21. Dead Again

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There was a warmth, somewhere. He could not see it, or hear it, or even feel it, but he knew it was there all the same. It pulled at him like the retreating tide, urging him forward, though he knew not where it was. All he knew was that it was more important to him than anything else, even himself, for without it he was no one, merely an empty shell. Without it, he was nothing.

And yet they would not let him have it. The squirming horrors that filled this prison thwarted his efforts again and again. He turned away as they neared, and gazed up at the crystalline statue of a long-forgotten goddess. It had once been broken beyond repair, yet was now whole again – at least, as whole at he remembered it. Why had the statue's body reformed, yet not its face? Why the sword's hilt, and not the blade? Why did the wings only mend halfway? When had it even been broken in the first place?

He felt as if he should know the answers, but his mind was more fractured than the goddess herself. The questions brought no solace, no resolution, only hopelessness. Though he could not remember why, he still felt the inescapable truth. No matter what he did, no matter how hard he fought, it would all be undone in time. It was all futile.

He fell to his knees in despair as the monsters tore him apart.

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It began again.

There was a warmth, somewhere. He cursed it, tried desperately to ignore it, but it was the only thing on his mind. There was nowhere to hide from its gentle presence. It burst through the dark space in his skull like the sun, leaving no room for anything else. It dominated every waking moment. He did not want to follow anymore, he did not want to keep going. He only wanted to lie down on the cold floor, close his weary eyes, and surrender.

They would never allow such a thing. The monsters always found him, chastised him with guttural shrieks and lamenting wails, tormented him with barbed tendrils and ecstatic frenzy. They rent his flesh, shattered his bones, broke his spirit, even when there was nothing left for them to destroy. Even when they had taken everything from him, they did not stop. They would never stop.

There was a warmth, somewhere.

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Every time he fell, he lost another piece of himself.

He lost his confidence, his bravery, his ambition. He lost his cunning and wits, his curiosity and empathy. His caution, his patience, his vigilance, gone. All he had left was pain, torment, and misery.

Then, he began to lose those too.

Misery became complacency. Torment became numbness. His pain became him.

His tormentors had made a terrible mistake. They had taken everything, leaving him nothing but pain. Now, pain was all he had left to give.

He found no satisfaction or vengeance as he went about his task. He acted methodically and with singular purpose, giving no thought to the consequences that might befall him. The monsters fought back valiantly, but they had already done their worst. They had nothing left with which to threaten him, nothing more to deter his meticulous massacre.

Even when it was finally over, and he stood drenched in their metallic blood, he felt nothing. There was no sense of relief, no spark of victory, not even a wave of fatigue or remorse. He had taken a single, aimless step within a great void and accomplished nothing. Now, he was truly alone. Now, there was truly nothing.

Actually, that was not true at all. There was still a warmth, somewhere.

He began to climb.

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Snow flurries drifted through an open corridor, carried aloft by a cold but gentle breeze. Beyond the columns, a vibrant aurora danced across the dark and cloudy sky. It was a familiar scene, but he paid it no mind. His focus was drawn to the golden doors at the other end, the last barrier between him and his goal. Behind those doors lay everything.

As he marched down the hall, a malevolent cackle broke the quiet night. Before he could react, a twisted spear made of bone flew between the pillars and buried itself in his stomach. Pain, his old acquaintance, flared throughout his upper torso, while everything below his waist went numb. He did not stop. He stumbled onward as the sound of beating wings filled the air, and another spear dug into his shoulder, then a third shattered his thighbone.

Still he pressed on. He willed himself forward in crawl, in a stumble, in a mad dash, ignoring the torment that coursed through him. He saw himself falling, diving for the doors, crashing through them into sanctuary at the last second. He kicked the doors shut, suffering from countless wounds, but he was finally safe. At last, he had found it, right there, so close, just reach out and take it.

His mind raced ahead, but his body collapsed halfway down the corridor, riddled with spears.

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Something made him pause. He had been here before, though he could not recall when. It did not matter. He was so close to the end, he could not stop now. He demanded that his body continue, but it seemed to remember something his mind did not. After a moment of self-struggle, one foot replied with a hesitant step, then another. With great care, he made his way down the corridor, towards the golden doors that promised salvation.

When he heard the first cackle, his body instinctively threw itself back. A spear crashed into the low wall, barely missing him, followed by a shriek of frustration from up high. In an instant, a flurry of wings encompassed the soaring walkway, as pale shapes with wizened faces and blackened limbs swarmed about this unwelcome guest, ready to tear him limb from limb.

He did not panic. He did not rush ahead. He started advancing, but when the next spear came, he immediately fell back. The next spear forced him to the side, then he retreated again. He took one step back for every two steps forward, but little by little, he drew closer to the end.

Right before he reached the doors, one of the winged fiends leaped into his path, brandishing its bony weapon with a ferocious snarl. It lunged, but he deflected the blow with his shield, throwing the demon off-balance. Without hesitation, the curved blade swung around and removed half of its face.

More shrieks echoed from behind. Acting on instinct, he grabbed the bloodied demon by the wings and spun it about, just as a volley of electrified spears rained down on them. He held the fiend like a fleshy shield as it was torn to shreds, then flung the remains forward and fell back through the twin doors.

For a moment, he simply lay there, half-expecting this to be another delusion, but the seething cries from outside told him it was real. He picked himself off the floor and looked back at the flock of demons, who raged at his trespass with unspeakable indignity, though they would not pursue him further. He responded with a blank stare, then softly closed the doors without another thought.

They did not matter. His mind held only thoughts of the warmth, so close, right there, just reach out and take it.

He could see it now. The warmth was emanating from a frozen corpse sprawled out before a pair of thrones. It was clad in dirtied woolen robes and ceremonious armor wrought from gold, which had long since lost its sheen. Black stains trailed from the helmet and dried along the fur lining of the cape, but amidst the grime was a single, shimmering speck, winking at him through the narrow visor.

At first, he thought it was the corpse's eye, but a closer look revealed that the body had no eyes. Instead, a single frozen tear rested in the empty socket, clinging to the dead skin with a timeless persistence. He marveled at its glistening beauty. This was the warmth he had sought, this tiny little gemstone that held the whole world and so much more. It broke away easily, as if it had been waiting there all this time just for him, waiting for him to come and reclaim his legacy.

Without hesitating, he ate it.

As the crystal cracked and melted away, the warmth was released from its icy prison. Liquid light seeped into his flesh, burned through his veins and flooded his mind. At once, the Lucid One awoke.

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If he had a voice, the whole kingdom of Nos would have heard his jubilation. He could remember again. He could remember everything. He remembered why he had ever come to this forsaken place. He remembered his divine quest, bestowed upon him by Nos Himself. He remembered all the trials and tribulations that led him here, and how he had conquered them one by one. He had climbed the mountains of suffering and dove into the seas of despair, but no matter the struggle, he always emerged victorious.

He was the Lucid One. He was the champion that would make these lands whole.

Then, he started to remember the things he could not remember. He was the Lucid One, indeed, but that was not his true name. He had known it once, long ago, but no more. He knew nothing of what land he hailed from, or what his life had been like before the great sleep of all mankind. Just as the broken statue of Samaras, his mind only reformed to an extent, still marred by the imperfections it accumulated during his long slumber.

Then his eyes fell upon that cursed chest, and he remembered remorse.

The last traces of exhilaration faded as he realized his folly. He had fought all this way to reclaim his memory, only to be faced with the very monster that took it from him in the first place. If he had been able to think coherently, he might have tried to slay it before restoring his mind, yet the warmth had blinded him to reason. Now he was forced to face this bizarre aberration once more or admit defeat, and if he died again, who knew if there would be another chance?

Leaving was not an option, as there was nowhere else to go. He had battled through the shrine, delved into its catacombs, and climbed the steps to its highest peak. Here was a pair of thrones and two chests, one of which was actually a mimicking monstrosity. He would be a fool not to think it was guarding something of importance to his quest.

His mind was set. With a reluctant sigh, the Lucid One hoisted the fallen knight's jeweled scepter and brought it down on the chest with all his might.

He was hoping the blow would splinter it completely, but the creature was unnaturally resilient. There was a displeased grunt, practically a yawn, as the chest unfolded its lithe arms from some obscure hiding place. The Lucid One backed away from its reach, recalling how quickly it had snatched him before, then cast aside the heavy mace in favor of his twin swords.

Just as he prepared to charge, the mimic stood.

The brave warrior was not prepared for that. He balked at the wooden box wavering awkwardly atop an emaciated body, towering to almost twice his size. Ropes of saliva swung from yellowed fangs, which curled and flexed inside its gaping maw like skeletal fingers. The mimic turned about lazily, still half-asleep, until it was facing the intruder. Then it dropped to all fours and lunged.

He flung himself aside as the creature pounced with surprising speed, clearing the entire room in an instant. It wheeled about and chased after him, its lid chomping at his heels while he scrambled backwards on hands and feet. He slashed at the wooden jaws, but even a direct hit did not slow the fiend. With terrifying speed, the chest clamped down on his leg and thrashed him mercilessly.

The Lucid One felt like his leg was going to tear off. He crashed through decorative stands and slammed against unyielding marble statues. As blood cascaded across his vision, he finally caught a glimpse of those strange teeth clawing at his calf. Dozens of tiny fingers were piercing and pulling his flesh, his muscles, dragging him upward inch by inch to consume him entirely.

He remembered what awaited him there. Emptiness. Death. Not again.

With a desperate thrust, he drove his blade between its jaws, striking the underside of the lid. To his surprise, it was not made of wood, but soft flesh, which his blade pierced with ease. The mimic shrieked and released him at once, sending him crashing into the silver throne as it tried to shake the pain from its mouth.

Though his vision reeled, and his side burst with searing agony, the Lucid One stumbled to his feet and charged at the enemy while it was distracted. He leapt onto its bony back, wrapped his legs around its emaciated frame, and began stabbing anywhere he could. He jabbed at its ribs, its stomach, its armpits, its hands. The mimic spun about frantically, trying to throw him off, but he held on with desperate tenacity.

He had just dug his sword into the monster's collarbone when it rose on its hind legs and toppled backwards. The Lucid One ducked as the chest crashed into the stone floor, nearly crushing his skull. He gasped as the wind was knocked from him, for although the abomination was sickly thin, it felt like its bones were iron bars.

Before he could react, the mimic lifted itself up again, arms and legs inverted, then slammed him back into the ground. It cackled as it began dragging them both across the tiles and throwing them against the walls, using its own torso as a weapon. The man clung desperately as his ribs snapped one by one, his grip growing weaker with each impact.

The mimic rose again, but this time, he braced his sword against its bulky head.

When it threw itself against the ground, the hilt rammed the blade straight through its neck. The monster shrieked again as it flipped over, blackened blood spurting from the wound, but it quickly collapsed as its arms and legs grew weak. While it stumbled, the Lucid One shoved his other blade sideways through its neck and pulled with every last ounce of his fading strength.

The creature's body was tough and leathery, but he could feel it giving way. The man grit his teeth as he tugged harder, tearing at the muscles and vertebrae, when suddenly two oversized hands wrapped around his waist. He squeezed his legs tighter, but his opponent was much stronger than he was. As it peeled him from its back, he clung to his swords like a lifeline, though his grip on those was failing as well.

Finally, the mimic tore him off like a bloody bandage and flung him aside. The Lucid One landed on his head, nearly breaking his neck, and crumpled into a heap. As he struggled to sit, he frantically looked to his hands, then breathed a sigh of relief. Both swords were still in hand.

The mimic wavered in place, its oblong head swinging by a few strands of tissue. Soon, those too snapped under its bulk. The chest crashed to the floor on its backside, its purple tongue hanging limp, while the body twitched violently and melted into a pool of black sludge.

The Lucid One approached the chest with caution, expecting it to sprout a second body and attacked him all over again. He prodded the teeth with his sword, then jumped back as they curled reflexively. When he was certain it was only a death twitch, he poked it again, then stuck his sword into its thick, purple tongue. When there was still no response, he finally accepted he had won, and pried open the jaws to see what they might hold.

At first glace, he was convinced there was nothing but bloated, putrid flesh filling up every corner of the chest. He hardly wanted to keep looking, but a telltale glint caught his eye. When he tested it with his blade, he felt it touch cold, hard metal. Steeling his resolve, the Lucid One used his swords to cut into the swollen throat and dislodge whatever was stuck there.

After a few grueling moments, he tore free a mucus-stained disc of silver and gold. It was a variation of the seven-spoke wheel he had seen before. The spokes were still there, but only on one half instead of evenly spread. Furthermore, the middle spoke seemed to be given more attention than the others, as it featured a sculpture of a woman who appeared eerily similar to the statue behind the fake wall. On the half without spokes was a gilded crown, which rested around the trunk of a leafless tree. The Lucid One spent a moment rotating the disc, wondering which direction it was meant to be held. If the crown was facing up, it appeared to be a tree, yet if the silver maiden was facing up, the tree appeared to be roots.

He flipped the disc over and found a small inscription on the back, barely legible under a coating of slime. He wiped it off using the old corpse's cloak before reading it.

Praise be to Sybelle, clothed in orchid

Beloved daughter, blessed mother

Sleep ye brethren, be not afraid

For the goddess holds thee in her arms

He spent little time pondering its meaning. Between the sculpture and the last line of the poem, it was clear to him what he must do. With the disc in hand, he retraced his steps to the lantern.

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The walk back was eerily peaceful. Not even the winged demons came to torment him again, resigned to clinging to the rooftops in silent bitterness. The shrine was empty, devoid of any tentacled abominations. They were all dead, slain by his own hand, dissolved back to the primordial slime that once formed them. The Lucid One barely remembered his part in the bloodshed, like a fever dream from ages past.

Without opposition, he made it back to the lantern easily. He approached the statue looming over it, and using the pedestal as a stepping stone, reached up and nestled the disc into the empty arms of the faceless goddess. It was a perfect fit.

The statue rumbled and began to move. He jumped from the pedestal in surprise as the base slid back, pushed by some unseen force, to reveal a hidden passageway beneath. A musty draft of brine and mildew washed over him, nearly making him turn away in disgust, but he clamped down his stomach muscles and forced himself to peer inside. There was a steep, mossy decline before it evened out, though by that point the tunnel became so dark it was impossible to see further.

He had expected to feel pride at his progress, but there was only reluctance. As awful as this place had been, he knew it would only get worse. Before entering the hole, the Lucid One sat down beside the lantern and closed his eyes for some much-needed rest. His sleep was dreamless, however, and while he awoke feeling replenished, his mind was still hazy. The chime atop the lamp sounded shrill, dissonant, unlike the soothing harmony from his memory.

With a lingering sense of unease, the Lucid One descended into the hollowed stone.

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Appendix

Crest of Kinship – A golden disc depicting a seven-spoke wheel. On the back is a worn inscription invoked by the acolytes of Sybelle, who carry out their worship with utmost secrecy.

Ephemera– The crystallized vestige of a lost dream. If one looks closely, they might see tiny shapes swimming within. Dreams bring great comfort to the forsaken, and restore what little faith they have left in themselves.

Gold Coin – A worn coin depicting a forgotten king of Aurimil. It may have once held value, but those strong of faith have no use for material wealth.