Pen Upon Paper

"What is Lennon Hull doing here?"

Virgil proposes the question as he steps over and lightly thumps Dakota on the head. Shaking my head, both in answer to his question and to Dakota, I stride over to the fox that only continues to grow larger. I remember when he was the size of my hand. The transformation is odd, but it doesn't seem painful or uncomfortable for him.

Yet now, his snout is more significant than my hand. The fox tilts his head up to meet my hand as Earl tries to formulate an answer to Virgil.

"I'm not sure. Last I saw Lennon, he was in Blackreach, creating a four-way battle for the city with Edward, Myriad, and Joseph Jeremiah, the Scalding Iron. From what we heard in Bent, Joseph backed out, so maybe Lennon did, too? He's famous for wanting a challenge. Perhaps they weren't enough of one."

Virgil clasps his fingers around his masked chin as he ponders, nodding softly. Then, he slides his boot over a pool of dried blood, the crust resisting his movement.

"I could see that. But then... where is he going? And why did he kill all these Estatesmen? Were they all after him? Why?"

I shrug as I search around for any spare Claymores or Colts. We could always use extra. Toward that end, I whisper to Dakota as Earl speaks.

"Hey boy, help me find some good weapons, okay? And try not to eat things like that. I'm surprised that didn't end poorly for you. Though, it not being fully developed yet probably saved you. Arcas take a long time to form."

The fox does a stout nod before lowering his nose and moving across the battlefield under the noise of Earl's thoughts.

"Maybe he has something the Estates want? Wait... he was in Blackreach, right? And Eli was removed of his greatest weapon there, too..."

I see where he's going with this before he even says it. The insanity of the idea makes sense for such a group to be after him. The power of this army is insane. An Angel helming at least a dozen 6th Sigileds and so many others not far in strength is a force capable of killing many, many, many foes. Numbers add up quickly unless your name is Marshall or Vincent.

Lennon Hull, the most skilled swordsman of mankind, might just, in fact, have the most distinguished sword ever made.

Yet, Virgil is the one that voices the thought, not Earl or I.

"Lennon could have Demonsbane. Why else would all these people be chasing him? Hell, the man probably has several other armies this size coming at him from Eli's Roots. If he could hide one Angel, he's probably hiding many more."

Earl nods but seems slightly disagree as he stares at the dead Angel. Something must not be adding up for him.

"I don't know. Lennon only used broken or newly retrieved blades during the battle, and I didn't see an additional Claymore on him. Can Demonsbane hide itself?"

We all shrug at his question. No one knows the authentic details of the Claymore. Its exact effects are hidden. We only know that it is so very lethal that even a Virtue sometimes struggles to draw it from its scabbard.

But Virgil makes another point as we gradually start returning to the train. While he does so, Dakota trots to us with a tiny gemstone-encrusted dagger. I point to Virgil after looking closely with Insight and finding that it has dark blue chains, and the fox presents it to the man.

"Demonsbane... and he's heading away from Blackreach into Timberlands. He's fucking insane. I think I know what he's doing. Lennon Hull is going to carve a path through the Wilds with that blade while the demons do the same to us. Oh, thank you, Dakota. I'll investigate it later."

Virgil slides the Claymore into a slot on his belt, then reaches a hand out toward Earl.

"C'mon, we gotta get going. Hopefully, we can find Lennon and change his mind."

Earl sighs as Virgil slings him over his shoulder while my mind sinks into thought. Is Lennon going into the Depths of the Wilds? Is he mad? Only my father has ever reached the Depths, and the Prime himself has said to only reach the border of the Binary Lords' homeland.

Who does he think he is?

Shaking my head, I agree with Virgil. We can't let such a powerful man who can kill all those foes run himself into the ground like that. We need to get him to join us. However, my thoughts are interrupted as Virgil breaks into a run, pulling the panicked Earl with him at a blistering pace.

Seeing him vanish at such a speed, I peer down at Dakota, who I will soon not have to look down at if he keeps growing like this.

"You faster?"

A low yip is my reply as the fox digs his paws into the ground, the dirt sliced through effortlessly.

"Good to hear. Let's go!"

Immediately, I break off into a run, with several skills enhancing me as Dakota follows. And I fast figure out his newest Sigil. It must be a Nightowl or a Rogue; nothing else makes sense.

Shadows curl, twist, and contort, less like Virgil's physical tendrils and more like the shadows are simply waving. But Dakota's swiftness increases every time they wriggle or wave, forcing me to Arbalest just to keep up, even after Breakneck. Not to mention, he seems more agile and lithe as he leaps up and onto a tree, preferring to move above me than on the ground.

Damn, he's fast now. Though, I suppose he always was.

*******************************

After returning to the train, I find some peace to talk to Elizabeth again, and before Johnny wakes up to learn of our discovery, I continue our conversation as promised. Again, we sit in the head of the train on the fancy chairs, and she listens with rapt attention as I begin my story.

"My Ma... I guess you could say she had a Sigil. Though, she wasn't and isn't really my Ma."

In detail, my past is explored as I bear it all to her. From the cruel memories that were struck from my mind to the fact that my mother was simply a demon's clone, I tell it all. Elizabeth remains quiet through most of it, barring a gasp or sharp inhale here or there when I explain something particularly rough, like when Aniwye killed Kai Vinson. She also seems to cower a bit when my voice raises at the hurt of my childhood's facade of reality.

When I finish with a deep exhale, enunciating it's over, she sits up a bit and places a hand on my shoulder.

"I---... I'm sorry that all happened to you, Wyatt. I remember when I was worried about telling you about my past. And while my family was abusive, it was never that bad. We had moments of kindness. Real ones, unlike the fakeness you seem so angry about. I can't imagine... So, you've never had any parents... Where is your dad? Does anyone know?"

I shrug at her question as I slide down the chair a little. My eyes fall to Dakota, who is snoring just feet away on the cold floor. Does he know I'm not his natural parent? Does he know I killed them? Can a fox even reason that one out? Does he care? I'll have to tell him when he grows sentient enough. He'd have to become a 7th Sigiled as he doesn't have any mental Sigils to boost his mind. I wonder if he can pull that one off.

"Dunno. Aniwye didn't either. If anyone does, it's probably the Prime. Perhaps he's off on a glorious journey around the continents of the world just as the Prime is, living it up while forgetting about me."

Elizabeth shakes her head and lightly smacks me on the shoulder.

"You know that can't be the case. He left behind things for you, right? I doubt he forgot about you. Killian... he's an extraordinary man, right? One of those at the Paramount, like Aniwye said. Perhaps he's doing the dirty work of the Prime, unable to come and see you. No parent would be so cruel. Even my father did what he did to me as he thought it would be best for me. I can't really blame him, to be honest. I only blame the bastard he sent me to."

I nod to her reasoning as I feel my eyelids grow heavy. I am pretty tired. Inhaling heavily, I tell Elizabeth that I'm going to rest, and she pats my shoulder before standing up.

"Okay. You sleep well. I'm going to go see Johnny about all this stuff with Lennon. He should know some more. I'm relatively sure he mentioned seeing him once or twice."

Sitting in a chair as the train is already moving at its typical pace again, even with the rumble of the train, I gradually nod off to sleep. Slowly, over many minutes, the noises quiet, and I fall into darkness, returning to the fields of endless lilies.

*****************************

Unknown "Unknown" Unknown

As I sit, a lifeless shore beneath me, a melancholic air envelopes me. It doesn't help my troubling emotions that the air is colder than any night where I grew up. The chilly winds of Northene are impossible to replicate anywhere else but where I sit. My gaze is drawn to the vast, sprawling river that extends far beyond my sight. The river seems to echo the lost opportunities and unfulfilled dreams that haunt my soul.

Its waters are like an endless expanse of darkness, more profound than the blackest of nights, swallowing any hope of redemption or absolution. As I watch the currents flow, I can't help but wonder about the paths I didn't take, the choices left unmade, and the people I've left behind.

Yet, at the same time, beneath that darkness of unrequited death hides inexorable life. Contorting fingers that were never mine until I stole them from another, I feel the sand beside me echo that sensation of life.

The river's surface reflects a haunting stillness, mirroring the stillness of my heart, heavy with regrets. Each ripple in the water feels like a reminder of the countless possibilities of life and death that slipped through my fingers, like the grains of sand escaping my grasp as I lift them up to my eyes, two orbs that, again, were never mine.

I lost my first eye decades ago. I don't even remember how many I've been through at this point. Even the shades of pigment on my arms don't add up, as some sections are months old, some years, and some decades. Yet, none are initially mine. All parts of me have been lost at some point, other than my brain. At least some part of me is still me. And while my body may be whole again, I can't escape the haunting knowledge that I am a patchwork of stolen beings.

My mind then drifts to the people I've lost, the opportunities I let pass, and the dreams I once held close to my heart. It's as if the river of darkness mocks me. It's older than any living thing, perhaps older than even the Gods, both above and below the surface. The flowing waters have witnessed more deaths than lives I'll ever even notice.

A sudden ripple in front of me draws my attention as my eyes fall, and I notice that I've cut open my palms on the glassy sand without noticing it. Sighing, I ignore the injury as my blood dies the black sand red.

These hands aren't my own, stolen from some demon that looked roughly human. However, the skin is far darker than most tones and almost as tough as the steel in a cannon. Yet, the shores of this river cut even that effortlessly.

My eyes then turn upwards, peering lightly at the gloaming that lies above, absent of any moon or constellation; meanwhile, far in the distance, my ears, borne of a demon known for their echolocation, sense a rumbling battle between clashing demons. No worry or concern arises, however. They know not to try me while I rest. Not that they are close, anyway.

While the noises fill the air, painting a vivid painting of violence in my mind between two Angelic demons, I ignore them and reach forward toward the waters of beginning.

Years have passed, and yet, I have not completed my goal.

The tip of my finger that is not mine teases the top of the water, and it rises up to meet me. The liquid is curious, almost as if it is alive itself. It curls, wraps, and twists itself over my finger, coiling like a deadly snake. And it is far more hazardous than any snake ever born.

The flesh of my finger melts away into nothingness as the waters touch it, shifting into figments smaller than ash before joining the river. The tendons and bone quickly follow the flesh before I pull my hand back, the liquid licking away other parts of my hand. The view is odd, and the concepts behind it are ever so slightly out of my grasp.

If I could learn to control these waters, I could govern life and death with far more precision. My manipulation would go beyond merely my body and its surroundings. But it seems, as always, no profound understanding or enlightenment will come from simply being hurt.

Yet, I do this every few days, just to make sure I'm still alive. Sometimes... I wonder if I am.

Standing, the lungs that were never mine, inhaling and exhaling the grimy atmosphere, I walk over the glassy sand toward my cabin. The demons know not to ruin my home, for the last time they did, I killed until they made me this one to stop me.

The landscape is unadorned, other than the many graves that cover the dark earth around. Nothing exists within a mile besides my cabin and the many tombstones erected centuries before I was born. The glassy sand eats through my boots into my fleshy feet that haven't been mine since I was nineteen, and I ignore it.

Moments pass before the sand turns to dark dirt, and I reach the shabby door of my tiny cabin. Grunting, I force open the door as it squeaks angrily at me. Then, I move through as my blood joins the preexisting dried crimson beneath me.

I step further through my home until I reach my desk, the vast pieces of paper built up for my experiments—lines of potential Ether scrawl over my desk, off the sheets, and onto the wood. Coughing lightly, the many injuries having at least some effect on me, I sit at the desk after pulling out my stool.

Spending a moment to prepare for my studies, I retrieve a few replacement fingers from the shelf hidden in the desk and attach them to my hand with swift tendrils of Ether that connect the nerves and Ether pathways. Then, I shift my gaze upon the cluster of interconnected symbols sketched across numerous sheets of paper. Each intricate pattern seems to blur into a sea of almost incomprehensible madness, even to my own eyes, and I'm the one who painstakingly drew them all. Each line, arc, and twist tells the story of infinitesimally tiny specks of Ether, the control needed to perform even one beyond most Angels.

With furrowed brows, I trace the lines and arcs, searching for their hidden connections and their elusive meaning. Every stroke is laden with purpose, yet mistakes cover the near-flawlessness all over. Success is distant but not impossible. Every day I spend working on this framework furthers the control over Ether I possess and accelerates my Power's growth.

What I'm manifesting is no simple skill, application, or use of Ether. It is better to call it a seal or perhaps a gateway. Living beside this river has taught me much of life and death, imbibing tiny snippets of indelible secrets over the years.

But before I can finish my review and begin another round of creation and manifestation, a dull knock on my door draws my attention. Listening closely, my ears hear nothing on the other side. Not even the breathing of whatever should be there. Only one being exists without existing—a mismatch of lies and truths, deals and paradoxes.

It appears it is time.

The door screeches open as an old man steps through, one with more wrinkles than the river has waves. He hobbles in, his cane made of dark gold and bright silver as two snakes, darker than death itself, coil around the walking stick. The old man stumbles further through my cabin; the only sounds are his wheezes and the cane's movement through the air. Paradoxically, his feet make no sound as he steps, yet his mouth does with his breath.

Yet, even to my extreme senses, I discern no Ether from him at all, not even in the depths of his flesh or bones. It's almost as if he is an average old man, but I know the truth. I stay silent in respect as he makes his pained way to the other side of my desk while careful not to touch my work. And with a low grunt, he retrieves the other chair and falls into it with a sigh, more like a final one than a relieved one. The moment he touches the chair, it falls silent and begins to shift in color to a dark red with coiling gold.

"Your turn."

The old man rasps out the words I knew he would deliver. It was our deal, after all. But, I try anyway to buy a bit more time, tapping my fingers upon the edges of the paper, concentrating on the most complicated creases of Ether. I'm a fool to bargain and plead for more time, but I must. There is too much at stake.

"I'm almost done. Soon, I'll be done."

His face scrunches up in annoyance as he retorts me, more dying gasp than proper speech due to his age.

"You said that last time. Sirzas aren't so easily created, and what you aim for is beyond even that. Nevertheless, they must be forged in the fires of war."

I tsk my tongue at him. Damn, does he frustrate me sometimes. Not all things are about violence.

"You know that's not true. If it were, Leviathan wouldn't exist. Nor would Mammon or Abbadon. The Pygmies would be long gone if their inventions and copies meant nothing. Let me work a few more days; Reaper's Seal is almost done."

I watch as the old man inhales a hefty gasp, bulging his brittle bones and stretched flesh. Then, he exhales it shakily as he replies. Every time I see him, I wonder if he will simply drop dead of old age, but I know he won't. He can't. His duties are far too weighty for time to matter. He holds the Gates, after all.

"Very well. One more week. And if you cannot revive the previous Dominions of mankind by pulling them from Maddened Death by the end of it, I will drag you to the Gates myself. You are running out of time to matter. In fact, you might have already missed your chance."

Then, without waiting for a reply, the old man smacks his deathly cane upon the floor of my cabin, shaking the whole construct before disappearing. As my cabin shakes, the entirety of the walls shift in color as they bend and curve before abruptly returning to normal. He must know how difficult of a task I'm undertaking is.

To pull souls back from that God? That massive maw? It takes a feat of Ether beyond the scope of humanity to do so. For Death has fallen far, so far, all the remaining Undead must be lied to constantly.

Yet... if there is someone to do it, it will be me. Grabbing my pencil, I return to the focus of my study, developing the most complicated skill ever to exist, Reaper's Seal.

To pull a soul from the beyond, reconstruct a body, and deliver their Sigils. The act... it is Godlike. It is not true resurrection, however, as no matter how I construct this skill, it will only last as long as I input Ether and Vigor.

Good thing I have plenty of both as my Dominion, Vitality, draws Vigor from all the air and the things around me, supplementing my life. The bad thing is, I don't think a week is enough, and he might be right. I might have already run out of time.

I'm close, sure. But that is relative to fifteen years spent on the skill. And I'm not sure I can survive another cycle through the Gates. My unique method of birth only gives me so much. Yet, that was the deal. And no one can break a deal with that old man. To do so is to forfeit everything, not that I have much to forfeit.

There isn't much of me remaining.