Shattered Kasaneru Arc 5: The Witch's Symphony
When had it all gone wrong? Was it when Reid had ascended? Was it when Volcanica had vanished into the clouds? Was it when Flugel had wasted away into nothing? Where had it all gone wrong? Was it at the flooding of Priestella? Was it at the starvation of Daphne? Was it at the rise of Satella's shadows? How had it all gone wrong? How had he ended up in this damp, musty, dank, candle-lit cavern, with lichen beneath his feet, spiders crawling under the tongues of his boots, millipedes writhing around like the mud's tendrils, and all varieties of filth coating his suit? How had he allowed himself to be taken so easily, how had he fallen to this point, with aching muscles, prickling veins, and a sinking feeling he'd have to fight again? What had done them in? What had ended the days of old, and begun the days of now? What had made all the time go by so fast? Why had it all gone wrong? Why was he alone, buried under the world? Had it been his arrogance? His apathy? His impurity?
He chuckled. At least he understood who had made it all go wrong. Hilarity. If only he could laugh away the deep pitt in his stomach. Or the slow the blood rushing so fast through him his ears were ringing.
"You've stumbled." The voice declared. He couldn't find any word to describe the tone. Only what it made him feel. How the vibrations forced their way into his pores like spores and parasites. Worming through him, as if all the illnesses he'd staved off in the past four centuries were infecting him at once. Infesting him. Sweat beaded all along him, trying to push out the horrible timbre of the voice. He slumped down, the strength going out of him, air leaking from his lungs with barely a will to inhale. A deep thing was building, those words only bringing it closer.
"You've degenerated." The words echoed, reverberating from the dank walls to the boot-smoothed floor, to the shining lanterns, to their wax, to their wicks, to their iron fastenings, and finally to him. As if he was simply a part of the world, a fixture. None of his wishes, none of his desires, none of his struggles mattered. The voice scored and skinned him, as the great winds of Sand Time had in a time long ago. Was this a return to a lost age? Would he have to fight as he once had? The deep thing rose further. Horror. A smile came across his face. Relief.
"You've grown lax." She intoned, spitting syllables and weaving rhythms. She spoke like thunder, like a hurricane, like all the force of the waterfall concentrated in one frame. Description was useless. He had found a word. Overwhelming.
"You've faltered." Pandora whispered to Clind. In an instant he knew all he'd done wrong. Something dripped from his ears, the ringing was worse than after Volcanica had shouted Sekhmet off the world's edge. He had failed so much. Spent so much time idle. Failure. Now it was too late. Relief. Now he could wallow. Liberty.
He pushed at his bonds, drawing on whatever strength he had left. There was none. His arms were worn down. His hands were clumsy and atrophied. His spirit was too ancient, too set in its ways. This was his end. Grief. Had he been lesser, he would have screamed. Had he been younger, he would have wept. Had he been any other, he would have realized the stupidity of continuing on long ago. But he was not any other, he was not younger, and he was not a man to give up, he was Clind. Certainty. He forced himself above the sorrow, back into his role. Slavery. Servitude.
There was still a wish to remember, a wish to foster, a wish to restore, a wish to keep alive, a wish to resurrect, a wish to improve, a wish to defend, a wish to hold, a wish for better.
Pandora existed in violation of the wish. The cause they'd all sacrificed for. The years, the pleasures, the safeties, and the comforts lost. Reid had put aside his selfish joy, Volcanica had disengaged from his musings, and Flugel had unified them all. They'd invested too much. Clind would not let the blood they had spilled fall forgotten into the rocks. Remembrance. It must slip into the dirt, must foster new life, must bring about a better tomorrow. He could not simply fall into his despair. He had to fight, had to use it, like in the old time, like in the time before Divine Protection. But could he hold himself together? Fear. He barely had back then. Doubt.
"You've weakened." Pandora said, all the otherworldly qualities of her voice fading. His fear drained, and then there was nothing special about her words. Nothing special about her. There was no indication of life in the woman, except for the little smirk—still on her face all these centuries later, undamaged by the march of time. Clind remained silent, considering options. Cunning. Clind remained silent, realizing it was simply another of her tricks, realizing there was no point. Acknowledgement. Clind remained silent, understanding he must fight anyway. Denial.
He spoke, the words coming out a strangled mess of syllables. How long had it been since he'd spoken to this Bitch of Vainglory? How long since he'd spoken anything worth saying?
"What words shall you share with me?" Pandora whispered, fingers twitching. Her Authority pressed at his mind, even now. This tiny frame before him was but an illusion, hiding the monster. "I am awaiting."
There was one possible course of action; Clind accepted death. Loss.
"I'm sorry," he said, for everyone that wasn't the evil before him. "Remembrance Lost."
Clind seized the sludge, the impurity, the wretch, the slithering mass, the horrific pustule, the slick evil in his veins, the worm in the mud, the eternal pain, the horrific slow death of self-pity and despair, the gravitas, the end. Disgust. With a twitch of his fingers, all his bonds snapped. Pandora's smile didn't falter, her hair didn't shift, and her aura didn't erode. None of this would matter in the end. The weight came off his shoulders. The world shook. Melancholy.
Clind would still fight. Denial.
"Come, awaken, begin the journey of ten thousand miles," she said, her voice stilted, empty. She raised her pale, smooth, and untouched hands. She clapped, once, twice, thrice. With each one an echo, a reminder there was nothing he could truly do.
He reached out his coarse, dirty, weathered, aged, and impure hand, "I still remember the wish. Melancholy."
Bones tore, crunching like sand beneath a boot. Blood sprayed, coating him, the walls, and the earth. Pandora was a slick puddle of red and soggy cloth. Joy. Clind breathed in as much blood-stenched air as he could, savoring her death while it was still real, and began the escape. Charade. Beyond the door was a hallway, stretching on for nigh eternity. Lanterns burned, going on further than he could see. TiIl he could see naught but black. It was like staring down the spiral stairs from the fifth floor of the Watchtower. Nostalgia. He ran, for the final showing of his spirit. For those lost, for the wish, and for himself. If he could make it far enough, then maybe he could forgive himself for failing. Hopeful.
Clind cast a glance over his shoulder, Pandora had stepped out of the room, that smile on her face. Exasperation.
Nearly a kilometer of panting breaths later, the hallway turned. He grimaced, following the curve, falling into a trap. A robed mass of two dozen waited, holding up their daggers. Flugel and Petelgeuse's lot of superstitious fools. Clind spat in the dirt. It was his last few minutes, he'd let disgust rear its head. The day of Echidna, the day of Daphne, the day of Typhon, the day of Sekhmet, the day of Carmilla, and the day of Minerva were all long past. Why in the world did they think Satella should be any different? Clind sighed, for they were not what he cared for. There was no time for words and no time to be moderate. The cultist's had chosen the path of the extreme, Clind supposed he must join them. Melancholy.
Their bones broke like twigs under the Black Snake's scales, their skin melted, their muscles stretched and tore. Each of their screams was a gurgle of lost memories, lost personalities, lost dreams, and lost years. They died like all the rest he'd killed with this slush of Hector. No remembrance for their wishes, for their sentiments, for their fights.
Thus was the way of things. Acceptance.
Clind ran over the puddles the cultists had become. Boots sloshing in the blood and bone. The Authority was pushing at his consciousness. Despair. Hopeless. Idiotic. Clind heaved out a deep sigh, and kept up the show.
She appeared before him without warning. Her green eyes misty from the torchlight, her dress ragged, her blonde tresses reaching down past her waist, her sob hid her wonderfully sharp teeth, and she looked so tired. Clind froze. Compassion.
"Frederica…" he whispered, what was she doing here? Why did she have to get in the way of his death? Why were there dead leaves in her hair? Why was her uniform torn? Why was she panting as if she'd just ran the continent? Sweat drizzled down his lashes, mixing with the tears.
"Clind, there's no reason to worry." Her words were honey in the air. "Everything's going to be fine." Frederica stepped closer, reaching out with her meaty arms. He wanted to melt into them, to embrace this lie Pandora had offered up. The butler, the warrior, the last rememberer of the wish reached out, taking hold of the Authority. Frederica's lips lifted into a smile. He hesitated. But Frederica no longer loved him, and she never should again. He decided. He let sin flow. Melancholy.
"Clind is back in his chair, still wondering whether to use his piece of the Authority of Melancholy."
Clind threw his palm forward, "Den—"
The world was as it had been. Nothing more, nothing less, and nothing at all changed. Typical, normal, inevitable. Fucking Pandora. Clind bit down, bared his teeth, and let the fury of four centuries flow through his words. "This will not end, Pandora. Denial. Defiance."
All she gave him was that same smile, that same damn fucking smile. It taunted him, it prodded at him, it poked at him, and it made the charade impossible. There was no acting, this was his end. He quivered and then it was gone, the last of his fear.
Pandora tilted her head. "But it shall. All things end. Of course nothing ends either. Soon you'll fully embark on the journey you've ignored for so long."
Even if every sane man would have given up on the charade, he continued. For what was he, if not some idiot who didn't know how to stop? "I will not. Defiance." His arms were limp in his bonds, his wrists were bleeding, his eyes run out of tears. Defiance. The word was slow to come into his mind.
Pandora raised her voice, "You've been hiding, holding off the Factor. That's not natural. The Factor rectifies incompatibility."
Clind stared forward, right into Pandora. He examined the soul deep within her, its wrinkles, its deformities, its corruptions. This woman was ancient, older than him, and yet she didn't use any of that wisdom. She was a stagnant, vain, bitch. If she took control, then progress would slow, the world would grow impure, and all would be lost. In the soul of this woman lay the end of the world.
Clind prayed for the wish, even if none remembered, it could persist. Hope. "You'll be defeated. It is the way of things. The new shall overthrow you. Defiance."
"You're as aged as I, Clind."
He closed his eyes, not bothering to speak. Instead he remembered, pondered, and prayed. Frederica was there, in the dark with him. Why had he pushed her so hard? Why had he made her regret her own features? What had he done? It didn't matter anymore, his actions would mean nothing; soon, he'd be nothing. Frederica would remain past him, she'd persist, like the world. If he could give her, give them all a few more seconds, then… Maybe he could atone for a life of mistakes, maybe he could still help bring about change, maybe his words could be true, and the young could rise up and throw off Pandora's yolk.
He opened his eyes. In his last moment he'd be better, he'd be in motion, and he'd be pure. "I am as aged as you, Pandora, but I haven't fallen. Defiance."
Pandora reached into the air, space shaping around her hand. A black opening formed, her pale skin boring through reality itself. The violation of natural law made him want to vomit. From a place that should not be, she took a small basalt-colored box, "You're aware of what this is, aren't you?"
He did not speak. He was busy holding in vomit as tears and sweat tickled his lips.
Pandora cracked it open, revealing the void within. It sloshed like sewage. Writhed like a serpent. Smelled like a man wasting away. The sin. The other piece. All the horrible shitty excess within Clind—only a quarter of the full Factor—reached up, toward the rest of itself. Tendrils slid over the container's lip.
"My dear Clind, the time is at hand," Pandora let the box fall from her hand. Flugel's bones shattered. The sin rushed out, rising from the rock, like the reaching hands of men who could not bother to help themselves up. The very embodiment of self-pity, the worst of all sins. Clind stepped away, back cracking against the damp wall. That foul impurity of the man's nature given form touched him, tendrils sliding under his nails, into his pores, and through his veins. Like a river, running onward to his soul. The icy slowness of man's spirit giving out and the fire of his self-hatred. The sin's two facets built within him, threatening to sear his consciousness away.
This was the Witch Factor pounding at the walls of his mind. This was Hector's madness. This was the weakness of man. This was Melancholy.
The crushing weight of despair bent his lips into an eternal frown, and forced tears to pound at the back of his eyes. Tristitia. Melancholy. Acedia. It was going to consume him, to change him as it had so many others. The charade was gone, even he could no longer keep it up. Loss.
"How does that feel?" Pandora asked, not a hint of malice or anger in her voice, "I wish you a wonderful time in your travels."
Why was he staring at the ground, when had his neck given out? Confusi—The Witch Factor rose. It scratched at his mind, prodded his conscience, and stole away his determination, like a pathetic fucking rat. For the world, for youth, those who had no advantage of experience but all the might of vigor, he held on a little longer. He pushed his head up as emptiness scoured a pit in his heart. "You will not win, Pandora. Purity."
"We shalt keep the world in motion. That is the wish of mine. Will thine all share it with mineself?"
"Ey y'don't need t'ask it again, ya prick. Just let me kill some fuckin' bitches, you."
"Yeah, it's got a bright future ahead, let's get these Witches outta the way."
"Or will we share our travels?" Pandora touched his forehead.
A hand reached out, a memory from centuries past. "I haaaave information on Hector, let's make a deal. You'll get your purity, and I'll get your help."
"As long as the world remains pure and the bright future is secured in the end, then… Agreement."
A contract formed. A Witch for a wish. That was their contract, their goal. But their days had gone by.
"Who will speak when the Witch Factor has done its work?" Pandora asked, fingers dancing along his face. Her voice was distant, world's and eons away.
"You will not win." Clind forced out, fighting past the Sin of Melancholy itself. "Purity." With the last of his resolve, Clind spat on the Witch of Vainglory. She didn't flinch, didn't falter, didn't bother to notice. Rage. He ripped at his bonds, tearing the ropes apart and flaying his skin. He stood even as that emptiness made it impossible to move his fingers. Pandora's head tilted back as she held eye contact. Deep within her soul he detected a tremor.
"You've won." Clind accepted. "You'll stay in the world after I am gone, but I trust in the wish. It is important enough, even in my irrelevance. It is noble enough, even in my failings. It is great enough, even in the face of your triumph. The wish will be taken up, whether someone knows it or not. To the end, I will never forget it, do whatever you want with the husk the Authority makes me."
Pandora remained, a statue. His words meant nothing to her.
That was fine. "You will be defeated, Pandora." That didn't make them a lie.
"We don't have to fight, Clind," she proffered her hand, as if nothing had gone awry, as if his words hadn't been uttered, "just aid me."
Clind steeled his heart, "The world will never fall to your wretched Vainglory. Defiance!"
He took hold of the Witch Factor, it would consume him anyway, there was no use holding on. All of it scalded through him, melting away his will to do. All the desire that remained was to think, to ruminate on life, to hate existence, to wish for death. Melancholy.
For the wish, Clind defied.
He drew on his Authority. It wanted him to lay down, to never stand, to waste away. Clind brought gravity down on whatever facility this was. He weighed the world down with his self-pity, his self-hatred, his self-loathing. The earth rocked as tunnel's collapsed. In the distance, cultists howled and screeched. He felt them all die under his might. Pandora's smile never once disappeared.
"There, doesn't that feel better?" Pandora whispered, like she was speaking right into his ear…from across the chamber.
"No. Defiance." All went dark as the Witch Factor took root.
Clind tossed his arms around in the void. The rumbling deafened him for what felt like millenia. At the end of four centuries of defying impurity Clind was alone, but for the skittering of that rat.
"What aaaare you doing?" the disgusting thing asked. A 'man' stood before him, blending with the black nothingness. Deep bags hung under his eyes, his cheeks were sunken, and his ribs were showing. Terror. Clind, the last rememberer of their sacred wish, fell. Remembrance Lost.
And the Warlock was returned.
The sun washed down, bathing the grass, the trees, and him with the eternal rays of Her. Birds sang to one another, expressing their love as they soared through the skies, held in heaven by Her wondrous fingers. The Tigracy River roared in the east, its flowing whitewater a vibrant reminder of Her might. And soon the time would come for Her to rise. When Her shadows washed over the earth, more radiant than the morning star could ever be. When She would loom above—higher than any bird—judging them all. When the Lady of the Dark would wash away the lakes and the rivers and the cities with a wave of Her shades. When Satella would deliver the diligent to salvation, and condemn the slothful to the infernal ruin She left in Her wake.
"Lovely," he—the bringer of Her love—whispered, "so lovely."
"For love," he said, sliding his tongue along his lips. They may have been rotting, they may have been chewed to a scarred mess, and they may be the home of a few maggots, but it was all for love. She would see his labors. She would bless him. She would shelter him in the shade of Her embrace. She would love him. And Fortuna would still be dead… Sloth! He bit a chunk from the inside of his cheek. No amount of lazy whispering from a lesser man would be enough to stop him.
"For love." A new sound swelled in his ears, milling voices, waiting, ever so obedient. He breathed in, smelling all the odors of man.
"For love!" Glee rushed through his voice, washing over his heart. So much work for this. So much sweat spent. So much sanity lost. So much excess seared away. So much of Fortuna's blood in the mud. Sloth! So much sloth still within him.
What would Flugel have thought? He pushed his fingers past his scarred lips, through two rows of rotting gums, into a decrepit shit-smelling mouth. They must all make sacrifices. Green skin gave way before blackened teeth. Blood spread across his tongue, tasting of iron as the Witch Factor had so long ago, "For love."
He looked back at the endless field. All his work laid out upon it. Their exaltation was at hand. All the seeds shoved into the earth and watered with the lost dreams of—better men—sinners had grown to fruition and fulfilled every expectation. Even with all the obstacles in his way—the tiny Gluttony children mucking everything up, Lust failing so utterly, Wrath taking no part, and Greed being completely ineffective—he'd been steadfast. He'd run away from reality—like a coward—like a diligent man striding toward greater things.
All, "For love."
Laughter tore from him, brought forth by the blessed diligence within. Roars rushed up to meet his own exultation. A shared declaration of dedication and virtue. The result of a century of labor. Joy bubbled up, a deep satisfaction of knowing he had brought the world toward Her rise.
He wrapped his arms round his vibrating body, feeling the love wash through every vein. It was a warm elixir, rushing from heart to capillary. His vocal cords bent and wore away from all his triumph.
Oh Flugel, why had he done this? "For love!"
"Yes, for love." And her voice made the land anew. Clouds drifted before the sun, casting a faint shadow over the world. Not the overwhelming dark of Satella. Yet the flowers and grass had already wilted and dried. The birds descended from the sky, rejecting the blessing of Envy, hiding within whatever tree lay on this plain. The Tigracy River dulled, as if halted by her presence alone. A feat that no combination of Flugel's knowledge, Reid's strength, Volcanica's wisdom, and Farsale's judgment could have achieved.
He stopped biting his fingers, ceased his laughing, and forced all the love within to fall by the wayside. No amount of righteous fury, diligent action, or Satella's grace could win out over this pale avatar of sin.
"Please act naturally," she said in that soft voice, exuding a calm forceful enough to bring all the laws of reality to heel.
He may have towered above, but he was the smaller. Her eyes shone bluer than any other. Rays of light pierced the cloud cover, casting a shine to her skin. No other bit of sun reached the earth. This was a woman with fingers that could bend the course of time to her will. A woman with words that could deceive even the most alert—oh, Fortuna. A woman no attack could destroy forever. A force of the world. A force greater than the world.
"Pandora."
"Bishop Romanee-Conti."
He didn't dare respond. She looked past him, toward the field of his labor, "Wonderful. I told you, Bishop Romanee-Conti, all for love."
"Yes," he put his arms up, "for love!" For some escape from the constant whisperings of who he'd been. For love!
"Your travels have been a true success, Bishop Romanee-Conti."
He kept his face still, knowing any slight may bring the full might of Pandora upon him. Would she tear the world apart beneath him, sucking him into the glowing heat below? Would she send him to the sky above, so he stared down as the final frontier—Flugel had called it—ripped him apart. Would she flutter her eyelashes and place him underneath the watchful gaze of Shaula, under her Hellfire?
"Is it time?" For Fortuna to be avenged? For him to die? For him to—love?
Pandora nodded, "Yes, now is the time." And a woman with power enough to stave off Reinhard van Astrea was gone, unnoticed, like a faint breeze.
The clouds vanished, the sun shone like it always should have. The birds chirped, daring to do what they had for age upon age. The Tigracy River flowed free, as it had since long before even Zarestia came to be. He stared at where she'd been, and whispered, "For love." For love he must persist even in the face of the Witch who could make his Goddess mortal.
He stared at his gathered labor. For love…he was silent. For Satella…he was idle. For Fortuna…he was slothful. For Emilia…he chanted. "It is time! Members of the Witch's Cult! March, for love!"
Ten thousand voices screamed back. This was his labor, the entirety of the Witch's Cult, every member. They had all gathered here, at his and Pandora's command. Each man and woman turned east, toward the rising sun, toward the Tigracy River, toward the Watergate City of Priestella.
Then they marched, stepping in tandem. Ten thousand footfalls all at once. A quake shook the land. Pebbles bounced, birds screamed, vultures circled above. Soon all the scavengers of earth would feast upon the carrion of Pandora's enemies. While the greatest army of Witch Cultist's ever mustered marched, the Watergates stood strong, and the people of Priestella retained their blissful ignorance. Within days they would wake from their dreams of peace. The world would be changed. Pandora would have her triumph. And Satella would still be chained.
Petelgeuse grinned, wishing reality was not, wishing he could cry out in rage and sorrow. Oh how his brain trembled.
