I wake up to the sensation of light’s warmth on my skin and stand to acknowledge the suns rising in all of its glory. Yet I cannot see it. Ye gods, I miss the light so much. So many years have passed since I last saw daylight’s exotic beauty. Five hundred years… has it been that long already? Half an eon has passed since I was bereft of sight. I have never mourned the passing of the light. But I do miss it sometimes.
Long ago I willingly accepted the knife’s stroke. Twice the dagger did its bloody work. Leaving me blind to the mortal world for all time. This decision was easy for me. I was a slave when this all began. I am now a Seer. I would be long dead had I kept my eyes, gone to bones and dust. The world would have not known of my existence. They know me now.
To die in the mines, or to die in the fighting pits. This was the choice I had in my early days. The only other path? Be one of the lucky few found with second sight. That was the lot of a slave during my youth. Life as a slave was harsh. But for me, with one small innocent foretelling, my life was forever changed. By happy accident I drew the eyes of the priests. I was questioned about my visions for a time. Then I was offered the life of a Seer. All it would cost me was my eyes. I thought it a bargain at the time. Five hundred years later I am not so sure. Gods, what these unseeing eyes have been witness too.
I shake my head to clear the cobwebs of memories from long ago. It is now time to leave the safety of my rooms and blindly face the day again. I go to the temple and mete out the wisdom granted me by second sight. I once thought being a Seer was a gift. The gods chose me, elevating me above all others… Or so I thought. Now, years later the visions have become commonplace. The very antithesis of my expectations when I first gifted my eyes to the gods. In most cases the future is boring, so horribly mundane.
I sit on my throne at the center of the temple, waiting. I hear the quiet sounds of sandal shod feet timidly approaching me. Another lost soul, another seeker of the future. Don’t they know that all the stories are the same? We are born, live, get old, and we die. Of all of the threads I can see in the nether. That place where only a blind Seer can see, all show variations of the same theme. Death comes to us all. I grant this sandal shod pilgrim the knowledge of his impending death. I hope I made it palatable to him.
Long life. I once thought it would be the greatest gift of all. How could I have been so wrong? I would give all I have for something different. To see something new, what a gift that would be. I do what I can to alleviate the boredom, I get creative. People have long suspected we Seers of muddling our predictions intentionally. This is true, we prevaricate just for our own amusement at times. Where else can a Seer find mirth?
Try this for example.
‘You shall step where no man should stride.
Treading where only angels and demons dare to go.
You will soon place your mortal foot awry.
When the gods at last this misadventure do provide.
You will feel the greatest pain a man can know.’
Those words coming from me while reclined upon my throne sound properly prophetic, yes? I hope so. I have had so many years to perfect my craft. The supplicant will walk away pondering the words I have gifted them. I hear them leave while wondering if I could have worded ‘you shall stub your toe’ more profoundly.
This is my life. I am the third Seer of the Orcish nation. Yet I am so terribly bored all of the time. My day at the temple has come to an end, like it always does. I go back to my rooms, like I always do. I retire to my bed, where I always sleep. Hoping to dream of the sunlight of my youth. I can still dream of waking to the beauty of the sunrise many years ago.
Five hundred years, I have never mourned the passing of the light. Until today. I have long life, second sight, and I have a nation that adores me. Yet I would give it all up. Just to see the sun in all of its glory one more time.
© Tropical Writers Inc 2024