There was no time in the prison, no sense of change, or of urgency. Howl contemplated this, watching the scenery alter from time to time, never when he was watching it, and when it adjusted, it was as if the entire time it had been a field, or a mountainside, or a desert. Sometimes the places were quite pleasant. He laid down when the surroundings were an orange grove in La Noscea, though he didn't allow himself sleep despite the exhaustion that constantly tugged at his body and mind; he was still lying down when he was surrounded by waist-high grain blowing in a warm summer breeze, and when he was in a field of flowers bobbing over his prone body.
Sometimes the surrounds were more terrifying. He revisited the training grounds in Coerthas more often than he would've liked, every detail correct down to the bloodied flogging pole near the edge of the cliff, the ominous glow from Ryuuga's cave. It was always twilight when he was there, the ground covered with day-old snow, and he'd burrow into it as he had before, digging himself a hollow of snow and loose dirt in the ice-hard ground, balling up to preserve every last onz of warmth. Other times, he was on the side of Mount O'Ghoromo, or deep within Sapsa, the sting of the sea on his face and the sickly-sweet smell of rotting seaweed all around him.
But usually he didn't recognize where he was, and he spent time - if time it could be called - in a half-dreaming fugue state, his mind adrift, sorting through his memories as if they were almost real enough to touch. He didn't linger on any one thing, didn't struggle to hold on to one memory over another, and to an extent they felt like someone else's memories anyway, someone else's life. His father, his brother, his tribe, his life in Ul'dah - none of those felt precious, or special to him in some way. They were just people he knew, was bound to by blood, things that had happened. His mind skirted around recent history as if it had never happened, lingering instead on his childhood, his flight from his tribe, and his tribe's eventual destruction.
Perhaps Ural had been right. Perhaps when he'd fled, the destruction of his tribe was inevitable. Not because losing one nunh was that much of a blow - there were plenty of tias waiting for a chance, even a few older former nunhs from other tribes that they had absorbed when they had relinquished their roles according to their tribes traditions, for not all nunhs battled to the death with tia challengers. No, it wasn't the loss of him as a person, but rather, the reliance his tribe had had on him and his immediate family. Howl had always been expected to become a nunh someday, to succeed his father and continue his father's vision for how the tribe should go. The tribe was still young, only a generation removed from the H-tribe, still struggling to define itself. His father Oran's vision had been unique, a tribe where the old had a place as well, a tribe guided by auguries and in tune with destiny, a tribe that valued creative as well as destructive prowess. But that vision couldn't stand up to the realities of desert life. With the entire weight of the Ha expectations on his shoulders, Howl had killed his father in their match, and had fled rather than face the consequences.
Here, in this place, forced to gaze over and over again at what he had done, at the expectations of that moment, he felt deeply ashamed - in as much as he could feel anything with his heart and soul asleep. Had he not fled then... had he taken responsibility for what he'd done... his tribe would still -
The scenery changed around him.
Howl froze, his heart suddenly thudding loud in his ears. He was in his old tent in the desert. He recognized the scene immediately - it was that day that both he and Ural had challenged their father for leadership. The other nunhs had passed or stepped down and left the tribe; only their father was left, so he had issued open challenges to tias ready to test themselves, and he'd made it clear that Ural and Howl - Uruh - were expected to do so. He remembered how nervous he'd been, wrapping his fists over and over again, unable to watch Ural's fight, nervous for his brother as well.
As if in a dream, Howl drifted from the tent, leaving his younger self behind, and moved to Ural's.
Ural was there, the younger Ural, in the traditional light desert garb but with a Thaumaturge's heavy cudgel at his belt. And Howl watched as Ural anointed the cudgel with the contents of a vial, his hands encased in protective gloves. He didn't need the faint whiff in the air to know what it was - a local poison made from basilisk venom. It was absorbed through the skin, so a single blow from that cudgel would start the process - sentencing their father to hallucinations, seizures, and a painful death.
Howl didn't need to watch Ural's battle. He didn't want to remember his own. His father had been reeling already, and some had said it was because of the blow to the head Ural had struck with the cudgel. He'd been urged not to fight, to rest and accept challenges another time - already one nunh had won his spurs. But Oran had insisted, bawling for Howl to take the field, for Uruh to become a man this day as well. And Howl had reluctantly fought, terrified by his father's punch-drunk viciousness, by the vacantness in his eyes and the way he seemed to swing at things that weren't there. In the end, Howl had landed the blow that had sent him reeling and thrashing to the floor, the blow that won him the contest, and his father was dead within the same bell. He had always blamed himself.
Was it because Ural had created this prison that he at last saw the truth of what had happened that day?
Grief, guilt, blame, and anger all felt far away, but they scraped at the edges of his mind, and Howl drifted on, walking from the memory of the Ha tribal lands. Ural had been the one in truth to kill their father, just as he had killed himself, just as he had killed the Ha tribe. Ural was reaching from the grave to claim one last victim, to keep Howl in this prison until he too was gone. And he could do nothing more than wait, and turn these memories over and over again in his mind.
Sometimes the surrounds were more terrifying. He revisited the training grounds in Coerthas more often than he would've liked, every detail correct down to the bloodied flogging pole near the edge of the cliff, the ominous glow from Ryuuga's cave. It was always twilight when he was there, the ground covered with day-old snow, and he'd burrow into it as he had before, digging himself a hollow of snow and loose dirt in the ice-hard ground, balling up to preserve every last onz of warmth. Other times, he was on the side of Mount O'Ghoromo, or deep within Sapsa, the sting of the sea on his face and the sickly-sweet smell of rotting seaweed all around him.
But usually he didn't recognize where he was, and he spent time - if time it could be called - in a half-dreaming fugue state, his mind adrift, sorting through his memories as if they were almost real enough to touch. He didn't linger on any one thing, didn't struggle to hold on to one memory over another, and to an extent they felt like someone else's memories anyway, someone else's life. His father, his brother, his tribe, his life in Ul'dah - none of those felt precious, or special to him in some way. They were just people he knew, was bound to by blood, things that had happened. His mind skirted around recent history as if it had never happened, lingering instead on his childhood, his flight from his tribe, and his tribe's eventual destruction.
Perhaps Ural had been right. Perhaps when he'd fled, the destruction of his tribe was inevitable. Not because losing one nunh was that much of a blow - there were plenty of tias waiting for a chance, even a few older former nunhs from other tribes that they had absorbed when they had relinquished their roles according to their tribes traditions, for not all nunhs battled to the death with tia challengers. No, it wasn't the loss of him as a person, but rather, the reliance his tribe had had on him and his immediate family. Howl had always been expected to become a nunh someday, to succeed his father and continue his father's vision for how the tribe should go. The tribe was still young, only a generation removed from the H-tribe, still struggling to define itself. His father Oran's vision had been unique, a tribe where the old had a place as well, a tribe guided by auguries and in tune with destiny, a tribe that valued creative as well as destructive prowess. But that vision couldn't stand up to the realities of desert life. With the entire weight of the Ha expectations on his shoulders, Howl had killed his father in their match, and had fled rather than face the consequences.
Here, in this place, forced to gaze over and over again at what he had done, at the expectations of that moment, he felt deeply ashamed - in as much as he could feel anything with his heart and soul asleep. Had he not fled then... had he taken responsibility for what he'd done... his tribe would still -
The scenery changed around him.
Howl froze, his heart suddenly thudding loud in his ears. He was in his old tent in the desert. He recognized the scene immediately - it was that day that both he and Ural had challenged their father for leadership. The other nunhs had passed or stepped down and left the tribe; only their father was left, so he had issued open challenges to tias ready to test themselves, and he'd made it clear that Ural and Howl - Uruh - were expected to do so. He remembered how nervous he'd been, wrapping his fists over and over again, unable to watch Ural's fight, nervous for his brother as well.
As if in a dream, Howl drifted from the tent, leaving his younger self behind, and moved to Ural's.
Ural was there, the younger Ural, in the traditional light desert garb but with a Thaumaturge's heavy cudgel at his belt. And Howl watched as Ural anointed the cudgel with the contents of a vial, his hands encased in protective gloves. He didn't need the faint whiff in the air to know what it was - a local poison made from basilisk venom. It was absorbed through the skin, so a single blow from that cudgel would start the process - sentencing their father to hallucinations, seizures, and a painful death.
Howl didn't need to watch Ural's battle. He didn't want to remember his own. His father had been reeling already, and some had said it was because of the blow to the head Ural had struck with the cudgel. He'd been urged not to fight, to rest and accept challenges another time - already one nunh had won his spurs. But Oran had insisted, bawling for Howl to take the field, for Uruh to become a man this day as well. And Howl had reluctantly fought, terrified by his father's punch-drunk viciousness, by the vacantness in his eyes and the way he seemed to swing at things that weren't there. In the end, Howl had landed the blow that had sent him reeling and thrashing to the floor, the blow that won him the contest, and his father was dead within the same bell. He had always blamed himself.
Was it because Ural had created this prison that he at last saw the truth of what had happened that day?
Grief, guilt, blame, and anger all felt far away, but they scraped at the edges of his mind, and Howl drifted on, walking from the memory of the Ha tribal lands. Ural had been the one in truth to kill their father, just as he had killed himself, just as he had killed the Ha tribe. Ural was reaching from the grave to claim one last victim, to keep Howl in this prison until he too was gone. And he could do nothing more than wait, and turn these memories over and over again in his mind.
People have forgotten this truth. But you mustn't forget it. You become responsible forever for what you have tamed.
Howl's Wiki
Howl's Wiki