THE LAST DAWN
Chapter 18: The Child of Light
The golden light was warm.
It wrapped around Rowan like a blanket, like a memory, like a dream he had forgotten he had dreamed. The child stood before him, small and still, his dark eyes bright, his dark hair falling over his forehead. He wore simple clothes — a linen shirt, wool trousers, leather boots — and his bare hands were clasped behind his back.
He was Rowan.
The Rowan who had lived before the grief. Before the hunger. Before the end.
“Hello,” the child said again. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“You’re me.”
The child nodded.
“I’m you. The you that was. The you that could have been. The you that might still be.”
“What do you want?”
The child stepped closer.
His bare feet made no sound on the golden light.
“I want to help you.”
“Help me how?”
The child tilted his head.
“By reminding you. Of who you are. Of what you love. Of what you’re fighting for.”
“I know who I am.”
“Do you?”
The child reached out.
His small hand touched Rowan’s chest.
Above his heart.
“You are the seed. The seed of the hunger. The seed of the end. But you are also the son of Blackreach. The brother of the lost. The hope of the dying.”
Rowan’s eyes filled with tears.
“I don’t feel like hope.”
The child smiled.
It was a real smile, warm and bright and full of love.
“Hope is not a feeling. Hope is a choice. And you have chosen it. Again and again. From the moment you buried your father. From the moment you buried your mother. From the moment you buried your sister.”
“I buried them because I had to.”
“You buried them because you loved them. That is hope. That is love. That is the seed that will save the world.”
The golden light grew brighter.
The child grew older.
His face lengthened. His shoulders broadened. His hands grew larger.
He became Rowan.
The Rowan of now.
The Rowan of the Citadel.
The Rowan of the end.
“Do you understand now?” the older Rowan asked.
“I understand that I am the seed. The seed of the hunger. The seed of the end. The seed of the hope.”
The older Rowan nodded.
“And?”
“And I can choose.”
The older Rowan stepped back.
The golden light dimmed.
The child returned.
“The third trial is not a test of strength. It is not a test of memory. It is not a test of grief.”
“What is it?”
The child looked at the door.
At the darkness.
At the hunger.
“The test of love.”
The door closed.
The light vanished.
Rowan stood alone in the darkness.
The man in white was gone.
The throne was gone.
The bones were gone.
Only the hunger remained.
And the choice.