One Last Fight

My perspective shifts in a single heartbeat, allowing me to see myself through another's eyes. Insight's ability, which I never knew about for so long, finally came in handy again. I feel a bit of surprise looking at myself from another's eyes, even if they are Edmund's.

His vision is slightly blurry with noticeable shakes, but it takes a second before I get anything more from the Ether connecting us than this simple vision. Of which, I notice that I am truly quite fucked up. Not as bad as I was before Birdie had a chance to heal me, but it's still pretty bad.

The blood leaking from the eyes even now is the most obvious. Bruises and scrapes are all over, with a few lacerations that Birdie didn't have the Ether or time to spare to heal. Not that I blame her. She had to keep Blake, Dakota, and Otto alive. Speaking of them, they are probably on their way here right now looking for me.

Slowly the perspective I gain is added onto, achieving both more vibrance and oddities. The room around us shifts, distorts, and breaks apart randomly, turning into a world of simple shapes. I can even feel a presence hovering above me, but I refuse to look up even slightly. I think I am only able to resist this call because of all the Ether flowing through me. How the Fading do so for so long is beyond me. Or maybe they don't. And that's why they fade faster, that their death isn't the only thing that speeds up their demise.

I have zero confidence in the roof above. A simple sheet that adorns the tops of most of the buildings here will do nothing against the distorted God who used to rule the Underworld with Death herself.

I pull myself from this distraction and ask another question as I notice the mind of Edmund is utterly blank. It's bizarre to hear my voice twice despite speaking once, but I get over it quickly and focus on Edmund's feelings.

"Where is the key, Edmund?"

My words seem to pull together fragments of him, for I can feel something stirring deep within, his vision crackling more than before. I focus as intensely as I can on his mind, grasping for anything that might be a clue. And as the fragments of his destroyed mind try to gather, he speaks a single word.

"Blood."

The second he says this word, everything in his mind collapses like a tower built upon cards, but as it does, I get a look at a shattered memory as it flies to the forefront of his disjointed mind. A memory that is somehow given to me through our connection as his mind breaks into a thousand pieces once more.

It's short but just what I need.

I see a sleeping version of myself from the past. When we stayed in that cellar in the forest for a while. Edmund kneels to my sleeping form, and I can see, hear, and feel him dryly chuckle at my unconscious form.

"Haha, poor kid. I'll get you somewhere safe, bud. I promise. Whether I come with you or not doesn't matter."

He looks at his hand and bites his thumb, making a single drop of blood come out of his thumb before wiping the drop against my own. Then he closes his wound with his own skill powered by Ether; I can even feel how he does so. I could probably learn how to replicate it should I ever get an Occultist Sigil. But sadly, with mine, it's likely locked away from me due to my Sigil's lack of affinity with blood.

Edmund then stands up and starts to walk toward the exit of the cellar, speaking to himself once more.

"Haaa… back to work. Hope that key comes in handy. These old bones won't last long enough for it to be clear."

After his depressing words to himself that tell me that my blood is key, he walks up those creaky steps. After a few seconds of tension, the old man emerges from the dark cellar, with his legs beginning to shake from carrying his frame. I can feel the pain of each labored breath punctuated with a wheeze as if his lungs were struggling to keep up with the demands of his failing body.

We are truly similar. Back then, his body was failing. The old man, covered in wounds and days without a modicum of rest, was forcing himself past his limits again and again during our escape. I always forget just how many monsters and people he fought. No, he even fought demons in the other town. Despite all the wounds, was unwilling to show any weakness to me. So I wouldn't worry and so that I could survive.

Despite the pain that I can feel and the monumental amount of Ether he uses to hold his innards together with congealed blood, Edmund's expression is stoic and determined. His white hair was disheveled, and his clothes were tattered and stained with blood, both his and those whose lives he cut short for trying to take his and mine. The second he steps out into the sunlight of dawn, he stumbles for a moment, trying to catch his gait.

But he recovers, another burst of Ether tightening the muscles in his legs to keep him upright. Truly, a master of Ether if there ever was one. Those aren't even skills he's doing; these are simply extensions of his will. If only… if only he had more time to teach me. Too many people have told me just how special he was. A mere mortal with the control of Angels. It is a pity and a regret I will always have.

The old man, however, ignores my thoughts as the memory shatters with him adjusting his hat—the one I'm wearing currently. The last thing I see from the memory before I am pushed back to reality is the light of the morning sun, slightly covered by his arm fixing his hat.

When I leave the shattered memory, I come back to my body instantly, gasping for unneeded air. I quickly stop and calm down, but the reaction seems to have come from nowhere and freaks Dewey out.

"You alright?! What's happening?"

I shake him off and answer simply before standing. I'm going to give Edmund a good death and try to save his soul from Basprit. I don't know how, but I will. Perhaps a combination of Insight, Daydream, and Ironheart will do? If they could let me fight despite all those wounds I had, maybe, just maybe, hope lies to prevent Edmund from being devoured.

"I just used a skill to try and read Edmund's mind and figure out what he's trying to tell me, and I did. Let's go put the old man to rest, okay?"

He looks at me for a few moments with a concerned face before shaking his head.

"Yeah, sure. I'd much rather he go out by someone who ventured all the way from the surface and who cares for him than a damn demon. You want to do this quietly? Or can I go get the guys who left? They care for him too."

I glance at Edmund, who is dumbly staring at the table in front of him, and I decline the audience.

"No. This is personal. I'd rather not have an audience."

From there, I call out to Edmund, trying to get him to follow me. I call his name several times, but all he does is look at me. I give Dewey a look for help as he got the man here, and he helps. The undead walks over to Edmund before grabbing his arm and gently pulling him.

Edmund slowly stands up with the impetus, and we walk out of the building before heading away from the street of Heights. During my recovery from getting a glance at Basprit, I seemed to walk a very long distance, all the way to the very edge of the city. As we take our steps out of the edge of the town where no one will be, I talk a bit to Dewey.

"Will there be any issues with doing this?"

He shakes his head while he helps guide Edmund's movements as the once sharp old man is so dull he can barely walk. How he'll fight me is beyond me, but I at least don't want to have him die from a demon to be devoured by a mad God.

"Probably not. He has one last fight in him at max, and the chances of him hurting others in that fight are high. Fading rarely can distinguish friend from foe despite other Fading. We're actually supposed to kill any Fading we come across, but none of us in the Verge, the quarter mile or so around that bar, could. We've been hiding him ever since he reconstituted after his last death."

I nod and thank the man. I lucked out meeting him, that's for sure.

"Thank you, Dewey. I appreciate it. Can't believe how lucky I was to find you on that street."

Dewey just shakes his head and argues against my luck.

"That wasn't luck. Had you met just about anyone here, they would have done the same. A small army gathered around Edmund, with me and Lucy at the front. The only thing meeting me did for you was let you talk to him quietly, though everyone in that room would have likely left anyway for your privacy."

After a few minutes, we reach an open field with no other undead in sight. It's a bit dark, but Insight makes the level of light not matter. All things glow under the eyes that The Cabin improved, even inanimate objects like the ground.

From there, I walk a few steps away from Edmund, and Dewey lets go of him, letting the old man stand on his own. Edmund has a bit of a stumble, but he manages to stand, although terribly hunched.

Biting my teeth and forcing away tears, I draw my spare revolver from my waist. Dewey goes to say something, but I raise the barrel to Edmund's head before he can finish speaking. And the second the bullet in the chamber lines up with Edmund, the whole atmosphere changes.

"Be careful–"

The threat of a gun awakens the fighting instinct deep within the Bloodhound, the fire in his eyes turning a dark blood red similar to Iva's as his body tenses. The air turns stale, and my hand freezes. I was half expecting him to just not react and for me to put the old man to eternal rest without any fanfare. But that is not the case, thankfully.

I wanted one last chance. One last chance to learn from, according to Johnny, the only man whose self-made skill put him amongst legends and was why so many wanted him to teach them or their children. Few could rival the old man's skill in Ether despite his low Sigil. He started his journey as a Sigiled in his late thirties, the only reason he stayed so low. My eyes squint as I want to catch a glimpse of the old man. Even weakened as an undead, even mad as a Fading, even in his old age, the Bloodhound's teeth remain sharp.

Johnny told me during our trip that my old man is the only man who is not an Angel or Forerunner, instead only a mere 3rd Sigil, who has created a skill that rivals the power of an Absolution's skill. They do exist, but are very rare and are called Dzil, an old word for mountain top or peak, as they are the pinnacle of what one can make without their Sigil's touch. From what I know, they take at least six simultaneous types of Ether manipulation, from Single Strand to Willful Strand, working in tandem to create such a thing. Something impossible for just about any but the most gifted of even the 6th Sigileds.

I only ever got to see it in the final fight he had with Alexos, and it was the reason he was near impossible to even see with his speed. Had his mind not been invaded by Alexos and had he not been fighting a projection the whole time, I have faith the old man would have, at the minimum, landed a few good hits on Alexos.

The middle-aged Bloodhound made Shiver, not necessarily the fastest Ether skill for movement, but certainly one of the best. No one knows how it works, but to the eyes, it allows instantaneous movement from any position, whether sitting, standing, or even on the top of your head.

And so, as I tighten my finger on the trigger, I prepare for the skill. Ether flows through me with all my skills active, from Strugglers Defiance to Release, which is focused on my arm, removing the chains entirely from my forearm. But he doesn't move; he just stares forward and makes the air feel tenser and tenser even as I pull the trigger.

The moment the hammer hits the back of the revolver and signals the combustion of the powder within, though, the Bloodhound moves. No longer bound by the limits of his caution for his body, Shiver comes out in full force. One second he is far in front of me, and the next, he is in front of me, reaching for my face with his hands coated in blood.

I drop the revolver and lean back, trying to dodge the unmistakable claw to my face. As I do so, I draw the last machete I had and swing it at him, preparing for mutual destruction. He's frail and fading; endurance is the way to win.

But he doesn't even let himself get hit, as instead of slashing my face with his fingers, he darts backward without any prior indication, making my swing pointless. From there, he shoots in, foot tapping against the ground as light as a feather, taking advantage of my wide swing with the machete.

And I can only watch him fly at me at close to a hundred miles an hour before I can pull the sword back, but as he takes another step to increase his speed further, I hear his ankle snap. Still, he shoots forward, fading and dying yet indomitable. All I can do is twist my body slightly as the old man slices a massive gash along my side, passing right by me with incredible speed.

The Bloodhound only stops for a moment, blood streaming out of his mouth as his fires of Undeath burn brighter than any I've ever seen. They illuminate the whole surroundings with their bloody light, casting shadows on both of us in this dark world.

In this short moment, I hear Dewey exclaim behind me in total surprise. Apparently, he's seen Shiver before. Makes sense. If Edmund knew he could die and be recovered, he wouldn't care about his safety enough to hold back on the skill. But what he continues to say surprises me.

"That skill again! Watch out, Wyatt! He's not using it like normal! It might just kill him!"

I grit my teeth at the thought of him killing himself from exertion for his final death. I grip the machete tightly as I see Edmund shuffle his feet a bit, the broken ankle hanging loosely doesn't seem to affect the Fading. And so, with a growl, Edmund Shivers toward me once more; the movement is fast but not impossible to match. The really worrying thing is the lack of momentum.

He can just stop, move, and restart on a dime. As if he has no weight or inertia. I can never know his next move. I can now see why Alexos was so pressed by him, even as a 6th Sigil. Some things are simply hard to beat.

I raise the machete to block an incoming swipe, but before it lands, he Shivers to the side, making another slash open up on my other side from my armpit to my hip. I step back several times, destabilized as he pushes onto me again. Without holding back at all, I take a deep breath, Ether filing me wholly. As I do so, I try to enter his fragmented mind.

If I can predict, even just slightly, what he's doing, then I can protect myself better.

I feel the chains on my whole body loosen with Strugglers Gasp as Edmund stumbles, the discord that my skill forces on the surroundings affecting his Ether. From there, I focus deeply on him with Insight until my vision splits, becoming two. One of mine and one of his.

Using Insight with my eyes open on another person is an odd feeling. The split vision is disorienting, but not so much that it's unhelpful. It's like looking through two holes in a fence, only that each delivers you to a completely different world.

In his, only I exist, a being made only of blood and flesh that swirls threateningly. Truly, nothing else exists to the fading Edmund except for the threat to his life. Even the floor doesn't exist. That is probably why he keeps tripping and stumbling.

But from his sight, I can barely see where he is looking, even if I can't understand what he's thinking. My right thigh is where he's looking. Cripple me? Is that the plan, Edmund? You probably don't even have one in that condition. So, as he darts at me once more, I prepare for his attack.

I step back, blood falling from me in bursts from my other wounds; it seems Edmund is good at making others bleed. That sounds about right. When he gets close, I stab forward with the machete, using Leash to try and catch him with it to slow him down. But just before the Leash reaches him, which is a good foot from the edge of the bone machete, his eyes shift to my neck.

Instantly a shiver goes down my spine as I react instinctively, leaning back, swiping the blade, and letting myself fall back without hesitation.

Only barely do I act fast enough to save my head from being removed from my body. The claw of blood passes right over my head as my machete sinks deeply into Edmund's side. The Bloodhound looks down at me as it growls, blood dripping onto my face from an undead creature that should be unable to bleed.

Edmund then abruptly moves to the side, ripping the machete right out of my hand and taking it with him. The only issue is that when he stops moving, the old man immediately crumples, the sound of dozens of broken bones resounding in the air.

But the old man is just like me. Even broken in body, shattered in mind, and far beyond repair in the soul, he refuses to give. I see the flames in his eyes spark once more, and I prepare myself instinctively as I hear an audible crack of bone.

The next second, no the next moment in time, no matter how small you measure, he's standing right in front of me, arm in my chest, grasping for a heart that is not there. I return the favor and stab my hand into his chest, blowing apart his feeble chest with Whetting. Bones, flesh, and blood mix from the two of us as we simultaneously collapse.

As we fall, I push myself away from him, releasing my breath of Ether at him, which creates distance between the two of us.

I look at him now, completely broken on the ground. That last strike was far too fast. Had Death's Lantern not taken my heart, I would have died. I shakily stand while looking at the hole in my chest. While it might not have gone through the heart not there, plenty of other things are fucked up. Several broken ribs, a collapsed lung, and massive hemorrhages. My mind flicks to the warning Johnny and Birdie gave, and I wince. I'm doing it again, dammit!

Shaking my head in disappointment, I force myself to come to my senses. You dumbass! Why do you need to fight everything? Can you not see ten minutes into the future!? Fuck! Ah, who am I kidding? I wanted this. This was a choice, even if it was a bad one. Hopefully, I won't bleed out.

Without much time left for Edmund's Undeath, I quickly move over to him, and he tries to get up to attack me. But he is far too wounded to do so, making me breathe out slowly as I sigh in disappointment.

Not of disappointment in him, either. In me. I didn't beat him. His own skill did. Shiver. At least in his death, he taught me one last lesson. Had he been alive or, at the very least, sentient, he would have kicked my ass. Terribly.

Now, as he sits broken and fading, blood pouring from wounds that should not have any, I see his vision goes black, subjecting the once-indomitable Bloodhound to eternal darkness.