Metaworld Chronicles

Without permission from the Arch-Warden of Tryfan, the Cambridge-trained Magister Song instructed her lieutenant-Magus Huang to take sneaky crystal-core lumen recordings of the biohazard below.

Curiously, though the fungi conversion had come on like a tidal swell, it was nonetheless subject to the ebb and flow of life, constrained by a natural rhythm that starkly juxtaposed the mechanical motions of Human Spellcraft.

After the bloom of colours turned the pitiable, white-eyed fish and crustaceans into blocks of sod, the pods erupted. These spores then begin new reactions, finding new hosts—until the lingering miasma of death lost its dominance, leaving only the shambling mounds of un-living hosts.

The process took hours—perhaps longer, as there were no daylight shifts in the Pocket Plane of Illhîweth to tell the time reliably. Just as well, Gwen did not trust the clock on her Communication device, lest time flowed differently, as it did in Sufina's Grot.

But time did pass, and sometime after the Necromancers' eviction into the Void, there was no sound but the swirling wind.

Visibly, coalescing in cotton candy strands of rime, the air grew cold.

The swirling, spontaneous aurora offered a strange, synergetic phenomenon, informing Gwen that, without doubt, the Elemental Ice was returning rapidly to the region and that whatever clime that had once inundated the Grove of Illhîweth was being restored to the status quo.

Flanked by her cousin and Lulan, guarded by Golos and Ariel overhead, Gwen descended from the air to a space made for her by the gathering Rime Wardens, forming a semi-circle of glittering ice with their scything bow-glaives and long, elongated limbs.

The time it took for the fungi to do its work had given her time to pant, though she was in no condition to conjure Caliban.

Below, the Frost Wardens formed a semi-circle barrier, creating a ring of bodies a hundred deep from lip to wall.

Behind the blade barrier, the giant tree-root body of Illaelitharian rose like a living Great Wall of China, towering above its guardians.

And sheltered within the coiled frame of the Frost Wyrm, the Pillar of Frost, that metaphysical node anchoring the elemental Planes of the South Pole, rose into the vague dimensions of the World Tree's Pocket Plane.

Though Lulan's palm on the small of her back was firm and Richard's presence was assuring, even with her creatures watching above, she felt incredibly minuscule and vulnerable, like that first night she had stepped into the Blackheath.

The trio landed, followed by Ariel, whom she kissed and un-conjured, and Golos, who took on his humanoid form.

The warrior Wardens and the Rime Witches remained stoic as sentinels while Gwen bowed, rose, and then unveiled her face by unlatching her beak-like mask.

She studied the Elves in turn, noting that the Frost Elves possessed brilliant blue irises of metallic cobalt and that these crystalline chambers reflected no more emotion than Eldrin's golden orbs.

"Hail," Gwen spoke in High Elven, or at least, her Master's Ioun Stone did. "I am Magister Gwen Song of London Tower. I speak for my employer, the Commonwealth of the Britannic Mageocracy. May I speak with your leader?"

The warrior Wardens' forest of sword limbs parted, followed by the Rime Witches with their glacial skin and pale-blue lips, soundlessly drifting apart, forming an archway framed by weaponry and sorcery. The leader, a silver-maned female taller than the rest and possessing a marginally more human bearing, coaxed Gwen forward with slender fingers tipped by what Gwen hoped were an armoured gauntlet and not natural, insectile digits.

"Do not fear, Child," the Rime Witch spoke in a way that even her Translation Stone struggled to transmute, a fact exasperated by what looked like mandibles curled up within the recess of the Witch's petite mouth. "Release the tongue of Tryfan so that the Frost Maiden may commune with our lost brethren."

After a moment's pause over the wording of "tongue", Gwen retrieved the Ilias Leaf that had previously returned to her breast pocket.

The leaf shimmered as it caught the frigid light of the Pocket Plane, then began to pulse.

At the same time, Gwen felt a presence coalesce, or descend, as it were, travelling through the nodes and veins represented by the warrior Wardens and Witches until the vague silhouette of something akin to an ice sculpture began to materialise in the space cleared by the Elves.

A dozen breaths later, a super-dense cluster of Elemental Ice materialised, striding into the world from the aether with a regal bearing greater than any being she had yet beheld, more than even The Bloom in White, who felt to Gwen to be a homebody.

Gwen bowed, as did her companions, the Wyvern included.

"Thou may address this one as Illhîwenthiel," the being spoke with a tone tinged with just enough humanity to convey a smidgen of acknowledgement. "We know of thee. Thou art the present Vessel of the Rainbow who sleeps in the Well of the World. And thou art Kilroy's vessel of hope. Well met, child. Thy Master's extinction was a rare shock, even for one such as we, for whom cessation has lost all meaning."

"Well met." Gwen wasn't sure how to continue, as her mind was torn between the loaded adjective of present and the implication that her Master was someone who had trafficked with Erebus' Elves. "I come to represent the interests of the Mageocracy—which is the restoration of the natural balance here—and the erasure of foreign agents from Spectre."

"Lift thine face, child," the voice said. "I wish to see thine eyes."

Lifting her chin confidently, Gwen met the Frost Flower's all-seeing, cobalt pupils, trying her best not to shudder.

The inhumanity of the immortal Demi-Goddess was self-evident.

Gwen wondered if it was possible for a "being" like Illhîwenthiel to find empathy for mortals with temporal existences no more permanent than a season of snow.

"Thou has performed thy duties to satisfaction." The Frost Flower nodded mechanically, almost akin to a pilot testing the unfamiliar limits of a Golem chassis. "And rewards are a given, though I shall not be the one to dispense it—Now, allow me to commune with the heretic."

"The…" Gwen paused at the word, wondering if her Translation Stone had been working correctly. "Your Grace, do you mean this Leaf?"

The Frost Flower nodded.

Two Rime Witches approached and dropped to their knees, supplicating not to Gwen but to the glowing leaf.

Gingerly, Gwen allowed their talon-like fingers to pick Tryfan's gift from her hands with an Elven Mage Hand spell, moving the Ilias Leaf until it hovered in front of Illhîwenthiel.

"Sister…" The High Elven from Illhîwenthiel made her Translation Stone grow hot as it unravelled the unfamiliar codex, warming the base of Gwen's neck with the excessive mana it now drew from her body.

"Sister…" came an audible response, the voice of Tryfan's Bloom in White. "As forewarned, even if the Groves of Illhîweth and Lhîweth seek no interest in the Prime Material's conflict—conflict has a way of becoming interested in thee."

"And how would these mortal blasphemers know of our seasons? Of when Illaelitharian slumber and wakes?" The Frost Elf's tone radiated so much chill that Gwen had to circulate mana to prevent her extremities from growing numb. "Is it not thine scion, the wayward Warden, who gave hope to these blasphemers of the Great Tree?"

Gwen's ears perked up.

Unfortunately, the retort emitted from the lips of The Bloom in White could no longer be deciphered by her stone. Instead, they sounded like insectile clicks and snips, with lisps and swirls that were primordial and alien.

"No. Nothing is proven, Sister, not even if we were to fall." Illhîwenthiel's side of the conversation, for some reason, remained comprehensible. "As always, neither the Frost Tree of Lhîweth nor Illhîweth shall join thine futile mutiny."

With a tone of The Bloom's characteristic imposition, more protest blasted back at the Frost Flower. Gwen listened, standing a dozen meters away with utmost concentration, soaking up every clue and inference like a sponge.

After a few minutes, the Frost Flower's eyes moved from the leaf toward Gwen.

Gwen looked away, finding a sudden interest in the snow underfoot.

"Child." The vocal cords of Illhîwenthiel were a rare melody, even if Gwen could not ascertain if the Elf possessed such an organ as the larynx.

"Yes?" Gwen faced the Frost Flower.

"Our and our Sister's bickerings art not for thee." Gwen could swear she saw a smirk on the Frost Elf's marble-statue face. "But fret not—we shall now deliver thee to Ancient Illaelitharian. Come past us, child. Move to Illaelitharian's side, where he shall invite thee into his abode."

Gwen swallowed her nerves, walked a half-meter ahead of Richard, the stone-faced Lulu and Golos with his flaring nostrils, then approached as was told.

Past the quarrelling "Blooms" once more conversing in machine gun Italian, she faced the wall, which was the torso of Illaelitharian, the great Frost Wyrm guardian of the Grove.

"There's no... door here," Gwen said to her companions. "Your advice?"

"Touch the Great Wyrm's scales." The Thunder Wyvern was in awe. "In this Pocket Space, we are already within his domain, but by his invitation, we may speak to Lord Illaelitharian directly."

"Within his belly?" Gwen said seriously.

The Wyvern returned her scepticism with a judgemental stare.

Gwen touched a palm to the wall of overlapping scales, noting that each head-sized block was worth a thousand times its weight in HDMs.

She fell inward.

Or perhaps it was outwards.

Her internal compass informed her that she had fallen. However, her vertigo possessed no momentum, transforming her from standing to free fall in a split-second.

And then she was not falling, but standing in the middle of a grove of evergreens, only the needle leaves were not waxy green spines, but needles of crystalline ice.

Underfoot, the ground was blanked in the same ice needles so fine that the furry carpet felt springy and strange.

In the middle of the enormous grot-arch, a male silhouette stood with his back to them. Gwen, who had long seen the humanoid guise of Golos, Ruxin and Ayxin, instantly recognised the aura and the unnaturally Polymorphed form.

This being— this Illaelitharian—was the Great Frost Wyrm of the South Seat of Frost, and not only that, one of the oldest Dragons she had witnessed to date. Though she had no way of knowing if the Wyrm she now faced had any relations to the Yinglong, she innately understood from the trembling of her Essence that it was the Master of Huangshan's elder by a significant margin.

At first, she thought she was alone, for such was the overwhelming presence of the Frost Wyrm. A moment later, when placidity returned to her mind, she smelled the hulking odour of Golos, now in his human form, standing behind her.

It would seem that only "Dragons" had invitations.

Thankfully, her armour was untouched, even the parts stained or damaged, informing her that their present space was at least metaphysical.

Reflexively, Gwen straightened her body, putting her best face forward. She had no idea if aesthetics mattered to a lizard that might have eaten dinosaurs in the past, but the show of deference, she imagined, was what mattered.

With no less melodrama than Morpheus' slow reveal to Neo, Illaelitharian turned to face the pair.

"I do apologise," the Frost Drake spoke from a face that did not move a muscle, with its Draconic thoughts seemingly injecting themselves into their brains. "Do humanoids still make use of implements such as these?"

At the Wyrm's behest, an enormous oval table of ice materialised, crafted with a design which Gwen assumed to predate the Greeks. A second later, chairs unfolded from the air, forming stone lawn ornaments more suitable for museum displays.

"Thank you, Great Illaelitharian," Gwen answered with reverence. "We still use chairs and tables, yes."

The chairs slid from the table.

"Sit," the Frost Wyrm commanded.

Gwen sat like an obedient cat.

The chair-stool-throne, if it could be called such a thing, was bone-chillingly cold, penetrating her armour so completely that she remained smiling only on account of her Draconic Essence. Golos followed suit, perfectly unaffected by the cold.

Illaelitharian regarded the chair he made with suspicion, then also sat.

While the polite silence endured, Gwen studied the Ancient Frost Wyrm, likely Almudj's cousin, removed only by a few aeons. Like Golos, Illaelitharian did not care for perfection, crafting a handsome guise that remained reptilian in its impassivity. In a mildly comical sense, the Dragon's mane began too close to his brows so that its full head of flowing, silvery hair framed the top half of his face in the likeness of a Wookie. The lower half was overtly virile, with a powerful, jutting jaw, sharp cheekbones, and a broad chin, all wrapped up in an unkept lumberjack beard. For clothes, the Ancient Drake wore the largest pelt of Polar Bear fur she had ever seen, wrapped around his shoulder and waist and covering his lower body like a kilt.

The more she thought about it, the more Gwen felt that Illaelitharian had a Hanmoul-likeness to him, incongruent with the pointy ears protruding through the nimbus of his metallic-silver fur.

"Lord Illaelitharian," Gwen made to speak after the silence wore on too long for politeness. "How is it that we may serve you in this trying time?"

The Frost Wyrm's eyes were two motes of glowing coal burning blue with frost-fire. "A trying time? What aid from your ilk might you infer?"

Gwen felt her chest clench.

"Pardon my youthful bluntness," she spoke up when Golos did not. Dragons, by nature, are assertive, and too much deference would only lower her worth in the eyes of the ancient Wyrm. "I know not how else I may infer our timely arrival with reinforcements from Tryfan."

"Tryfan…" Illaelitharian's gaze swept over her like an icy tide. "Is the concern of Elves. Between thyself and I, tis the business of kin."

"I see the distinction. Please enlighten Sir Golos and me." Gwen's tone masked her ambivalence. She had been wondering why the Frost Elves had been so frosty in their reception, and now she confirmed that her reward—if there ever was one, sat with Illaelitharian and not the Lady of the Grove. "We young drakes are inexperienced in the matter… of Planar Politics."

Illaelitharian gave her a curt nod, which she took to mean approval.

"Your aid," the Dragon said slowly and meticulously as if assembling the words from a scrabble pile. "Is welcome, though not required. You have not saved Illhîweth, as Illhîweth requires no salvation to return to its former glory. What you have done is spared me grief and time, worthless as the latter might be, and relieved the World Tree of a disease."

Golos made a low, demure rumble to express his dissatisfied agreement.

Gwen, conversely, could sense the pride tickling away at Illaelitharian's tonsils, like an itch the Dragon could not scratch. As the sponsored representative of Almudj and the deliverer of its emerald lightning, she understood the Wyrm's point. After all, even if Almudj were to burn down its World Tree over a thousand years and turn the centre of Terra Australis into a Black Zone, it persisted, and there was no "cost" to itself. If someone had intervened, did they then "save" the Serpent? The "Tree" might be saved—but its guardian's gratitude was far more uncertain.

Weighing her chips, she gave Illaelitharian a brilliant smile of supreme confidence. "That goes without saying, Lord Illaelitharian. We are merely the incessant motes of destiny sent adrift into the great Planar aether. It just so happens that Illhîweth is where our spores landed. I would not take credit for fortune, O Ancient One, nor for the aid given to our long-eared brethren."

"You are a wily Coatl." Illaelitharian's voice seemed to relax now that its debt was no longer in danger of being used as a bargaining chip. "However, credit or otherwise, let it not be said that Illaelitharian is a miser among our noble assembly..."

The face of Illaelitharian appeared to ponder its next thoughts.

"You," Illaelitharian spoke past Gwen to the nervous Drake sweating beside her. "Child of the Tempest."

"Lord?" Golos stood. Then sat. Then made a move to stand again before Gwen settled her Wyvern with a pat on the shoulder.

"What do you wish as a reward?"

Gwen secretly punched the air at the confirmation of a "Quest Reward" but otherwise held her reins on Golos' Astral Soul in case the Wyvern said something outrageous.

Feeling the tugging from their entwined souls, the adolescent Dragon-kin looked to her for assurance.

For all of Golos' ruthless absurdities, Gwen had to admit that she had grown soft for the Wyvern that once attempted to murder her and do unspeakable things should she have survived. Since Huangshan, the two of them had gone through more "Calamities" than she could count, licking each other's wounds hundreds of times in the aftermath of embroiling battles. The Wyvern's eyes, inhuman as they were, were now as alive as any of her other companions, rich with emotion, desire, and well-rooted companionship.

And somewhere within that entwined ball of loyalty and rebellion was her Planar Ally contract, compelling Golos' obedience—but the number of times she had to invoke its ball and chain were few and far.

Do not ask for food. Gwen jolted her Empathic Link.

AND DO NOT ASK FOR SEX. She had to save Golos from himself if nothing else.

"I wish to be closer in kind—" Golos said firmly, modulating the yearning in his voice with her mental support. "—to my brother, Ruxin."

The Ancient Wyrm appeared pleased by her Thunder Wyvern's response. "An admirable ambition, young Drake."

Illaelitharian's hands disappeared inside its enormous robe of polar fur. When it emerged, he materialised on the table a Creature Core about the size of Gwen's torso resembling a massive shard of citrine. As the surface of the Core kissed the air, it suddenly came alive with sparking electricity, frazzling Gwen's hair and making her skin numb.

Somewhere within her Astral Soul, Ariel drooled and whined at the Thunder Wyvern's good fortune, imploring its Master to snatch the treasure before the stupid Wyvern could take its prize.

"From an old friend and an ancestor of yours." the Frost Wyrm allowed the Core to drift across the table, past Gwen's eyes, illuminated by the golden electricity into the colour of money. "Her name has not been spoken for aeons, and her Spirit has long since melded with the Unformed Land. What remains of her, I gift to you whose Essence Pool has grown impressive for one so young—"

To Gwen's shock, Golos left his seat, dropped to his knees, then made a gesture of supplication, first to the Creature Core, then to Illaelitharian.

Then, with undisguised greediness, the Wyvern cradled the Core to his chest, meeting her eyes with a clear demand that he alone take full advantage of his prize.

It's yours. Gwen assured the childish Thunder Wyvern even as she calmed her Kirin, promising she would find something just as delicious in time for her Familiar. After all, once embroiled in this matter of Trees and Maidens and Snakes, there would be no return to the ignorant status quo of happy Purges and profits. Upon her return to the Mageocracy, a great upheaval would be afoot, and she, Charlene, the Mageocracy, and the Trees and Drakes that tent-poled the Prime Material would all be seeing a Brave New World.

Once Golos managed to hide the Core in what Gwen hoped was his Ayxin-enhanced Storage Ring, the weight of the conversation shifted to herself and the Frost Wyrm.

"And now for our Vessel." Illaelitharian's voice was deep and resonant. "Your part is greater, and therefore, your reward as well. However, allow this Old One to ramble before you make your choice."

"Please." Gwen hoped the Frost Wyrm wasn't fishing for a discount on its debt.

"You are here to withhold a Calamity from your world." Illaelitharian's emphasis on the C-word was particularly grating, for it felt like the Wyrm was reading her mind. "And for that, your triumph here is debatable. Through the ravages of these Elemental defilers and their allies, that rogue of Tryfan and his minions, I can perceive their designs and what this assault upon Lhîweth and Illhîweth aims to achieve. Yet, such an assault is nothing to us who dream only of the Unformed Land, and our Tree and its Guardians will recover over time—a resource immaterial to our concern. But for your ilk, O'Apostle of the Rainbow, there shall be many Calamities that plague the Prime Material."

"Right," Gwen concurred. It was good to receive assurance that an anthropomorphic climate could confirm the impacts of Climate Change.

"As an existential matter of principle and being," Illaelitharian continued. "We do not meddle in the matters of the Prime Material. We are its guardians, and so long as it stands, what races occupy its sacred spaces is of no value to us. Through the aeons, be it the Green-skinned hosts of the plains, the Horse-Lords of the desert, or your amphibious selves or the Sea-folk, each would have their time—just as the tide ebbs and flows, and the seasons change."

The Frost Wyrm's tone then grew suddenly cold.

"But—for kin of the Wardens to draw themselves into the cyclic conflicts of the mortal races by assailing a Tree itself, much less our Seats of Frost, is a Calamity too far for our patience. Thereby, I shall offer you the gift of intervention..."

Gwen swallowed as Illaelitharian produced what looked like a pair of bulbous seeds. Ones she was very much familiar with, thanks to Tryfan's ploys.

"In a dire time. I shall allow the Frost Wardens of Illhîweth to visit the Prime Material. What they may achieve, or how they may serve your cause, I cannot control nor say—but they will defend you—or they will perish, after which your aid in our unpleasant hour is repaid."

Gwen waited on Frost Wyrm's unfinished words.

"Conversely, you may ask me for other forms of intervention. Perhaps, you would like to know about your allies in Tryfan or your patron who slumbers in the Well of the World, or perhaps, you would like to elevate that mewling creature within your Astral Soul. Beyond that, my trove isn't the largest of our kind, but it is old. I am willing to part with a portion, should you wish that instead. And should that dissatisfy, ask what else you will."

Upon Frost Wyrm's awaiting words, Gwen noted that here was the most difficult decision she had ever made as a sorceress.

First—to have someone like Eldrin showing up through a Trellis Portal and wreck havoc on one's foes in a time of need was amazing as a bargaining chip, one that needed not to be truly actualised because she could always pop out the seedlings and inform her opponents of her intentions. For this reason, the mere "favour" was worth far more than the actuality of what she might be able to conjure.

Then, there was the option of insight.

To understand the Accord of the Elves and the goals of Tryfan, to know their motives and desires, was a priceless boon.

Alternatively, the actual means to understand Almudj, to beg Illaelitharian for a way to communicate with Mythic beings, was itself amazingly priceless.

Likewise, the gift of wealth might seem a poor choice to many—but who was she? Give her an LDM, and she'll show them an HDM! If the Dragon could give her ten million or more in materials and Cores, she may be able to produce a billion's worth of effects and outcomes in her new Tower.

And there were MORE options?

What if she asked Illaelitharian to hook the Dwarves back up with their Dyar Morkk?

Christ! Give it a decade, and Dwarves and Humans would have an infrastructure network more useful and total than oceanic shipping!

Just the tariffs alone… were worth the Ancient Wyrm's horde.

Compared to that, adding Dragon-parts to Ariel could wait.

And yet—Gwen gulped greedily—she had greater ambitions than that.

"I have… a question." Gwen calmed herself before she could blurt forth her direst, most profitable desires. "Regarding the nature of Guardians and Trees, if that's alright. If the answer is not free, please give me a moment to ponder my reward."

"Ask." Illaelitharian inclined his chin with interest.

"Let's say I wanted to plant a World Tree," Gwen asked as she suppressed her internal trembling. "With Al— with the Slumberer in the Well of the World. Would the other Guardians of the existing World Trees oppose such an act?"

The air grew frigid.

For the first time since their conversation, Illaelitharian's facial expressions moved, transforming from passivity to incredulity.

"Not to fell a Grove—" Illaelitharian's voice sounded different as well. "—But to grow one? A new Grove? Not follow the cycle of decay and regrowth, entropy and life, but the creation of that which is wholly new?"

"Well, I don't know if it's NEW," Gwen said carefully. "As I said, we'll be taking aid from my patron, the Rainbow Serpent. The Tree is new, but it isn't... new."

"A tree, from a source as ancient as the Well of the World..." Illaelitharian grew contemplative. When the Dragon looked up, it somehow appeared guilty. "I… do not have an answer."

"You don't?" Gwen was taken aback by the Frost Wyrm's sudden bashfulness. "Is growing a tree taboo?"

"No." The Wyrm shook his great head. "It hasn't happened in recent memory, and we have long memories."

"So I can do it?" Gwen felt her optimism blossom.

"Only time may answer that question," Illaelitharian answered with ambivalence. "With absolute certainty, some will be opposed, just as some may support you, while many will remain indifferent. However, if you wish it, I will advocate on your behalf when your hour arrives."

"And that would be repaying my favour?" Gwen had to make sure she and Illaelitharian were on the same page. After witnessing Erebus, the Undead, and seeing the vandalism done to a primordial World Tree, she was very much for the idea that her Tower and Sufina's World Tree should be close neighbours, if not a singular structure—especially in the tumultuous future that would soon come upon them. Perhaps, she imagined, this was the only chance she had to restore a few motes of sanity to a global stage on the verge of mass hysteria.

It was a nebulous wish, one full of risk and uncertainties.

But it could also be an unexpectedly vital investment.

"To grow a tree is no simple wish..." the Ancient Wyrm reminded her. "Even one as old as the Rainbow is not without... opposition."

Unhurriedly, Gwen took her time to ponder the immediacy of present gifts and militant guarantees against future promises.

There were many temptations, but she could not shake the thought of Erebus on fire, the Undead tide sweeping across the Grove, and that this should happen to her domain, her Tower, her people. There was also the stark reminder that her expedition to Erebus was, after all, her final Magisterial trial.

When she returned with Charlene with the worst news possible for Humanity, the Mageocracy would carve out a little plot for her to govern.

After which, the next chapter of her life will begin.

"I wish it," Gwen said, feeling the weight of the dilemma slide from her shoulders like a glacier as she clarified her intentions. Today, she would gain the support of Illaelitharian, and later, there would be another, and hopefully another and another. "This is my choice, Great Illaelitharian. I wish for your advocacy."

The Ancient Wyrm gave her a final look that seemed full of strange sympathy, then sealed the deal with a nod.

But Gwen was now beyond doubt. TO have a host of Ancient Wyrms golf clap as she snipped the ribbon to her golden city was an effective signal to geopolitical powers with designs on her future Tower and a call for unbridled investment unequalled by any other.

And in time, Sufina's limbs would stretch and yawn until she kissed the firmament, while around her roots, a living rainbow would lie, repelling all that dared to disrupt the peace of Tower Master Song's demesne.

If Force Ghosts should exist in this world—she comforted herself with a Gwenism—then surely, Henry must be smiling and nodding, with a twinkling tear of joy clouding his eyes.