#coldharbour

The rumor had long persisted that there was a ghost in the Ashen Forge. Of course, this seemed a bit foolish to whomever heard it, seeing as everyone there was dead. The older denizens always chided the newer arrivals for saying such silly things, telling them they’d probably just been drunk, either on ale, battle, or fumes. Nevertheless, talk of the tall, pale specter hovering about the deeper parts of the fortress never quite went away.

Malacath had naturally heard these rumors himself, but only heeded them when the rumors pinned locations of sightings to places uncomfortably close to his private chambers. There were few rules in Ashpit, but chief among them was respecting the Prince’s privacy.

When one day his resting in the garden was broken by the sound of shears pruning, he assumed perhaps someone had not gotten the memo. “Leave now and don’t return,” he said, “and I won’t throw you into Coldharbour.”

“Pardon,” returned the intruder, “Simply tending to the forget-me-nots.”

Malacath jerked his head around at the sound of a familiar voice, and jumped to his feet when he saw him.

“You! You’re my ghost!”

Indeed he was, just as the stories claimed. He kneeled before the flowers, but Malacath saw his height despite it. Tall, pale, his ragged robes not hiding well his bulk. He turned his head towards the Prince, but did not move to rise.

“I am?” He stroked his long, silver beard, thinking. “Oh! Is that why everyone runs from me in fear?”

“Okay,” Malacath said, marching towards the ghost, “I changed my mind. Don’t go anywhere. I’m throwing you into Coldharbour.”

The ghost rose to his feet, his slowness and grunting betraying his age. “Oh, has it finally happened? I’ve been doing my job so well for so long that you didn’t know I did it, and now I’m being fired?”

Malacath grabbed him roughly behind his neck and appraised him. The “ghost” was old, and looked to be - “An elf?”

The ghost put on a shy smile. “Oh, not so uncommon you know. Well, maybe nowadays. The new ones look so different! So sturdy, like you. But they didn’t exist yet when I died.”

“When you died?” Malacath tightened his grip.

“Oh, that was before you, wasn’t it?” The ghost put on a show of counting on his fingers. “Ah, well, yes. I came here and began taking care of the garden before you arrived. Before you were born, even, perhaps!” He delicately wrapped his fingers around Malacath’s wrist, but there was a strength there Malacath hadn’t expected. “If you would please release my neck? I’ve already got a crick, and you’re a poor masseuse.”

Malacath burned his eyes into the ghost’s, but nothing came of it. He let go.

“Thank you, thank you,” the ghost said, patting Malacath’s hand as they disengaged.

“Who are you?”

The ghost waved his shears about. “Why, I’m the gardener, of course. Well, the last tenant’s.”

“…Trinimac?”

“Of course. He was the last tenant, correct? I’ve been caring for this garden ever since.”

“…How come you never came forward? Haven’t seen you until now.”

“Ah, well. You see, the old man told me to be as discreet as possible for whoever would come later - that would be yourself. ‘Hold back until it’s time, until he’s ready,’ I think he said.” The gardener widened his eyes and quickly covered his mouth. “Oh, dear. Perhaps I shouldn’t be so loose. It seems you may not be ready yet.”

“Ready for what?”

“Why, the truth, of course. About the old man.”

“I already know. Mephala told me.”

“A version of the truth. Hers, of course. But he wanted to tell you his. But, well, he’s not here anymore. So I would have to tell you mine.”

“Tell me, then.”

The gardener started stroking his beard again. “Well, I’m not sure you’re ready yet.”

Malacath’s eyes began to burn again. “I said, tell me.”

“…Very well, my Prince. But don’t blame me for anything I tell you.” The gardener looked up at the ash-choked sky, lost in thought. “You know, I trust, about Lorkhan. And about what your predecessor did to him.”

“Of course. Killed him. Ripped out his heart and threw it east. Didn’t have a choice, though. Was forced to.”

“Ah, but isn’t there always a choice?” The gardener met Malacath’s stare with a formidable one of his own. “Trinimac was offered one. He didn’t have to kill Lorkhan. He made the choice to, because he wanted to.”

“He did it because he was forced to. Auri-el made him. Would have punished him.”

“So you argue it was the lesser of two evils? Tell me, Malacath: would you have done the same? Sold the world to the Dragon and killed the only man who really loved him? The man who made him?”

“Of course not. I’m better than him. Maybe he was weak, but I wouldn’t make the same mistake.”

“But aren’t you him, and he, you? Didn’t you make that mistake?”

“No, we’re not the -”

“And how do you know it was a mistake? Is it because you feel like you would never have done it? But how can you compare his morals to yours, if you’re not the same?”

“Because I just know, I remember, I -”

“How can you? You weren’t there. You hadn’t been born yet. All you are is a suit of armor for a broken man. A broken man who doesn’t deserve to be protected. Who should have stayed broken and left this place forever vacant and empty.”

“Stop. Shut up. Let me speak.”

“You may not speak while I am speaking.”

Malacath found that he could not speak.

“He killed him because he wanted to. Because he believed in what Auri-el was doing. But it was the greatest heist to ever happen, and it was the first. Lorkhan made a world for everyone, and then we put it in chains. We ripped out its beating heart and let the Dragon feast on what was left. We didn’t let it happen. We were accomplice. I killed Lorkhan because I wanted a part of the world, a slice of the pie, just like everybody else. And no matter how much you repent, try to give us a new image, it will never change the reality that -”

“Shut up.”

Trinimac found that he could not speak.

“You did what you did because you were afraid. You were just as much a slave to that bastard as everyone else. Shor forgave us long ago, but you weren’t paying attention. It wasn’t convenient to your story so you didn’t care. Get over yourself. Stop haunting my garden.”

Malacath embraced Trinimac until he was alone again.