Chapter Sixteen: A Dear Moment of Quiet III
The gate is before me. Of this I'm certain. I wish to cross to the other side and see it with my own eyes, the raw materials for the new world we'll all inhabit once we're awakened, and the template to make it a reality. There's nothing between me and that virgin soil but a red curtain. It's funny. I've seen red curtains in all kinds of places. I've seen them in restaurants, in the houses of the rich and the powerful, art galleries, and… yes, the theatre… My father liked the theatre, and so did my uncle. Yet they could never agree on anything: one liked the theatre, and the other hated it. No, I don't either liked it very much. But I do.
Oh yes, I do like the theatre. I remember that staging of King Lear I saw tomorrow in Stratford-upon-Avon, a few centuries behind me. I left early, but I adored it. Even the rabble couldn't spoil it for me – I swear those quill boys keep cheapening their script for the sake of the vermin, but I digress. How could I complain when I still had the opportunity to sample this dish? All that hopelessness, the loss, the betrayal… the despair. The old wise men used to say that a tragedy worked on one principle: the fall of superior men. I frankly disagree – there is no such thing as superior men. Everybody is as lowly as the drunken lout, as the jester, as the madman who communes with his own refuse.
What's going on?
A tragedy… that's merely another word for comedy. And I do love me a good, sweet comedy. That's why I always used to laugh, although… to be honest, I hadn't gotten to do much of that for maybe a decade, or was it less? I can't quite remember… Exile can do horrendous things to your perception of time. But then, is time not a folly created by hairless vermin? There's your dilemma right there.
Time… what time is it? I think I need something to drink. My throat is so dry. But how long have I been looking at that gate? My benefactor told me I'd only get to cross over myself after the young man had. The Wild Card, he called him; apparently he'd still have a role to play. Although he supplied with a promising template, he needed to… what was the word?
Feed.
He'll feed me… He'll break the chains that bind me.
Feed the new world… with his suffering. Break human kind asunder…
What!?
No, something's wrong. He said I'd know when he was on the other side. I think, no… I know he is over there. But something's not quite right… Is he okay? That young man, I felt his pain earlier… how long ago was that? Dear God, how long have I been awake!?
Awake… I am awake. At last.
No. He's not okay. What have I done? That young man, the Wild Card – he's there now, but is he safe?
Where's my friend?
He's nearby, as nearby as one could be.
I need him. I need his counsel. I need to know how to help this young man. It's too great a burden that rests on his shoulders, too great a pain. I feel it inside, I feel it in my bones!
Feed.
Feed.
Feed.
NO!
That's odd. I'm looking at myself in the mirror, but I don't recognise who that is. I'm positive I've stayed awake too long. I need rest. I need to feed. No, I need rest. I need to close my eyes and dream of the new world, and dream of death, disease, deception, degeneration.
NO!
It's not right. These thoughts, I'm not sure they're mine.
Oh, there you are, dear friend. How long have you been standing there? Listen, I believe in what we're doing. This is just and necessary. We'll save everybody. But I need to see that he's alright. I have a rotten feeling that he's been suffering and I'm only now realising it.
He is suffering indeed. It's been a long time, but he too is only now realising it, the Fool.
I'll make it up somehow. You said I'd know when he was on the other side. I'm not sure if I feel it the way you said I would, but something tells me he is. I'm going over there. I'll make it up somehow if it's too early. I just need to be sure that it's not too late.
Not too late.
Not too late.
Too late.
[ ]
The discovering gaze of it rolls over him like an avalanche. He did not expect the blueprint to the new world to look like this. A land so rich and wide, so full of life, and yet so vacant. Somehow, it is the solitude that takes him aback, rather than the twin suns above, and the strange colour of dusk blanketing everything in sight. There is wind blowing and waves breaking, but the lordship of silence reigns supreme in this new Eden. Then, a disturbing thought hammers at his temples. He remembers what he came here to do.
It will be no easy task locating the young man. He needs to prepare himself. The office attire is ill-fitting for this kind of terrain. There weather is neither hot nor cold, but the jacket can only burden him, so he takes it off and lays it on the thick, wild grass. His father – and he is certain it was his father – would sometimes take him hiking during his infancy, and that is how he learned of the importance of a sturdy sole. His shoes were no good. So the man took them off and laid them next to his jacket. He discarded his socks also, if only for the pleasure of feeling the soil beneath his feet.
He afforded a wistful smile. His benefactor kept his word, and fashioned this place out of a dream he had as a child, of a hidden land awaiting behind a curtain – an unknown place at the side of a fathomless ocean, kissed by impossible stars. No matter where he stood, there would always be seaborn salt in the breeze and the dew. Despite the fond memories his surroundings inspired in him, he could not remember whether he did tell his benefactor about that dream.
Unnecessary items discarded, the man sat down and concentrated. Focusing on his objective, he thought of everything he knew about the young man. It was not much, but every minimal inkling of knowledge was most precious.
The young man, the Wild Card, was called Akira Kurusu. He was the victim of great injustice. Rather than allow it to bury him beneath spite and a dead-end future, he took the reins of his own fate and delivered justice upon an unjust paradigm. This grand enterprise was not a task of one. He made allies who shared his goal, and together they undid the corruption in the hearts of influential men. Through their deeds, they named themselves known as the Phantom Thieves of Hearts, and the young Kurusu was their leader. He developed deep bonds with his allies, which nurtured him as a person, as well as his power.
This was the power of an aware soul, able to act upon the invisible, intangible make of the world. This power was required as spine for the New World, one in which all individuals would be awake to their own souls. Surely, a civilisation built upon that fundament would thrive in peace and prosperity. Utopia would no longer be merely a dreambound no-place. This was the design shared by his benefactor, a man of mystery who educated him on matters he sensed but never saw, thus opening his eyes to a truer manifestation of his own soul.
A Persona, he called it. All of this was knowledge his friend in the dark shared with him, claiming gained from being a long-time observer.
Kurusu's Persona was unique, rare amongst the many who were rare themselves. His power was needed, even after his role in saving the world from an arrogant God. But he would not use the young Kurusu as an instrument to this endeavour. So his benefactor in the dark suggested an alternative, to make one like him – fed by dream, incubated for a year, to finally awaken and fulfil that purpose. Despite the young man never knowing it, Akira Kurusu was made to provide with the template for his replica, which would awaken in the moment he himself set foot in this world.
And he had. But something had gone awry. The man could not know what it was, but he knew it had – he could feel it deep inside of him. He then thought back to his friend's words – every step of the process, and every detail within. For he had knowledge that Akira Kurusu was a Phantom Thief, and a Persona user, the young would have access to that gift in this land. But the extent of what he did with his abilities, if he had, would have a consequence.
Yet his benefactor did not say what that would be.
Regardless, one thing was clear. He would be able to know if young Kurusu were to use his Persona.
The dreamer of this new world was not a young man like Akira Kurusu. As the days passed, he found some things taxed him more than the day before. Every time he used his Persona, terrible headaches would ail him for hours afterwards, sometimes days. He would avoid this were it any other occasion, but there may be too little time to search for the young man on his own. So he took a deep breath, and began to channel the power his benefactor awakened.
Beads of sweat appeared across the man's forehead as he focused. His muscles were relaxed, but the blood rushed restless nonetheless, making veins on his forehead leap in tension. His breathing began to feel feint, yet he did not ease his efforts, however tiring. As his Persona burst out of the ether behind him, a precise location appeared in his mind.
A peculiar 'footprint' of sorts, a remnant of power borne from intent. This was where Akira Kurusu used his Persona – he could make it if he set off now. His path was outlined for him to follow, but his feet were momentarily precluded by what the man in the shadows told him – the summoning would have, for good or ill, a consequence. But then again, there must have been a reason for the young man to summon his Persona – that alone was cause for alarm.
Something else came to him shortly after: an awareness made possible by his Persona.
Akira Kurusu was not alone.
Could it be…?
When the man came into this place, he felt a strange, intangible weight leaving his self. Now, as he ran towards the 'footprint', he felt it return, making every step and every breath feel like the effort of another.
Not his own.
[ ]
Whichever configuration this place took, there were always three constants.
Wherever the eye looked, it would see blue. Wherever the ear listened, it would hear the poem for the souls of all. Wherever the spirit would seek guidance, it would find the Master's presence - a man of uncanny appearance, and his name was Igor. The lack of any of these three constants was a cause for alarm, a call of calamity approaching.
The only soothing Lavenza could find on this day was that the Velvet Room remained blue. But the poem had gone silent, and the master of this realm catatonic. The girl-shaped entity had spent the last two hours in tears and impotence – this was her only method of time reference, for she could not tell when the song stopped and when Igor froze like stone in his seat.
This garden was Lavenza's favourite shape. She never needed to look after the myriad types of flowers that grew in this place, but she liked to do so anyway. But the majestic life that throve from millennia before her suddenly seemed dead without the song, and without her Master to watch over her.
Another sobbing spasm rose up her being, shaking her whole. She could feel the two halves that once made her being divide from each other within her. Temperamental Caroline was her denial on the terrible things to come, while calm Justine was her inevitable acceptance; the contrast between them caused her so much pain. And in her time of need, the first name that came to her head was Akira, whose name she called out amidst her sobbing.
She then called out to all of her siblings, hoping any of them would hear and come to her calling. Most of them were older than her, but even the few that were younger would do. She simply could not stand to be alone in this moment.
Alas, nobody came. Not a single one of the other attendants. Not Akira Kurusu.
Lavenza was well and truly alone.
One more hour would pass by before she dried her tears, rubbing so desperately that she poked her own right eye.
There must have been a reason nobody came when she called. Whatever unforgivable wrong had been done to affect the Velvet Room like this, the rest would surely be working to mend it. And she would not forgive herself if she sat idle to weep on.
On this day, she decided to follow in the footsteps of her eccentric older sister Elizabeth, and truly set foot out in the world of human kind. She would seek Akira and his friends. The Phantom Thieves were needed.
[ ]
Meanwhile, in the world of perennial dusk, under the distant light of binary suns, a being in between something and somebody stirred from beneath rock, dirt and grass.
A black heart of unnatural make increased its tempo, but only slightly.
The incubation itself was complete, but there was much feeding yet to be had.
Pain, sorrow, anger, hatred, hopelessness.
Despair.
What magnificent nutrients indeed.
