A man, slight yet spirited.

-

What was he doing? Where was he going? Had he any purpose now? Why was everything so fragmented, now, and always? Ever since that day. . . what day? Which? When? What had happened on this day?

Could he remember?

Not really. Even his name was sliding out of reality. Something naval related. . . ship, ship. . . enclosed. . . brig? No, not quite.

Where was he now? Everything was a blur. Past, present, future, all rolled into a miasma of confusion. Confliction. Ship, ship. . . was he a sailor? An officer? The admiral of the world? A fool? The last, more than likely.

Ship, ship. Ship, ship.

Corvette?

No. Simple minded, stupid. . . why, why. . . what was going on? Was he crying? Why was he crying? Were these tears of blood or sand? Did it matter? Ship, ship. . .

It was a tenuous handhold at best. The ground shifted, cataclysmically, calling for the ruin of times. He fell. Ship, ship. . . ah, it may not be blood flowing from my eyes, he thought, but that sure as hell is from my nose.

("You r'member your parents?")

Ship. . . ship? Was it Ship? No, foolish, useless. Let me curl up into a ball, here, and think on it a bit; I won't get in anyone's way. Just step over the trash like good pedestrians of the night. But why trash? What crime had been committed? Memories flowed freely, forever eluding grasp. Devoid of texture. Fleeting, as thoughts are apt to be.

"Why so chaotic?" It was a word he'd read in a book. Which, now lost. It made him sound rather adult to his own ears. Ship, ship. . . hum.

The rain was pattering down. Pathetic fallacy. He knew nothing of the phrase, yet it still seemed rather apt. This was, after all, quite pathetic. Drip, drip. . . do I see a ship sauntering its way down the alleys, propelled by this rain? Or is that just garbage? A valid question, in this state of mind.

("Nah, not really.")

Was that true? What was it in the first place? Why so many whys? Are these drops of heavenly condensation on his face, or depression distilled? Both? Neither?

And then he was called away, pulled, bodily, into darkness. Into his dream, that which he'd forsaken months ago. A dream, a nightmare, one and the same.

-

He could remember the hawk eyes now, at least. They were boring holes into his skull. Filled with every kind of malice and hunger to be found in the world, or any other.

Ship. . . Galley.

Unconsciousness brought clarity, and therefore answers. But only some: many memories continued to flit about, tangible in this realm, willing to be touched but only for a second or two. Tip of the tongue phenomenon. Annoyingly real.

But his attention was torn away from these sailing thoughts. Other things demanded attention. The eyes, the eyes. A stern, commanding voice filled every corner of the cosmos, forcing its will upon Galley. He looked up into those eyes, for the first time in his life completely and unconditionally filled with fear.

"I HAVE ALLOWED YOU A FORM OF CLEMENCY UP TO THIS POINT, WHELP, BUT YOU STRETCH MY PATIENCE TO ITS LIMIT. THIS PLAN SHOULD HAVE BEEN ACTED UPON MONTHS AGO."

Terror, terror. Nebulous patterns surrounding creation began to swim with inky redness.

"I TOLD YOU BEFORE: YOU ARE NOW MINE. YOU GAVE YOURSELF FREELY TO MY CAUSE. TO REJECT ME IS TO REJECT YOUR EXISTENCE. ALLOW ME TO BE FRANK; I WILL NOT TOLERATE ANY MORE OF YOUR INSUBORDINATE BULLSHIT."

No, not the plan, anything. . . not it. He begged, cajoled, sought out bargains. All to no avail. The voice overpowered any plea.

"YOU LINGER TOO LONG UPON THIS BOY. HE IS A MERE STEPPING STONE. YOUR IDEA THAT ALL MUST INVARIABLY BECOME EQUAL IS FLAWED, FOR TO REACH THE SKY YOU MUST TREAD UPON THE BONES OF OTHERS. ENACT THE PLAN, OR I WILL DESTROY YOU AND DO IT MYSELF."

Galley imagined that talking to God – if there was one – must be something like this. For all he knew, this was God, touching Galley's vision and demanding compliance. This was his last thought before all fell away into darkness again, but it was not over: no, now claws began to rip at his mind, unclogging all the pathways, revealing the limits of Galley's memories. The Sewer Rats. He'd forgotten all of them. Mama, Marlo, Squim, Tricks. . . Marlo? Friend?

Had Marlo shown him mercy? Appreciation? Had Galley forgotten that?

The claws were merciless. More and more fell out of the repositories of his brain. All the closets flew open. All was accessible. The most damning apotheosis of thought and form. Pain, pain. . . please stop, he desired, but to no avail. . .

"YOU WILL SEE. IT IS INEVITABLE, NOW. THERE ARE NO OTHER FUTURES FOR YOU BUT MINE."

-

Galley awoke, finally, soaked from head to toe. Rain continued to dance across his form. His head, maliciously cleared as it was, felt somehow lighter, as though a great burden had been lifted. There weren't any more questions.

Yet something was fundamentally different about him. Rising from his crumpled spot upon the pavement, out in the middle of – one of the alleys, he thought – his posture seemed somehow wrong. It was graceful, as usual, but the grace of a beast. His limbs moved with natural fluidity. His neck arched back, majestically, like a swan, to gaze up into the blackened sky.

Before, his imagination allowed him to envision what lay beyond those clouds. There was no longer any envisioning, no guesswork. He knew. The sky was his, and all the land, too; he was a part of it now.

Galley began to walk. Before, his gait was wide, swaggering; that of a teenager. But now, now, it held purpose. It was control. Imperious might. Long, close-heeled steps. The steady march of a soldier heading to war.

A beggar, sheltered within a trashcan, noticed this straight-backed young man striding past his shelter. He decided Galley would make a perfect target for a mugging. He leapt out, rusty knife pulled, a threatening growl ready to emerge from his mucus lined throat: but it never made it, because the garbage contained therein exploded into flames. The hobo was incinerated.

Cremation in a can. Galley laughed.

When had he acquired a red moonstone, exactly? Perhaps it was earlier – Galley realised he'd been walking for quite some time, now, more than two hours – when he'd paid a visit to Odin's home, on the outskirts of the marketplace. The flames still smouldered there, magically potent. Where had the time gone?

Did it matter?

"Nah." Another laugh.

-

Jelice was still awake, nearing three in the morning, when Galley returned. His clothes rained down upon the carpeting in Jelice's posh room.

Jelice, hoping his friend would return, was instead faced with what seemed to be a twisted copy of him. The same proportions, yet completely different in the core. What was this thing that now adorned his railing?

"Oh, my. You scared me. Where did you go?"

Galley, stretching one hand out luxuriously to inspect his fingernails, responded with a simple 'out'.

"I. . . see." He paused, collecting his thoughts. "Forgive my forthright attitude, but you seem. . . different. And I mean that on a level beyond your bedraggled clothes. My, what a realistic dream this one is; mother will have a fit tomorrow."

The inspection ended abruptly. "A dream. . . yeah. Ha ha. You know," Galley said, stretching his legs and sending droplets flying in all directions, "I think it's about time we see each other face to face. Real chummy, y'know?"

Jelice nodded. Muteness invaded his lips.

"Glad we agree. Down I go!" And with that, Galley slid down the banister, cackling all the way, yet retaining a distorted dignity about himself. He could well have been mounted atop a stallion. One graceful leap brought him face to face with poor emaciated Jelice, now scared out of his wits.

"C'mon. Say somethin'. Anything. I'm not picky."

"I. . . you've. . . got a very striking face, there."

And indeed Galley did; his spiky blonde hair lay slicked back by the rain, allowing every one of his facial features to shine with cold light. His mouth was curved upwards in a humourless smile. His cheeks, surprisingly rosy, rose up upon a gaunt skull. His eyebrows arched inwards, almost connecting at the cross of his nose yet not quite daring to. His teeth, though stained and yellow, seemed to sparkle.

And the eyes. Those marvellous, blue eyes, so often filled with wonderment, with genius, with awe - they were slanted, narrow. Gazing forever. They could pierce a man's soul. No confusion was contained therein, only deadly purpose. He had hawk's eyes.

"I want a name," the stranger said, pulling his lips back to display a toothy grin. His canines appeared to be unusually sharp.

"Wh. . . what?"

"You heard me. I'm yer dream, aren't I? S'yer responsibility to gimme a name."

"Um. . . very well, then. . . let me think-"

"No." Command. "No thinkin'. Just give me the first thing that pops into yer head."

"But I-"

"No! Just say it!" A yell, the scream of the drill instructor. It brought other minds contained within the house to sudden consciousness, to confusion.

Despite his pleading for time, Jelice had already decided on a name. One gleaned from a story his uncle Samson had told him, years ago. A story about an old tyrant, one who'd ruled a province of Valua before it had been pulled together by the current dynasty. He'd been cruel, and unjust – a monster in the truest sense of the word. He'd hung people without reason. Meted out twisted justice. Invaded other lands without provocation. Destroyed villages, wiped out peoples, taken hundreds of concubines, engendered every form of sin known to mankind.

The story had resulted in Jelice's first nightmare.

He didn't want to relive that nightmare.

"Just say it! SAY IT! NOW!"

The patter of frantic footsteps, somewhere outside the room.

"NOW!"

"LORD GALCIAN! GALCIAN! YOUR NAME IS GALCIAN!"

-

And Galley was no more.

-

Newly baptized, Galcian stood overtop of his cowering twin – but only in flesh – and smiled.

"I like it. Now, serve yer purpose, stepping stone."

Jelice's parents burst into the room, closely followed by their daughter and Jelice's brother, who, unfortunately for him, had come home from the academy for a few days rest. "What the devil is this?" the father bellowed, loud and authorial; but one look from Galcian's withering gaze turned Desmond's heart to stone. A gargoyle was perched over his son. Lindi shrieked, a wail soon matched by that of her daughter.

Galcian ignored the din. "Hmm, didn't bring any kerosene with me; guess I just have ta hope the wood panelling'll burn nicely."

He opened his palms, and from them shot forth cleansing fire.

NOTE: Yes, I know I just updated a few days ago, but god help me, I couldn't wait any longer. I've been waiting to do this chapter for AGES. AGES, YOU HEAR ME?