potatoes flying across the table.

"Oh, I am so sorry, Calvin," she said, calmly eating the rest of her potatoes.

"That hurt Liani!" Calvin exclaimed, wiping the remnants of potatoes from his lap.

"Oops." She smiled at Syril, who was still too busy eating to smile back.

Syril put down the now bare chicken bone. He pushed his plate away, so full he vowed never to eat again and took a long gulp from the cup beside him.

When he was done, he neatly stacked his knife and fork, refilled his glass with water from a nearby pitcher, and turned to Miana.

"Ok, so tell me everything." He emphasised the last word.

"We are Oath Keepers, Syril." She looked around at the hundreds at the feast, "And are direct descendants of the original five."

"Even you?" He asked.

"I'm a little different," She said sadly, "but as for everyone else here, absolutely."

"She's like our mentor. She trains us, guides us, you know that whole deal," Calvin interjected, tearing his glare away from Liani.

"What do you do?" He asked, glad to finally be getting some answers.

"The specifics vary, but most call us protectors of the unaware."

"The unaware?"

"It's in the name Syril. It's what we call those who cannot comprehend the truth." Liani calmly replied before biting into a sandwich.

"What truth are they not comprehending?"

"That there is evil," Miana scrunched up her face and steadied her glasses, "an evil that has no place in this world. And as Oath Keepers, it is our job to destroy that evil."

"You're all so very cryptic. I like it." He said cynically, rolling his eyes.

"It's rather simple, Syril. We stop those who would do this realm harm." Calvin was now looking at him, his large brown eyes interrogating his own.

"Like Serith?"

He immediately knew he had said the wrong thing when all three looked carefully at him; he could see lines of worry crease on Miana's face.

"How do you know that name?" Liani asked, fear and suspicion etching her words.

"Well, it's the same way I knew about the Oath Keepers." Syril had just assumed they knew this all already. They seemed to know everything else. "The watch told me."

He pulled the watch out, instantly regretting it as he watched Miana's eyes widen and face drain of colour. The voices around him quickly died again to hushed whispers.

He felt dozens of eyes on him, and the room temperature fell to icy levels.

He wanted so badly to sink into the ground.

"You talked…" Liani looked dumbfounded, "with the watch?"

"was I not meant to?" He asked, proud that his voice only cracked a little.

"No one has…" she said quietly.

"I'm sorry; what's going on?" Syril asked Calvin, pleading for an answer, "why is that a big deal?"

"No one has been able to use that watch." He gestured wildly with his hands, "in hundreds of years…"

"Enough." Miana stood up, her chair creaking on the wooden floor. She turned to Syril, "Come with me."

She walked briskly from the feast; Syril nearly tripped over himself trying to catch up. When he finally managed to catch her, they had moved through the sound barrier, and the murmuring of the feast had disappeared.

"Look, I'm sorry…"

"Not here, Syril."

And so they walked in painful silence, hurrying through stacks and shelves towards an unknown destination. People, they passed quickly changed direction or ignored them. Eventually, they reached a sizable door built into the side of the wall.

She opened it with a mere flick of her hand. It opened onto the gallery of an impressively large colosseum, rows of chairs all looking down upon a sandy pit. She walked towards the edge of the seating, still staring resolutely ahead.

Syril followed cautiously.

"We can talk here." She said quietly, "I fear you would be less liberal with the truth with all those eyes watching you."

He swallowed hard.

She sighed, turning to him, "Did you kill Seabright?"

"No." He said with as much finality as he could muster.

"Good." She took a deep breath, "then, how did you come into possession of the watch? Seabright was the last one trusted with it."

Every fibre of his being wanted to lie, hide what he saw, and protect his brother and himself. But he knew it wasn't possible to lie anymore; he needed help and couldn't expect that without giving something in return.

So he told the truth. He explained what he saw in as much detail as he could. He described the brain-melting headache, the sickness, and how he got away.

Everything.

Miana did not express an opinion; she never interrupted him or changed her distant expression. She just listened.

When he was done, he felt the weight lift from his shoulders. He was lighter and free.

"This is worse than I thought, Syril." She looked solemnly down at the stadium, "I must express to you I have lied by omission."

He looked down at her. The confusion was evident on his face.

"I thought I could protect you from the truth. I..." She scrunched up her face, "I thought your uncle had done you a kindness by keeping you from your Oath."

"Wait, hold up." He hastily interjected, stammering over his words, "are you saying that they both were…"

"Yes, Syril." She grabbed his hand, "They were both Oath Keepers."

"But then, why wouldn't they tell me?" Syril felt hollow, choking on his words, "Why did Davion…"

"They both betrayed their Oaths Syril. When you came of age…"

"Why?" Syril's mind was racing, and he let the question hang between them. Miana watched him, seemingly waiting for him to collect himself. Then, finally, he chuckled; it seemed like the appropriate reaction, "What is happening?"

She gently touched his knee, "Your uncle and brother's oath was to kill Serith's vessel before he could use it to escape his prison."

"Why would they betray that?" Syril felt he knew the answer, but the question fell from his mouth anyway.

"Because…" She took a deep breath; her voice shook, "When you were born, your oath appeared right away..."

Syril remained quiet, questions fired in his head, but his mouth refused to cooperate. His tongue felt led-like, and his throat was so dry he could barely swallow.

"Syril, I'm so sorry." Syril was numb, "You are that vessel."