Chapter 160
Edge of Everything
The chill of winter was permeating, but Sylas didn’t care. The cold winds, rather, cooled his mind as he made way from the far-northern castle closer toward the continent’s midland, where the village resided. Though still technically in the north, the village was much closer to the rest of the civilization than the castle. The latter was a smudge on a table-sized map, something a child would point to and ask ‘Father, what is this place?’, and got a barebones reply, ‘There where men go to die’.
Taking a swig from a gourd, he looked up at the moonless, starless, clouded sky. This was already his fourth descent down south. After the first one, where he managed to kill the Shadow, the other two resulted in rather painful deaths. As Sylas decided to slowly escalate the fight, eventually, he simply became unable to match the Shadow.
The levels of energy were incomparable--the only thing, really, that marginally closed the gap between the two was that Sylas was a cockroach. He was beyond difficult to kill, even for someone like Shadow. And, as the latter couldn’t engage in Sylas’ favorite style of fighting--blow for blow--the fights usually took quite a long while to complete.
Two deaths, though, were not for nothing; he’d probed deeper into the man, into the thing beneath the surface. One thing was for certain--just like Sylas... that was no human. That was something larger, something that defied the simple mortality of man. It was beyond pondering, though not as evidently crimson as Sylas.
There was a certain depth, a certain sullenness that the darkness hid beneath the gaze of a man who'd outlived a Kingdom--life to him, just like to Sylas, was a fleeting thing. Though he was consumed in his own river of anger, it wasn't much different than Sylas'--there was the rage of defiance, the rage of wanton helplessness. Beyond it all, Sylas felt it dangerous to interact with the man--for, more and more, he'd begun seeing the world from his perspective.
Shadow, or Shadows--however many existed out there--saw the rest as beneath them. After all, they were the kindling figures who even defied Gods themselves--who undid the chains binding the swath of humanity. They crushed them, the tight bonds that had enslaved mankind for the time immemorial.
And that was their true purpose, Sylas learned shortly after his third death to the man. The man hated Sylas not because Sylas was strong, but because the man thought he’d gotten that strength from the Gods. That, somehow, the Gods were beginning to influence the world at large once again. That their perennial battle, their sacrifice... was in vain.
“It’s all beginning to make some sense,” Sylas mumbled into the wind, his untied hair flapping about violently and wildly, unbridled like his spirit. “Three stories danced and mingled... and the fourth whispered softly.”
Sighing yet again, he bound the distance--and within ten days found himself facing the village yet again, and the shadow that imminently stirred. It appeared in front of him cloaked in arrogance, shining decadently beneath the faint shimmer of moonlight. It was one of the few days when a moon would creep out and greet the world. Though beautiful, Sylas was blind to it.
Staring at the Shadow, the man stared back in equal measure--one wrapped in black attire from head to toe that hid his features, and the other wearing nothing but tattered pants and an old belt, topless and barefoot in the winter’s chilly snow. The only thing that seemed even of remote worth was the blade hanging loosely at the side, as though it was the only thing a man needed to wander the world.
“Who are you?” the Shadow asked, as it always did.
"The cult treats you and your brethren as deities," Sylas spoke, wanting to confirm his theory. "And believes your goal is the resurrection of the Empire. They act independently, led by the faded knowledge that their ancestors barely managed to salvage from their burning homes. They want to depose the Kingdom and arise from its ashes. But they will fail. You and your brethren... you do not care for the Empire. Your solitary purpose in life... is to guard these lands against the Gods' influence. One of you, likely, was the source of that hand. They must have felt it--a twine of something akin to Gods' power. After all, I repeatedly saved without thinking much. But that power... had to come from somewhere."
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“...” the Shadow continued to listen, silent.
"Though it is not Gods'... perhaps, to those of you who would lose their minds at anything remotely approaching the realm of Gods... it wasn't worth the risk," Sylas sighed, looking up at the moon. "Everything is irrelevant. You hide behind the mask of degeneracy, of evil. But in the end... you wear those masks to hide. You know that the connection remains, however faint. Otherwise, there would be no Prophets, Exorcists, or any manner of Divine remaining. But there are. That means... there exists at least one Cairn somewhere out there, splicing the realms, however barely."
“!!!!!!!!!!”
"And thus, you don the mask of evil," Sylas continued, ignoring the rising energy within the man. "Hoping to drive out the truth in whatever way you can. The Nobles... are greedy, as they always are. Their power got to their head, and they are now biding their time. They've seen what the cult is doing and blamed all ills on them. They're using the cult's influence to stretch the Kingdom's armies and influence thin. While the innocent men and women die, they tie their demise to the King's inability to rid the Kingdom of its vermin."
“...”
“In the end, somehow, some way, these stories collided,” Sylas suddenly pointed at himself. “And wound up in front of me. The fangs of the many lurched, but instead of the story that should have been a perfectly woven tapestry of childish schemes that inevitably culminate in a Kingdom-ending war--as all pointless schemes do--it became... this. They are scraping the bottom of the barrel. Was it them? Who told you that they ‘felt’ the Divine energy around these parts?”
“...”
"And then there are those beyond the north," Sylas chuckled. "Resurrecting their God while the rest of us bicker. Using the energy we're providing them. Brokering the deals with us under the guise of not interfering. But, they too, would fail, in the story. If they had the strength and confidence, they would have marched. But... they are weak. Only now do I realize how weak they truly are. Rather, everyone except for the two sides is weak. You... and the King."
“... there is death written in your blood, boy,” the Shadow said, his voice eerily calm. Sylas realized--the anger, the loathsome degeneracy... they were a mask. “For to know is to know too much. To know all that, as you said... you cannot be weak.”
“And yet the weak know.”
“The weak know fragments,” the Shadow said. “Even you... are fishing. It is true that we have but one calling in this life and the next. But we do not hunt the base children of the Gods, the poor souls drunk on the holy.”
“... I know where the Cairn is,” Sylas said.
“I imagine you do,” the Shadow nodded. “But you will not tell us.”
“That’s right. I won’t,” Sylas nodded.
“Then why have you come here?” the Shadow asked. “Your Way is not the Way of Gods. Just like us, you have discovered an alternate path to strength. A way to unbind the chains and stand tall. You have transcended the limits, boy. Take pride in it and wander. Far away from this filthy place, if possible.”
“... I cannot do that, I’m afraid,” Sylas chuckled, shaking his head. “My life and my death are bound to these lands, just like yours.”
“You will die, boy,” the Shadow said.
“To die... is to live,” Sylas mumbled, slowly drawing out the sword, its silver shimmer alighting against the white snow below. “Now all stories make sense... but my own. Why am I here?” he pondered, thrusting energy slowly through his fingers into the blade. “What is my purpose? What is my calling?” the blade shuddered and cried like a living soul, excited with the fire of life. The Shadow observed calmly and listened silently. “Why is it that while the others live on and die in ignorance, I need live every lie and every truth with my bones?”
The blade hummed and the Shadow's eyes widened--it was the hum of eternity, the hum of a calling that should have been culled. It was the song of the harp that the fingers of the undying once strummed; and it was the hum of a song that, once upon a time, clawed through the heart of a God.
“It was not the Gods, it was not you, it was not the King,” Sylas said. “There is only one another.”
“He knows,” a voice whispered from nowhere and everywhere, freezing the time. Sylas’ energy dissipated abruptly as his eyes veered up. From the colorful moon, a shape descended, a pair emerging from the formless colors. “Dear doe.”
“Indeed, dearest crow.”
“But he does not know still, dear doe.”
“One day he shall, dearest crow.”
“When is that day, dear doe?”
“Not today, dearest crow.”
“When, then, dear doe?”
“When the fires assail and the sky bleeds ashen.”
“He shall ache, dear doe.”
“He must ache, dearest crow.”
“He must ache?”
“He must ache.”
“You must ache,” Sylas shivered, his entire body tingling with the cold sensation. “Why must he ache, dear doe?”
“To ache is to live, dearest crow,” the voice said as the time came undone. “He must let it all burn. Burn. Burn. Burn.”
“We hate fires, dear doe!”
“But he loves them, dearest crow!”
“He loves them indeed. We must listen, dear doe!”
“For our wish compels us,” the tiny, beady, black eye bored into Sylas’ soul for a moment. “Our wish compels us... dearest human.”
The time came unfrozen and Sylas stood dumbfounded. Shadow, too, seemed confused--but largely as to why Sylas suddenly canceled his attack. The latter was still shaking in a cold sweat, reminiscing. Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck meeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee, he screeched inwardly in terror. I nearly shat my pants... Jesus lovely Christ what in the God’s name was that fucking shit holy God of all that is holy--