AN: I don't own Dis Acedia, that belongs to M.J. Durand.
I had always liked train rides.
On one hand, they were long, uneventful, and more importantly, dull. On the other hand, they were the perfect time to read in peace.
I checked the time. Twelve O'clock. The train was scheduled to stop in four hours, although I doubted I would notice when we entered the city with the mist outside. After a year living here, I had grown accustomed to England's more than not terrible weather, but today took the cake. A thick white fog covered the world beyond the window.
Before returning to my book, I briefly glanced at the rest of the wagon. It was deserted, save for one person taking the seat right in front of me, hidden behind a large newspaper. I barely spared him a look before returning to my book. The lack of people didn't bother me; if anything it allowed me to read undisturbed.
"Tell me, do you believe in magic?"
I glanced at the man in front of me, nearly entirely hidden behind his Scottish newspaper. "Excuse me?"
"Do you believe in magic?" he repeated with a clear, mirthful voice. I didn't know why, but something in his tone bothered me. He sounded so insincere.
"You mean stage tricks?" I asked.
"No, magic. Like in the book you're reading."
I considered my reply. "I haven't seen anyone flying on broomsticks yet."
"Ah, yes, skepticism." The last word dripped with condescension. "Oh, how common it is nowadays… I long for the time when your kind burned women alive for witchcraft. Do you know why?"
I didn't know who the thrakatul was, his disguise was terrible, but the more he talked, the more irritating I found him. Indeed, he was the most irritating one I had ever met. But of course, I restrained myself from interrupting; it wouldn't do to give myself away and render a year's worth of effort to go to waste. "Because magic used to be feared. It used to be the Devil's bread and butter, the stuff of nightmares. Now magic is either a superstition or a trick to amuse children."
At this point, I realized the thrakatul wasn't talking to me, but at me, and I focused back on my book. It was rude yes, but if this guy loved hearing himself talk so much I would happily oblige him. I just wouldn't listen.
However, when I reached what should have been the first chapter, I found the page blank.
Inwardly rolling my eyes at the thrakatul's propensity for melodrama, I kept up the act and checked the next page, and the next after it. Blanks, both of them. As expected, the thing's spell had wiped all the words off the book. What a waste of ten pounds.
"What's wrong?" the thing asked with a playful tone, "Surely this book must be an entertaining read."
I summoned up my best acting skills and turned to face the guy, eyes widening with (feigned) astonishment. "How did you do this?" I asked. "I didn't let my belongings out of my sight since I boarded this train."
Smugness radiated off him. "I can do magic," he simply replied, as if it wasn't the most obvious thing in the world.
I let out a laugh. "Yeah, right, really funny. You got me. Now give me back my book."
"Give back what? You have a book in hands have you not?"
God, that tone of his was starting to get on my nerves. "Look, alright, I admit it you're a good stage magician. Now can you please give me my book back?"
"Stage magician?" I noticed his hands' grasp on the newspaper tighten. "I see. Well, I can do something more spectacular if you wish, mister…"
I felt a wave of magic wash over me, stealing the name of the body I wore. Once again, irritating, but hardly warranting bodily harm. I like to think of myself as a relatively peaceful person.
"What's wrong? You cannot say it?" the thrakatul taunted, "I am afraid you might have been a victim of name theft. Tragic thing, happens to all sorts of people, I would fill a complaint as soon as possible if I were you."
I screwed up my face into a look of confused frustration. At this rate, I'll receive an Oscar for my acting skills.
"There it is! I was waiting for that instant…" I glanced at him as he shed his disguise, noticed his fingers weren't fingers, but scribbled paper shaped like hands. "That face never gets old," the thrakatul in front of me chuckled. "Do you know what it means to be nameless?
"It means," he said, lowering his journal and revealing his face, "That I own you."
My world flashed red.
Once I reestablished the connection with my vessel, I found myself held above a gaping stone pit, kept upside down by strong, silver chains restraining my hands and feet. My eyes flickered around me, but all I could see outside the pit was a thick white mist.
The abyss beneath me was large enough to swallow an elephant, the bottom so far away I couldn't distinguish anything but darkness. God, this was so cliched.
As if to confirm that thought, a figure approached, a humanoid shape that soon became visible as it walked to the pit's edge; I heard sounds of invisible trumpets resonating in the background, announcing its coming. "I told you, didn't I? Magic is fear," the thrakatul declared.
The creature in front of me certainly seemed humanoid, but a closer look as it emerged from the mist disabused the idea. The thrakatul lacked skin: its exposed hands and face were composed of pages, old scrolls and torn sheets, a patchwork of paper and parchment loosely shaped in the form of a human.
Scribbled words covered its body, their crimson colour reminding me of blood, and shifted, changed at random. On the upper left of its face, the words' dense, circular pattern reminded me of an open, bloody eye; otherwise, the face lacked any features such as a nose or a mouth.
The creature was clad in ample golden robes of silk, covered with bright purple peacocks motifs; the robes' colors, while imperial, lacked harmony. A thin crown of solid gold, nothing more than a circle with ten thorny horns, regally throned upon its paper head. That dress was outrageous, and it almost diverted my attention from its wearer.
"Oh? I know what I said about fear, but why so much? Did my words turn your world upside-down?" it let out a cheerful laugh, amused by its own joke. I pitied it.
It hovered above the pit, walking on the air as if stepping on an invisible floor. "You face Lazarus, god of all magic and supreme ruler of everything; the slave driver of souls, the despoiler of flesh; the one feared by Heaven and Hell, the gate and the key; the great and powerful, the Lord of Chaos!"
"..."
"I know my brilliance must have silenced you, and certainly you must be asking yourself, 'Why? Why is an insect like me worthy of his presence?' Not out of any outstanding quality, certainly, for you most certainly lack one."
The thrakatul chuckled. "Truth to be told, I chose you at random! I was going to pick the man in the next wagon, but he seemed like a bore. A spur of the moment thing really."
I strained a little to test the strength of the chains.
"Don't bother, those chains have bound creatures that can lay waste to entire worlds," Lazarus boasted. It approached me, its mask within an inch of my face, close enough for me to watch the curves and indents morph into the shape of screaming human faces.
"You know the why, but as for the what…" It raised its right hand, grabbed my mouth, and forced me to look straight at its face. "Tell me, have you ever considered becoming immortal?"
He faked waiting for an answer, before continuing with only a short pause. "Immortality is a really nice thing. I mean, dying is also nice but after the first time it loses some of its appeal. When you are immortal, you have enough time to do everything. And I did." His paper face twisted into something that resembled a smile, "I have laid waste to hell and heaven, turned the sky asunder, unlocked the secrets of the cosmos, and shaped worlds; I have seen empires rise and fall, sometimes by my hand, and watched stars be born and die."
It shook its head, as if disappointed. "But for all its perks, immortality has a serious drawback. It's boring. I've seen it all, so to speak, and now the entire universe feels dull." He marked a short pause. "Except pain. Watching you humans squirm never lost its appeal. You understand what I mean, yes?"
It childishly forced my head to nod. "Why, thank you for your support! But, I digress… where was I? Ah, right, boredom. I am bored, bored, bored." Its head wildly twitched, reminding me of a stringless doll. "Bored to death, except I have died so many times death itself bores me now!"
The words on its papery skin lit up, pulsating with fiery light.
"So… to pass time, I have invented a new game all of my own making. It's really interactive, and I never had any shortage of candidates! Not that they have any choice in the matter, but still!"
It raised its left hand and gave me a gentle tap on the left cheek. "And you my good friend, are the newest of the lot!" The trumpets sounded once more in the mist; it would have been funny if I wasn't at the mercy of a madman. "Congratulations!"
Suddenly, his left index started piercing my left cheek, drawing blood.
That was the last straw.
I allowed my true form to bleed out of my vessel.
Space and time shattered. Reality groaned and splintered under the weight of my existence.
Realising what I was, the thrakatul tried to flee, but I restrained it and shaping parts of myself into blades and edges, tore into it. It's current form was just an avatar, a fragment of the whole. So I pushed myself into it, riding the connection to its true self. There, I ripped into it, pierced its innards, plucked out organs, violated it.
Of course, I wasn't usually this violent, but this thrakatul was especially annoying. And of course, the injuries I inflicted are hardly fatal. It's like chopping off a man's arm or leg; they will be handicapped for a bit, but with the right treatment, the limb will grow back in no time.
Lazarus started screaming, so I tore out the parts that allowed it to vocalise. There, much better.
Looking down the world beneath the pit, I glanced at the innumerable multitude of beings gathered by the thrakatul. Apparently, it threw whatever caught it's interest into here, and allowed them to try and escape. A prison with an exit that was nigh impossible to reach for most.
Well, I was kind of getting bored with England. It won't hurt to spend some time here. Pushing myself back into my vessel, I fixed it up, then made it jump down the pit.
The fall went on for a while, and boredom almost re-emerged until I noticed light beneath me. One second I was descending through the pit, and the next I pierced the clouds. The ground beneath me started taking shape. I began to notice colors, blue, brown, black, assembled into vague shapes. The earth called me and I was approaching fast.
I closed my eyes and put my arms in front me, bracing myself for an impact that would never come. Instead, I suddenly slowed down. My descent grew imperceptible until I landed almost comfortably… or as comfortably as landing headfirst in burning sand could feel.
The sound of footsteps then a male voice call to me repeatedly. I raised my head of the sand, slowly opening my eyes, my vision was blurred by the sunlight. I could only notice a shadow standing above me, and metal gauntlets gently but firmly seize me by the shoulders, helping me get back to my feet. I stood up, washed the sand off my face, and glanced at my savior.
There was no doubt that he was some sort of knight, or at the very least fancied himself one. He wore chain mail with a red flame painted on it and a metal helmet covering his face save for his brown eyes. His limbs were covered in protection, but not a single piece matched in design.
It made him look asymmetrical. Most of his equipment was partially rusted, as if he'd robbed a museum to get his attire. He tried to communicate, to no avail. The man sounded French, but I didn't understand half a word he said.
"Do you speak English?" I asked, the man's eyes narrowing in incomprehension. I switched to French. "Je parle mal français. Je parle anglais."
The knight seemed even more confused than before, and proceeded to join his hands in a prayer sign. He recited a few words I couldn't understand, then made a cross movement with his hand.
"Do you understand me?" he asked in perfect English.
"Yeah, I do."
Wonderful," he replied, "I was not certain I could cast the translation spell right. The Lord smiled on me."
My eyes darted around me. I could see a beach of black sand facing a crystalline blue sea. Beyond them stood large constructions. A forest of stone and metal towers, tall or small; tiny houses of wood and archways of marble. I was facing the fringes of a coastal city. The shapes of some metal towers bent in ways that weren't physically possible in normal space. It was nice and reminded me of home.
When I looked at the sea, I noticed colossal, white walls standing proudly. They enclosed the entire ocean. In fact, the structures were so tall I couldn't see their height; they pierced the clouds themselves and in spite of vessel's sharp vision I couldn't see where they ended.
"My name is Sol," the knight declared. "Or at least such is how I call myself. Lazarus took my true name long ago… He took yous as well, did he not? He always does before putting his mark on us. In this way, he owns our soul."
"I… I don't understand," I said, injecting confusion and fear into my voice. "What are you talking about?"
"Oh, my apologies," he excused himself, "Not many Claimed have arrived lately, so I am out of practice. You must feel confused, and I assure you all of us were when we first arrived. I will try to answer your questions the best I can."
"Where are we?"
The knight stayed silent for a moment, struggling to find his words. I recognised that kind of hesitation: when you have terrible news to announce, and you have no idea how to sugarcoat it.
"I would have said Hell," Sol replied grimly, "But you are not so fortunate."