Chapter Eleven: Angelus Errare
The world felt like a disembodied thought, a twisted skein of thoughts and emotions much like physical pain. There was a maelstrom of restless colors flitting about. Some were swathed across the world in three dimensions while others were like cuts and tears in the fabric of reality, slowly bleeding extra shades into the air.
Serge stood slowly, his body having a terrible time adjusting. It was as he saw his legs that he started; panic was beginning to build within him, his heart in his throat while his chest contracted horribly. With forlorn, he drew his arms up and looked at his palms as he turned his hands around, if he could call what he had now hands.
His entire body seemed to be nothing but a miasma of blackened, liquid smoke turning about in a vague humanoid shape. Even the construct of his body was more a blend of uncertain motions as the threads of muted colors attempted to form one body, but in its indecision, it would revert to a different ethereal one. And then the terror started to wash over him in a torrent of real, living pain that, in and of itself, felt corporeal, as if separated and connected at the same time.
He opened his mouth to speak, but a chain of spits and hisses permeated the air, jumbled together with real words. The more he tried to speak, to call out, the more he began to realize that the sound was separated from his body, almost as if thoughts were given sound.
A strange beast came lumbering towards him, moving like a crooked streak of green. Textures began to take shape and beady, little orbs shone brightly where the eyes were meant to be. And this scared Serge to no end. Backing up, he staggered into something, tripped, caught himself, and ended up sinking into what constituted as the ground. With a cry, the shadowy form that was Serge, tried to pull free, and then the terrain did something odd with him. It inhaled—which drew him in—and then gave a great belch as it disgorged him bodily into the air. He drifted somewhat in the air, his body mutating and writhing, before he landed heavily onto the ground-like substance.
Easy there, came a raspy, disembodied voice. It was focused and seemed to funnel toward him, like sound is supposed to work.
A strangled string of noise came from everywhere at once as Serge tried to speak.
The green-like thing had the rough shape of an elderly person, hunched over and wielding a cane of a green so distorted that it looked brown. Easy does it. Calm yourself. Concentrate on one thing at a time.
Each action had a violent reaction, and it took him all of his self-control not to try and do something quickly out of panic. He remained perfectly still, staring at the ever-shifting colors that created the terrain. He focused on that, the haywire colors that, as he looked closer and closer, there were more minute ones swirling and jerking beneath the greater jets of color. It seemed to be a violent, never-ending process.
Do not look too closely at any one thing, unless you want to be drawn into it, and that, sadly, will be the end of your conscious self.
Serge listened to what was being said and tried to close his eyes. The result was like shutting the door to the light. There was no physical feeling to the action, and all subtlety seemed to have been stripped away from him. He suddenly felt very, very hollow.
Good. Now, concentrate on standing up. Everything that was once taken for granted must be controlled here.
Bracingly, Serge steeled himself before pushing with his arms. He thought of the sensations of the muscles in his arms tensing as he worked to lift himself—and suddenly he thought of Kid beneath him as they made love—and his whole body felt like it was unraveling.
No! Focus!
Serge willed himself again to be attentive to only a single thread of thought, that which amounted to the physical sensations that a person felt as they performed mundane tasks. Again, he stirred, willing his arms to work like they would were they truly there. Phantom limbs responded, and as he devoted energy to his legs, he slowly began to rise. Finally he stood, swaying, as he left his eyes closed, straining to maintain contact with his body.
Good, said the voice as it drifted towards him.
He wasn't sure if there was an accent with it or not, but that seemed to take away from his concentration, so he abruptly halted any further thought on the idea and reinforced his will to just maintaining his body.
Try walking. Careful now. Easy does it.
And it was, eventually, becoming easier. It wasn't that calmness had descended upon him, but more like Serge was no longer panicking at every shift, every turn. A trembling took him every time his form shifted from one shadowy thing to the next.
To speak, the voice began, is a controlled effort as well. Focusing it into a tunnel takes time and energy, something I do not know if you will be able to accomplish so readily as standing and walking. Though, let us try.
And so it began. It was a jumble of trials and errors to somehow manage the task of speaking. At first, he could only spit and hiss, or emit croaking sounds that were supposed to be words. He was guided by the soft voice on how to regulate his thoughts into words, because he was not literally speaking, since he had no body to speak with. It was a struggle to speak from his mind. Something he was previously unaware of being a thing that could be done. Though, after a while, a string of small, chopped words formed in the colorized air, and the sounds weren't of his voice at all. They were deeper, more guttural, and there was a constant lisp that he couldn't control. He was told that this was because of some shift in his form; his mind was unfocused so the voice patterns were mimicking, as best they could, with the indecisive nature of his version of his own self.
He was coaxed along with shifty words that drifted by him like a breeze; each time he was told something, he sensed more than felt the tendrils of miasma slithering in response.
The world was altering around them as he worked tirelessly at his appointed tasks. He felt numb to the struggles, as if he were on the cusp of being drained although he maintained that stillness of inertia without ever crossing that boundary. When he questioned the gentle voice about this, Serge was told that he was learning to handle his spiritual form with more and more ease.
As the bluish wisps that were supposed to signal a pseudo-night in this ethereal place darkened to a violet, he slowly felt like he was coming back to himself. The world was shifting about them. Things that were only half-formed began to change into other abstract objects that could not be defined by the eyes, and he was certain that he would never be able to state for sure what they were supposed to be.
And then suddenly, they were not alone. It was a ripple and a crack that distorted more than just the sound as waves of color spat back in violent reds and yellows before twisting in on themselves and resettling to their original shapes and colors. In the place that once held nothing now showed a whisper of a woman whose shadow bared a striking resemblance to nothing human as it curved over things blackly, despite the fact that there was no prominent source of light. It was a petite woman that glittered and shone and was whole.
It was Harle, and everything began to come crashing back into Serge's distorted subconscious.
Sprigg, said Harle in a quiet voice that drifted around her body as if being spun on the end of a string. I am glad it was you who found him and not Machacite. Turning her head back towards Serge, she half-smiled, and a breathy sound slipped out of her and caressed him like rose petals. Lynx, Lynx, Lynx; I am so pleased to have found you.
The voice of the greenish mesh of colors responded to Harle with a rather bland tone. What brings you here? I understand this is a temporary home to your brethren, but that does not mean you can distort this place by coming and going as you see fit.
Forgive me, Sprigg, but I cannot express how greatly he is needed. I can tell you simply that Lynx must need return home. Harle turned her head and looked over to the corporeal shape that was Serge. We need to get him to the Tower of Remembrance, now, before he loses himself completely.
A wave of distortion raced across Sprigg's incomplete form, showing alarm. He is a mortal? When was the last time one passed through this world? The statement seemed to be more rhetorical than anything else. I figured him for a wandering spirit newly sent here.
Harle's eyes sparked as she eyed the greenish strokes that constituted as Sprigg's body. In a world controlled by chance and chaos, it seems appropriate, does it not? Her tone was facetious as if she were chiding the other. Let us merely state that the world is about balance, and I need to tip the scales.
There was an indignant sound that came from Sprigg as the yellow orbs narrowed. Do not patronize me, Lunar Child, just because it was your kind that taught you a different meaning to the way things work. Whatever could be considered important or irreplaceable are of no consequence and are ruined with—
Harle interrupted Sprigg with a wave of her hand, which sent a ripple through the colors, causing them to brighten as they coalesced into an angry ribbon. We do not have time for a philosophy lesson—philanthropic, theological, or cosmic satire you may choose to badger us with today. I must get Sir Lynx to the Tower as soon as possible.
I…am…Serge, he said slowly, causing his body to ripple with the effort.
With a heavy sigh that bubbled out from Harle as she gestured to him, she said to Sprigg, The longer we tarry, the closer we come to losing him, and I—can—not—lose—him. She stressed the statement in such a way that black rivulets began to contaminate the violet of the night air, darkening their immediate surroundings noticeably. Open the way, if you will.
Sprigg said nothing, but suddenly the landscape began to blend together and twist, flattening and expanding. There were planes of shapes and colors turning and moving away; the ground beneath their feet began to fall away from them, yet there was no sensation of flying, falling, or floating. And it was then that he realized a hard truth: everything here was like a metaphor, not really there, only making suggestions at reality without ever truly becoming it.
The distance stretched away into nothingness, and even the discs of images drifted away into the abyss. And then there was a grassy place developing itself out of the vagueness, what appearing to be stalks of grass were merely strokes the color of wheat. All around them hills began to form, and something akin to a waterfall formed itself in a blackish-blue river of snakelike cords dancing in the direction that was perceived to be downward.
Beyond that was something that looked like a tower, swarthy and irresolute in the distance, its shape barely discernable against the shades of night.
Harle began moving towards it, gesturing Serge to do the same. It was a rush of distortion that took them the rest of the way, even though they only took a few steps in the direction of the tower. When the world slowed down and took shape again, they were standing before the Tower of Remembrance.
It was a tall structure that didn't seem to hold a true shape, its edges softened and blurred beyond comprehension, melting into the night. There were things that looked like windows were nothing more than grayish slashes across the face of the pseudo building. The door opened as Harle approached it, and then another opened, showing a set of double-doors that led into a white and red interior made up of smudged blotches as if created by a sponge.
Following behind her, he made his way inside, looking around with a sort of calm. Banisters were noticeable against the backdrop, and the further in he went, he realized he was on a landing well above the first floor, as he saw a drop etched into the interior of the tower.
Come, Sir Lynx, we are late. While time has a different meaning here, we must not dawdle. Harle had turned to look at him, her face something different than he had remembered it. She was then twirling around to look about the place. If we stay here too long, we will be lost in the waves of Time, and I cannot lose you. Not just yet.
I am not Lynx, he repeated again, his body bulging and slithering about as his form fought against itself.
Harle looked back to him and frowned. With a gesture to him, one that disrupted the nature of the colors, she stated, Look at you, Sir Lynx. Do you remember what had happened to you?
He tried hard to remember. There were fragmented emotions and glimmers of thoughts. Struggle though he did, he could not piece anything together into coherent thought.
This place must be really affecting you. Come, she said, taking a step towards him and touching him softly on the forehead that wasn't really there.
And then there was a burst of images passing behind his eyes, and he saw everything again. One moment he was looking at Lynx on the other side of the pedestal, reflected in the crystalline orb of the Dragon Tear, and then he was staring at it, watching the images of Kid and himself. He remembered Kid being stabbed by his own hand. But it wasn't his hand because he was looking through eyes that were not his own. He felt as disembodied now.
Suddenly the images stopped as he saw the bright blue eyes staring at him and that cruel, cruel smile vanishing into wisps, and Harle lowered her arm, breaking contact from him. The look she gave him was one of sympathy and true feeling. It seemed as if the images he saw were wrenching her apart.
I am so sorry. Harle paused and turned away and looked to have taken a deep breath, although there was no air to physically breathe in this place.
She went to the banister and took a step up, floating the distance required to take it in a single stride. From the top of the banister she stepped off into emptiness. Despite himself, he took a step forward and stretched out a swarthy hand to grasp her, and that was when he saw it. It was a hand one moment, but when the rippling that constantly warred over his body occurred, he saw it become a clawed, paw-like hand. He just stared at it.
I am not…me. That wasn't exactly what he wanted to say. He almost let slip that he wasn't Serge, but he knew he was. He couldn't force out the word Lynx either. So the only word that broke free from him was the truest thing he could have said, because it felt right.
I see you are starting to understand this. Harle was walking up a pillar that connected the floors of the Tower. As much as it may pain you, you must realize you are not Serge—not any longer.
He continued to stare at his palms as every step Harle took disturbed the balance of the world around them. The Dragon Tear did this, it has placed him into your body, and you into this one. When he sent you here, he figured that you were as good as dead.
The wraithlike being that had once been Serge looked up at Harle, but he didn't see her. She had transported herself to a beam across the open space, since the landing wrapped around the floor.
The one thing he was not planning on was me. She stopped pacing and looked up, directly at him. It was a disconcerting image, her standing perpendicular to him, where she had to crane her head up to see him. If she were looking straight ahead, she would be staring at the ground so far below.
Approaching the banister, he reached a tentative hand out, willing his palm to be real against a physical banister, and it happened. His hand rested onto the awkward white brushstroke. Why?
Why help you? Easily! She sounded so gentle and playful, like a hoyden. You are now Sir Lynx, and I am sworn to guide him.
He shook his head, his body becoming unfocused, which he was forced to stress his will to maintain his form. But…I am Serge! I am!
Are you? she countered.
I…I am.
Have you wondered why you are unable to take a true shape in this place? This was asked in a soft voice, full of sympathy.
He shook his head again, straining like one would when gritting their teeth. Because…because I am dead.
Oh ho! Dead, are you? She resumed her pacing, her steps punctuated by pools of red, yellow, and green that faded into nothingness as the pillar retook its normal presence. Not yet, Sir Lynx. Not just yet.
Then, why am I here? The demand boomed out, causing pulses of color across the painted structure.
You have been sent to a realm of spirits, that is true, but you are not dead. You were not killed. You did not die. You cannot take shape because you have lost your way.
A thought bubbled to the surface as he said aloud, Angelus Errare.
That caused Harle to stop and jerk her head to peer at him. The look was initially one of shock, and then it bled into one of pensiveness. Where did you hear that? As if thinking better of it, she continued on. You have to come to terms of who you are. Why do you not try it? Tell yourself, believe it, that you are Sir Lynx.
Why should I? The thoughts took shape as words, even though he meant to keep them to himself.
This irritated Harle as she barked out at him, the feeling of her words no longer flowery. It felt something like the extremes that Kid could go to. Just look at yourself! You are incomplete here because you cannot accept it! Who will believe that you are Serge? Who are you? No one in the world, except for you, is going to believe that you are Serge! You are not him, not any longer!
Damn you, stop being so blind! You are Lynx. This is reality, and if you decide to go against reality, you will be crushed! It will get you killed, mark my words. Sneering at him, Harle clenched her fists, which inadvertently caused the shapes and colors to mutate. If you cannot even attempt to see the folly of your ways, then I have half a mind to leave you here, because you will be of absolutely no use outside of here!
I am Serge! I have to be! The desperation in his tone filtered across his body in a spasm that caused him to double over and fall to his knees. He began to sink through slowly as he lost control of his self.
Harle flung her arms outward, sending a wave of energy flowing violently over the opposite side of the floor. Serge, are you? Now she focused on him again, her eyes narrowing angrily. I will tell you this: your memories are of Serge, but nothing else. You accepted the fact that there was another world where you died! Who is to say that you are even the real Serge now? Were you ever? Who was Serge but a figure, a shape? A soul—a spirit?
I am real! He cried this out, forcing himself up to a single knee, no longer lodged inside the carpet-like floor. His body felt empty, his head heavy.
I do not contest that you are real!
He countered her, I am real, damn you! I do not care what you say! You cannot make me believe otherwise!
Yes! You are real—but who are you?
And he cried out: I am me!
Look at yourself, she shouted back at him, matching his fury with her own. Both of them causing the entire area to pulsate wildly into a myriad of colors and textures, everything warping alarmingly around them, and yet they remained resolute on each other. Look at yourself and tell me who you are!
And he did, in spite, just to prove that he could, if nothing else, and he was shocked to see it. He was whole, like her. His body was colored in the grayscale, shades of black and gray.
Who are you? Her whispered words washed across him mellifluously.
I am Lynx.
Lynx stood up, looking over himself without speaking. His almond-shaped eyes blinked uncertainly, but he felt it. He was taller than he remembered having been. He was also bulkier, owning to much more muscle mass and hair. He could feel it covering his entire body. Turning his hands over and over again, he watched them—felt them, though distantly. He clenched them into fists. The miasma that had once constituted as his being was gone now, the last tendrils fading away.
Harle was next to him again, he looked at her silently. She was smiling, albeit sadly. She shook her head minutely before saying in a gentle voice that rolled across his entire frame. Welcome back, Sir Lynx.
Again he said nothing, he just looked at her and then back to his body. It felt awkward, but it felt natural. The oddity of the situation did not unnerve him as much as it should have. It was as if the acceptance here maintained a subtle kind of calm in this place.
She inquired, Are you ready to go back?
Back? Back to what? And then he asked, What is there to go back to?
You must decide. Are you done? Is this the end of your life?
No, he answered honestly. I am not dead yet.
She smiled at him, and a door opened into a purity of light down the hall. They walked to the opened door, and both looked through it; there was no colors bleeding through, it was a solid wall of some kind of color that he could not depict. He took that step forward and crossed the threshold with a resolute stride. It was strange, though, that now when he moved, it had a predatory motion to it. His shadow was the last to vanish, but his shadow was that of a man who did not mirror the form Lynx now possessed.
