(TLO) Chapter 80: It Is Earned (Patreon)

On no instruction other than the guidance of instinct, or perhaps it was a sense of expectation, Seth closed his eyes and willed his minds to focus. If there was ever a time he needed [Fractured Mind] to take effect, it was now.

It did not.

So he focused as all boys do and willed himself into silence of voice and mind.

Slowly, like the dawning of spring after winter, his senses dulled. They deemed from all over him. First he lost the sense of touch. The platform upon which he was seated died out from his senses. He felt neither the hardness nor its presence. The air followed. He could not feel it, never really had since waking up, but there had always been that sensation, that simple presence that reminds a person air exists where they stand. It is in the simple touch on the skin, like an ever present cloth. Always there, always in contact. Now, it was gone. Dead. Like the platform beneath him.

Sound left him next. This one he felt. It was like the dying of crickets in a forest. The sudden stagnation of falling water. It was the absence of breath in the living. It plunged him into a silence that sought to defy itself, a murderous intent bent to the will of ending itself. It felt like the end of the world around him.

Then sight left him. He had once thought the simple act of closing his eyes plunged him into darkness. He knew now how wrong he was. Closed eyes did not become the dark. Perhaps it became the diminishing of light, but to call it the presence of the dark is tantamount to blasphemy if the dark was a god. No. Darkness was vastly different. True darkness was nothingness. And the loss of his sight swallowed him whole.

Yet he did not panic.

When his smell left him, he was glad for it. He waited to lose more. Knew as a child knows their mother that it was the cost of a fragment in some way. But he did not. Instead, the world gave back.

Feeling returned to him, blossomed from his palm like a spring flower in winter, odd and defiant. Then it became intrusive. It grew from the skin of his fingers, then the back of his hand. First it was warm, then it burned. Not in the way fire burns, but in the way of something toxic. It reminded Seth of one of Jonathan’s many experiments, one he had been unfortunate enough to venture upon during its creation. Till this moment he still never found out if what he had walked in on was a finished product, a success, or a failure. What he did know, however, was how badly it had burned his eyes, its ever thick smoke clinging to the air and his lungs like thick mists or a fog of smoke.

Toxic, a thought bubbled in his head. He wasn’t sure if it was his or a fragment’s but it was right. The sensation he felt now was less fire and more toxic. It was poison. And as it intruded upon him, seeping into his skin and crawling into his closed hand, he knew there was nothing he could do to stop it.

But in his silence something else reared its unbecoming head: a blatant inability to care.

This, it seemed, was what it was to focus on a fragment he now felt like a blazing sun in the palm of his hand.

“You have to guide it now,” Faust whispered gently. “You have to accept it, then guide it.”

The Monsignor said something else that was lost to him. Seth was certain he heard it but was more certain it was unimportant. Or at least he had deemed it of no import. Still, Faust continued to speak. Still, he ignored the man, casting aside the sounds he made like the dead cast away life.

When his senses began returning to him, they came differently. Like children returning home as adults with their own problems and their own lives. Stimuli came to him like summer in the dark. He had no idea what summer in the dark was or what sensation it would invoke, yet it was the only way with which his awareness described it. It was loud and enthralling. It also made him feel like he had once been less.

Where he had once felt the hardness of what he sat on, he now felt the clothe he wore, its gentle touch against his skin. He felt the fiber of its creation. If he was asked to describe it he would be forced to catch himself lest he lie and claim he felt every thread, and stitch, and seam. Because he did not. But he felt it so vividly.

When sound came, it was loud and commanding. It was a child scorned. A boulder cleft. A mountain erupting. It was the sound the ship Jabari had destroyed should’ve made.

He grimaced at its arrival and Faust placed a calming hand on his shoulder, cooing gentle nonsense to appease him. Unfortunately, they did nothing to calm him. Instead, they thundered in his ears and he shrunk away from it. He heard the air around him behind Faust’s booming sounds. It did not come to him in symphonies as he had expected. It was more like the noise of static. Like the rustling of a million leaves on a single tree in a silent, raging storm. In it he could make nothing of coherence.

When it dimmed, overshadowed by the growing burn at the core of his enclosed palm, curiosity spurred him to open his eyes.

At first he was slow, cautious. There was a touch of panic for fear of blinding himself but it wasn’t what held him. No. Something else did; something he could not quite name.

He watched his eye lids flutter first, allowed them filter the colors that came, easing himself into the arrival of light. It came without menace, as all things should. Inspired by this, he opened them to slits so that he saw through a rectangle of an opening. The world was a vibrant black with stains of green. It was the richest color he had ever seen black become and he knew who he was before he’d closed his eyes would ever him dearly.

“How does it feel?” Faust asked, his voice loud but bearable.

Seth allowed his eyes open fully. When they did, the colors around him settled into comfort. They did not shout at him anymore. They were not loud now, simply vivid, clear. He met Faust’s gaze and made a correct to a mistake he had been making since the first day he saw the man. His pupils were not the color of blood. They were blood. Around them, in intricate lines, the tiny veins were a feint green as would be expected of something diseased.

“You have to focus, Jabari,” Faust continued. “Focus so you can absorb it.”

Seth nodded absently, but his attention did not leave Faust. Even now, as the man poured reia into his hands, Seth knew a truth the man was yet to. A truth that should’ve saddened him but did naught to his emotions. Perhaps he would be sad eventually. Or perhaps Faust would be sad for him. Until then, he read the notification that hovered between him and the Monsignor.

You Have Been Poisoned

You Have Been Poisoned

You Have Been Poisoned

Skill [Heart of Winter] is in Effect

[Heart of Winter]

Many Observers know the feel of emotions. In its necessity it clouds judgements and brings chaos in all its beauty. The emotion of one Observer is as powerful over them as it is over the observed. Thus, Observers have found at the core of the soul an emotion that exists at the pinnacle of all things. This, amongst others, is one all Observers strive for. Peace. For true peace exist without happiness or sadness. It is to stand, indifferent.

Seth dismissed the notifications with a shrug of will. He refocused knowing Faust had spoken again with words he had well and truly missed. His eyes dimmed and he tilted his head to the side in curiosity. Faust must have understood because the man spoke again.

“Do you feel it?”

Seth shook his head. “No,” he said. He had intended the words to come out as appeasing, but it came out odd. It made him wonder enough to speak again. “I do not.”

At the edge of his attention John’s attention sharpened, gaze fixing on him like a man alert. It seemed the Reverend had noted a difference as he had. Faust, however, seemed more focused on the fragment in his hand. The unfortunate man seemed more invested in him absorbing the fragment than Seth.

Faust looked up to meet his eyes. “You need to focus, Jabari.”

Seth nodded but knew he did not. If something was going to happen, it would have happened already. He might have never absorbed a fragment, but he knew it was not meant to take this long.

He turned his head away from Faust to look at John. “Have my brothers returned?”

John scowled, whether it was from being asked a question or whatever oddity was in his voice, Seth did not know. However, the man answered. “Yes. Two days ago.”

Seth absorbed the information quietly. He gave the illusion of thought though he did not think on it. “Have they received their rewards?”

John nodded.

“How many received a black fragment?”

John opened his mouth but it was the Monsignor who answered. “Two. Timi and Forlorn.”

“Forlorn.” The word felt strange on his tongue. Usually there was something whenever he mentioned the name. It always came with some bias, some disgust.

Why?

“I don’t…” he allowed the remaining words trail off. “He offended me once.”

Once?

“No.” He licked drying lips and his eyes narrowed. “More times than once.” He looked down at his hand wrapped in Faust’s and thought further. There was more to this than Forlorn’s offence.

Why could he not find it? Why did he know it but could not understand it? He searched himself and found nothing. There was a coldness inside him, a chill that left him unfeeling. He could feel it thawing already, ever slow, like an iceberg over a lit match. But why could he feel nothing?

“Is this the Heart of Winter?” he asked.

A fragment of his mind answered: We believe so.

John eased away from the wall he was leaning against. “What’s that?”

Seth ignored him, did not cease his conversation with his minds. “Is this indifference?”

Perh—

No.

Seth paused at the interruption, while in front of him Faust was beginning to realize what he had already accepted.

“Why do you say so?” he questioned the fragment that had rejected an affirmation. “It is different, quieter, colder.”

It is also incomplete.

Seth cocked his head slightly, questions abounded yet he could no sooner place a certainty on one than he could defeat Igor in a fair fight.

“Incomplete, how?”

Faust came into view before he got an answer. He was prepared for what he would see in the man’s eyes, the sadness, the appeasement, the apology. Pity was no exemption.

But shock was the least of his expectation. In truth, it was not even at the edge of it. Monsignor Faust looked upon him with so profound a shock that it almost jarred him from whatever emotion had left him so mentally addled.

“How?” Faust asked, when he could find his words.

Seth gave no reply, as there was none to give. To proffer an answer, a comprehension of even the most minute level must exist. For him, it did not. There was only the how and naught else. The question was insufficient.

Finding Faust in patient waiting, and knowing the man would expound on the word no further, he asked: “How what?”

Even now he sounded odd, different. He could not say he liked it.

He could not say he did not.

“You have a core.”

“I have a—” Seth cut off his own words, confusion a thief breaking into his mind.

Whatever had a hold of him was wavering now, like a cracked wall under siege. Where it had been an iceberg beneath a lit match it was now a castle of sand withstanding a gust of wind. Still, he had more important things to discover than the state of his mind.

“I have a core?” he asked his minds.

Yes, they answered as one, their thrice echoed thoughts coming in an odd symphony, an empty symphony.

Faust spoke at the same time. “You do.”

He frowned at Seth and the pity came next. “But something is wrong with it.”

John took a step towards Faust. “What is?”

Seth’s eyes moved to him in a slow pan. Was that worry he had heard in the man’s voice? Was the cruel Reverend concerned for the state of his core? “How do I have a core?” he asked, instead. “When did I gain a core?”

“I do not know,” Faust answered.

Neither do we, a fragment added. But we suspect we’ve had it a while. Perhaps since the test.

John stepped up. “It’s the reason he survived the poison.” His feet carried him hurriedly so that he seemed to slide all the way to them and took Seth’s other hand in his. He placed two fingers against his wrist like a doctor checking for a pulse. “When did you get a core? Did you get a fragment during the test? Was it a black one?”

Seth’s once dislike for the man was now nothing but curiosity. He looked at the man with it, watched him, observed him as a child would a new toy. No. Not a new toy. He watched him as a man would a healthy horse now dying.

“Does it offend you?” he asked.

John’s eyes snapped to him. He read anger in them, their fair pink darkening, but couldn’t bring himself to care for the emotion.

“Does it offend you?” he asked again.

Angry eyes grew hooded, then confused. Ignoring him, John turned his attention to Faust. “Something is wrong with the boy.”

“I know,” Faust affirmed with a touch of worry. “He cannot absorb the fragment. And with a core so weak his soul should have space for at least two more.”

“Not that.” John’s worry seemed unnecessary. “It’s the way he talks. It’s like he’s…”

“Not bothered,” Faust finished.

“Yes.”

“It’s because he already knew.” Faust released Seth’s hand. “I suspect he knew the moment he touched it.”

Seth’s gaze shifted from John to Faust. Something tugged at his mind, a response of sort. But it did not bear a need, a necessity. It did not bear a purpose. It seemed its only existence was to reassure the priest.

“Why?”

“What do you mean why?” John snapped. Only then did Seth realize he had spoken.

It’s fading, a fragment told him. The skill is wearing off.

“What skill?” Seth asked, he tasted panic at the edge of his voice. “The Heart of Winter?”

Yes, his mind answered.

“What is the Heart of Winter?” John demanded. “This is the second time you’ve said it.”

Seth ignored him as the world shifted around him. It tilted, threatening to fall him like the effects of vertigo. Something wasn’t right, he knew it as a dancer knows her steps. His eyes stung and his bottom lip quivered. Tears danced at the edge of vision and he begged them hold their place. It was as though for the last few minutes something had weaved a web of silence around him and trapped his emotions within it, then hoisted it high and away from his reach. It had brought him a strange peace for a moment. Now, it let them go and they came crashing down, chaos in its finest madness.

“Are you fine, child,” Faust asked carefully. “Do you need some time?”

Seth shook his head and sniffled lightly. The tears came pouring soon after.

To claim he knew the specific reason he cried would be a lesson in lies. Tears simply streamed from him in steady flows because they could. Save the occasional sniffle, he made no other sound, not a sob nor a snort.

He let the tears flow as heavily as the emotions that swirled within him. He remembered why he hated the name Forlorn. The boy was a right brat, uncultured and spoiled, with no regard for those he deemed his lesser by no other authority than the one entrust upon him by himself. If given the chance he would take one of the boy’s leg so that he was forced to hop for the rest of his life.

Still, it was not the reason he cried.

His defiance for John returned with the force of a battering ram. He remembered the pain of the man’s very existence. His useless runes that brought nothing but pain even under the influence of anesthesia. He hated John as a priest hates sin.

But this, too, was not the reason for his tears.

He found it when he looked at Faust. The older man, ancient as he was, looked so distraught, so broken. If bad news was to hold physical form, it would be no more than an imitation of Faust in his present form. The absence of hope, the despair. It broke Seth more than anything should’ve.

He opened his hand, leaving his other hand to John, and looked at the fragment. It looked back at him blandly. All its promise gone. Black as it was, it could not grant him anything. He would garner no power from it, no skill, no affinity. In his hands it was useless.

Acceptance is a painful peace only the strong claim confidently. But while he accepted the truth before him, he knew he was not strong.

He smiled sadly then looked at the Monsignor. He held up the fragment in an open palm. “Perhaps this would be more useful in the hands of one of my brothers.”

Faust nodded in silence, but John had his own disagreements.

“In the seminary,” he said, taking the fragment from Seth’s hand, “the first fragment is not given. It is earned.”

Seth frowned at him then cleaned his tears with the back of his hand. “And I have earned those fragments. They are mine by merit.”

“Yours to absorb,” he agreed. “But not yours to give.” He turned to Faust and gave him the fragment. “We will hold them until such a time as you are capable of absorbing them.”

“And if I never can?”

Faust placed the fragments in a pocket in his cassock. “Then an alternative reward will be decided by the seminary.”

Faust adjusted his cassock and stood straighter. When he spoke again it was to John in words Seth could not understand, in a language Seth had never heard before.

John nodded obediently, a servant to his commanding officer, and left the room. He struggled with the door as he had once done two years ago, wrenched it open with a muttered curse, then left.

Alone with Faust, Seth felt mildly at ease.

“You should prepare yourself,” Faust told him. “By my calculations, the anesthesia should be wearing off very soon.” He turned and headed for the door. There, he looked back over his shoulder. “I would suggest you lie down.”

When Faust left, Seth took his advice.

It was not long before the pain came.