The past couple of hours had been a blur to Isaac, from the shackles wrapped tightly around his wrists, to the long walk down from the hall of questions all the way to the jail at the other end of Casamer. The sun had been shining brightly, and the marble statues of the famous inquisitors were polished to a shine. The white path had oddly seemed dreary, but most things are with manacles on. Step after step, it all converged forming an endless loop of boot-tapping, eventually adding in the sound of water dripping to the mix. All to create the world's most annoying melody.
The jail was dank, moldy, and reeked of week old shit. He and his escorts passed countless prisoners being held, some being prepped for an upcoming arena tourney, and some wallowing in self pity. Their thoughtless mutterings giving Isaac a headache as they echoed through the musty halls. The gravelly sound of the rough ground caused his ears to ring as they slowly approached the cell he’d be staying in for the day. It had been so far into the jail that two lamps hanging outside the door were his only source of light. This was by no means a holding cell like Mormon had said, but that was to be expected. For now he’d just have to make the best of it.
The only furnishing the room possessed was a sack filled with hay that sat atop a bench that spanned the entire back wall. There was also a bucket that sat in the corner of the room that insects gathered around like an altar during a church sermon. The bucket was overflowing with brown slop that was easily identifiable as shit, and it was ringed with a puddle of yellow. Isaac listened as the door to the cell shut behind him and a clicking sound filled his ears. The jailers walked off. He meandered over to the bench and lay on it gently, being careful not to put any strain on his sore limbs. He hadn’t been blessed with sleep for over fifty hours, so shit smelling cell and itching pillow be damned. He closed his eyes and allowed sleep to take him.
The heat of the room, although blistering, managed to defrost him from the Question Hall’s chill, and he was as still as a rock as his body restored its energy. He had been asleep for eighteen hours, the time nearly two in the morning. A loud rattling could be heard not ten feet from his head. His eyes quickly shot open, the bags under them gone. He immediately locked eyes with whatever had caused him to wake.
There he stood, Elm, standing right up against the bars. His mask was off and his teeth were curled into a smile. His hands were gripped tightly on two of the bars, and his head was held just as close. Isaac rubbed his eyes, blinked thrices, and sat up. He shifted on the bench, reaching his arms into the air. He twisted his neck side to side, each time giving a satisfying crack each time. Finally, he stared Elm directly in the eyes.
“What? What do you want?” Isaac asks, his voice raspy and tired.
“Oh, nothing. Just seeing how it’s going for you…street rat.” His mouth curled ever higher.
Isaac exhaled sharply, staring at Elm’s jovial face. Then it all came together, “Did you actually mean a word of what you said to the Arch Lector? You didn’t, did you?”
Elm shrugged, politely taking his hands off the bars, “You don’t actually care that Rin’s dead, I can tell. You just want to see me suffer, right? Well, lucky you then. Here I am. Suffering.” Isaac said, his tone becoming more aggravated.
“Isaac, I couldn't give two shits about whether Rin is alive or dead. He didn’t matter much to me, inconsequential. What matters to me is that a rat like you isn’t invading the church. You don’t deserve to be there,” He gestures up in the direction of the cathedral, “Not like the rest of us do. You low born shits, thinking you deserve the same opportunities as us? Ridiculous.” His eyes narrow in on Isaac, “You asked if I wanted to see you suffer. Well, the answer is yes. After all you put me through, of course you do. You killed someone in front of me,” He dramatically placed the back of his hand over his face and reared back his head, “Oh the terror I felt, not knowing if I was next,” Elm said trying to hold in his laughter.
“So, I’m essentially being kicked out of the inquisition because you what? Don't like me?! Elm, if I’m not selected tomorrow, and let’s be honest I won't be… I lose everything.”
“I suppose that's quite the point,” he replied with a chuckle.
“Isaac, I’ve dreamed of this day, I’ve known you for how many years now? Bah- well it doesn’t matter, the point is that Isaac…I hate your guts. And I am finally collecting my dues. Each day under your command, lowborn command. Ick, the mere thought of it makes my stomach churn.”
“What, now you give me some pretentious ass monologue? Well, fuck that, and fuck you Elm.” Isaac replied with a heavy scowl.
Elm stared at him blankly, losing his smile and giving a sigh, “Ugh, look. The point I’m making here is that no matter why you killed Rin, it’s a benefit to me. I didn’t much care for the bastard, and I don’t much care for you. You broke the sacred laws of the inquisition and of god, and you’ll reap the consequences.”
“Fuck your god.” He venomously retorted.
“Watch. Your. Tongue. Rat,” Elm glared at him with fiery intensity, “I sincerely hope you burn in the hells. So many titles for you, bastard, rat, and now sinner. What a fitting bunch of words to describe you with. You're a borderline fiend, and you deserve whatever comes your way,” Elm said with a bright red face and a laugh, “See you at selection.”
The loud clicking of Elm’s boots, as well as the rattling of their straps was heard all through the hall as he stomped off. Isaac layed back down and the anger fizzled away almost immediately as a sense of lethargy overtook him once again. But, he couldn't fall back asleep, not after that.
“Tomorrow, my life is over. Everything I’ve worked for, gone. Hard to believe that earlier today I thought demotion was the worst thing they could throw at me, looks like I was wrong. This is worse. So much worse. No point in even breaking out. I’d be better ending it right now, bars look sharp enough; breaking one off wouldn’t be too hard either,” He muttered to himself as he gazed up at the warm light spread across the ceiling, “But that’s what they want, isn’t it? Bah, not now. Would be too much work anyways. More work than it’s worth at that,” He sighed loudly as he shifted his hands, itching at them roughly, “Do I feel bad for Rin? Maybe, I guess. He deserved it, but not like that. I gotta keep control over that, lucky I have these,” He said looking at the hand’s he’d previously been scratching at. He looked desperate for but a moment, before allowing a slight grin to appear on his face. He moved his hand over to his left pants pocket where he pulled out a pack of cigarettes. He pulled one and threw the pack on the floor next to him. He concentrated on it for a second, connecting a quivering web. Within the second a web was established and a small ember was sent through, igniting it ever so slightly. He flung his wrist to the side, disconnecting the web and placed the cigarette in his mouth, taking a long drag before exhaling a large plume into the air.
“Haven't been able to smoke for days, best enjoy my last few hours in the inquisition with steady nerves,”
XXX
The cold water of the shower chilled his body to the bone, a sharp contrast to the harsh bubbling heat of the jail. Apparently, the torturer sect forgoes comfort for their positions, or perhaps they’re simply all masochists.
The clean, white, tiled walls glimmered with polish as the water fell atop. The gold color of the shower head was covered in tiny droplets that gathered in bunches and dripped down the side like sweat. He reached over to a fancy looking glass pail, in which he withdrew a handful of liquid soap. He crouched down and held his hands together. He leaned over his blistered toes and drizzled it lightly on top of them, feeling a sharp sting every time it reached a blister or open cut. The wounds hadn’t been dressed, nor did he know when he got them, but cleaning them couldn’t hurt. He grabbed another handful and spread it all over his chest as his hair sagged in his eyes.
Everything was blurry and hard to make-out but the bright red gash across his chest from the fiend two days ago was indeed hard to miss. He spread the soap along it feeling stinging pain as the wound was treated. Surely to leave a nice scar. He hated being naked, it was discomforting knowing that someone could walk in and attack him and he’d be defenseless, or much worse, someone could walk in and see all his bits. A loss of his dignity shouldnt have meant much since he’d never had much to begin with, but if he could keep this last shred it’d be enough.
He shivered as he parted the hair on his neck and felt the freezing water make contact. He grabbed at the indents in the wall, and slowly pulled himself up. He ran his fingers through his hair, brushing it back out of his eyes and pushed down on the water lever, stopping the flow. He stepped out of the bath and immediately grabbed the gray robe that hung by the door. He wrapped it around his body and tied it at the waist. A robe was a femenine thing, but it’s not like he’d refuse warmth after the frigid water. He with the little pride as he had left slid the slippers on that the maids had so thoughtfully provided.
He knocked on the door, wrapping his knuckles a few times or so. His muscles still being sore had not been much of a concern before, but the ache had been starting to gnaw at him now. With all the mana he could muster from his surroundings, he quickly allowed it to flow into his legs, and arms; They’d now function like a well oiled wheel, hopefully. However, the transfer left him absent of mana other than that in the lens’s he had in his legs, and eyes.
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Just as he finished the transfer, two women opened the door, two of Mormon’s no doubt. Both dressed in colors of blue and gray. Famous colors of the rangers all throughout Derunia. However, something was esque. The two women had something off about their getup, and though it took Isaac a moment to ponder, he realized what it was. The skirts were much higher then needed. Mormon aimed to tempt Isaac with what he could not have, now more than ever apparently. Isaac looked forward, sheepishly, avoiding both of their gazes, occasionally catching himself looking but correcting himself swifty. He was still a man, no matter how much he tried to hide it.
They handed him a pile of garments with smiles that made him internally gag as he cringed to himself. He nearly slammed the door as he quickly pressed in the lock, and set the garments on a wooden bench that sat in the corner. He removed the robes, paying no mind to his bruised skin. The undergarments were green and slid on with relative ease, as did the trousers, then the tunic. He got them on comfortably enough before pulling up a pair of white socks over his feet, matching them soon after with a formal pair of brown dress-boots. They were uncomfortable, most of the clothing was, itchy and uncomfortable. He threw over the gray tailcoat that’d been given and looked himself up in the mirror.
A right fool he looked. Mistakable as a butler if not for the soon to be diminished badge of title that read “High Inquisitor” like some morbid participation trophy. He sighed heavily and made sure his navy locks were combed proper, and his clothing comfortable yet neat. His head shook side to side whilst he patted his pocket expecting to feel the indent of a carton of cigarettes, but was left with the impersonal nature of ‘masterful’ stitchwork. He sighed yet again and inched towards the door.
The hinges slid like a well oiled machine, slick and soundless. Awaiting him were two rangers playing as guards. They stamped their spears against the floor planks and began walking down the hall. The last hall he’d walked through was a sunless winter, this one couldn’t have been more different. Streaks of light shot through windows made of beautiful colored glass. Images of the true god, the saints, and the inquisition carved and displayed prominently throughout. And soon they made their way to the base of a staircase where the hall of memorium awaited them. If Isaac could possibly have felt more dread and distaste at this moment he would have. Not only was he on his way to a public humiliation, he knew what sat in the hall of memorium and why the ‘guards’ had chosen to take the route.
Mormon wished to torment Isaac further on this already grim day, and he’d get his wish. Not twenty strides down the hallway, he saw it. It was a mask, rather a helmet made of scrap metal, he stopped dead in his tracks, entranced. As Isaac’s eyes narrowed in on the mask, those same narrow eyes widened. That mask, the mask of the Gravedigger. The glowing Yellow eyes, and mouth that stretched far and unnervingly into a holographic smile. Back when he saw it last, he remembered it covered in dried blood top to bottom, its sleek gunmetal black gone. It sat atop the Gravedigger who stood over the corpses of dozens of soldiers with fresh leaking crimson dripping down their wounds. Arm’s, legs, and the like scattered around the pile. A full suit of Gunmetal Lens armor with string casters attached to either hand, saw’s on either arm, and two cannons mounted on the back. Three wires on each caster made lines in the mud as that monster walked forward towards a group of twenty or so soldiers. All cowering. He remembered the rush of battle, hearing anguished and horrifying screams, then seeing those same cowering soldiers torn apart within half a minute. The wires cutting them into food for the dogs and vultures.
He remembered lines of hazy smoke rising from burning piles of limbs as Inquisitors and warriors of Faxium fought against King Swayne’s men. The bastards dropped quicker than flies, fish in a barrel. Their rotten stench filling his nostrils, and he loved and hated every second of it. The battle was a rush, and the aftermath a crawl. Two very different sides of the same proverbial coin that was tossed every time he fought. Live or die? Who cared? Hundreds of men on both sides weaving in and out of mud-filled trenches, climbing over piles of their friends. Occasionally all hope would be lost, but when the men stared upon the legendary Gravedigger, every ounce of hope lost would be restored ten fold.
He was a menace. A force to be reckoned with. Hundreds of men had tried to kill him, and that many men were dead. He was a true leader, someone to look up to. Yet to the enemy, a monster, an abomination, a grand perversion of humanity; if he had any to begin with. He was brutal, efficient, and his mask inspired fear. The second you heard the rev of his saws, the crunch of his loading cannons, or the violent rip of his spring loaded casters, you’d either cheer as the day was won, or cower behind the closest man, depending on your allegiance.
Isaac didn’t know if he was lucky or unfortunate to know such a man. But either way, it didn’t matter how he looked back on it now. The man was dead, dead and buried. And that was probably for the best. All he could do now was turn his head away from the mask. Turn his head and walk away, walk away from the face of the most terrifying monster he’d ever known. And the strange thing was, he looked back on it fondly. Rather than being terrified of being killed in battle, the thought of death sounded pleasing, it almost excited him.
XXX
The end was soon approaching, the end of the hall, the end of his career, and the end of the line. A large wooden door, with loud clapping hinges opened up before him, allowing him to enter the cathedral where his future awaited him. He gulped and entered into the room. The gray tails of his coat flapped behind him as he walked. He felt foolish at best, like a toy being shown off, a dog at a pageant.
Twenty or so people stood in the room, including Mormon and five rangers. The air in the room, so thick you’d have to chew and spit it out. Mormon stood in front of the altar, his guard at his side. In neat rows of seven, fourteen people Isaac didn’t recognize much less like the look of were stood lined up. They formed rows that led up to Mormon like the braziers to the grand cathedral entrance. Unremarkable, all of them. Eyeing them up and down, Isaac felt almost insulted. Low inquisitors, all. It seemed Mormon wished to humiliate him further.
This was all until he reached the second to last person in the line, she looked different from the rest. For one, she was gorgeous. Isaac could hardly believe his eyes that the woman standing before him was of the inquisition, and the rangers much less. She had soft-looking short white hair, cut straight on the sides with straight bangs as well. Her clothing whilst more revealing than Isaac expected of an Inquisitor, still sufficed he hoped. Her eyes were a bright orange, they were especially bright whilst she glared at him. Her skin was flawless and glowing. Yet despite her wonderful exterior, she glared at Isaac with a hatred he had simply never felt before from anyone. But suffice to say, he wanted to be selected by her if at all.
Look at it this way, I just need an excuse to die. If I get selected I take an oath of Bond. And the only words that matter ‘I will die for this person’ are the only words that matter, then it’s free reign. Ain’t exactly like I’m gonna be selected, but it’s nice to dream.
Isaac cautiously steps forward in front of the selectors, and the Arch Lector Mormon, Isaac had hoped the other Lectors would’ve been there but we don’t always get what we ask for.
He stopped just before the line of people and waited patiently, a facade of stoicism taking the place of his nerves.
Mormon took a step forward as well and with his stone face stared at Isaac, “In the name of god, the saints, and the inquisition we all gather here today, under the pretense of ‘selection’. The fourteen of you will gaze upon this sullied Inquisitor and will be free to judge and select him if you so choose,” He rolled his cane in his hand, “The man before you is ex High Inquisitor, Isaac Holt. He once fought bravely in the Triss war just four years ago, under the command of the ‘Gravedigger’,” Isaac smiled at the praise, Mormon being forced to give his achievements and titles must have been painful, “He certainly can handle himself in a fight. But…” Here it comes. “Lest we forget the crimes he has committed. Treason and murder among the charges, Isaac Holt has broken our law and his oath for the last time. For him, this is a kind and final mercy of our loving god. If he is not selected today, he will be cast out for his crimes,” The cripple glanced around, judging their faces, “So with that, I leave you all to your decision, will anyone accept him as their partner?”
The words left his mouth and not a single other was uttered. For once, the cathedral was entirely silent. Mormon, nor the rangers, nor selectors spoke a sentence. They all blankly stared at him, some wearing scratched silver masks, some with nothing but the flesh on their face, and some, particularly those with white hair and orange eyes still stared at him with contempt.
Minutes passed, and Isaac stood silently and stoically with his head down and fingers crossed, the eerie silence of the cathedral filling his ears. The blood gushing around in his ears was the only noise he could hear. He focused deeply on his own breathing, the soft noise coming in and out of his nose as he awaited someone's voice. Mormon progressively went from stone faced to an amused grin. He rigged this, didn’t he? Bastard, I never had a chance. Isaaac gritted his teeth and clamped down hard, grinding them together as his impending fate became apparent.
Finally the silence was broken, “ Well, it seems that no one thought to pick this one. Can’t say I’m surprised-”
“I’ll take him.” The voice was neither too deep nor too high, a perfect equal, and Isaac recognized the voice before he even looked up. The white haired girl had stood tall and stated the words plainly and with conviction. They were joyous, and Isaac had to admit it was pleasing for Mormon to go from his pleased expression to one of disgust. Isaac held back a snicker, and an exasperated sigh of relief. It was decided, Isaac would remain an inquisitor after all, maybe the True God was forgiving after all. Isaac smiled as he looked up, he finally had his excuse, or maybe an opportunity.
Mormon stuttered with his words for a second before clearing his throat, “Well, then it would seem I stand corrected. Isaac Holt, by order of the inquisition I hereby admit you into the position of rookie.” He stared daggers at Isaac’s shit eating grin, “You will now take your oaths to one another.”
Isaac had been familiar with the process, he had to do it once himself, and the words were ingrained in his mind, just as much as any other inquisitor. The woman looked at him and began to walk over, and with confidence at that. Isaac straightened his posture and kneeled down, as did she. The both of them stared deeply into the other’s eyes and the words flowed seamlessly. Water in a river.
In unison they spoke, “I serve to god in which I pray. Let his words touch us, and our hearts. Let his songs liberate and free us from the cowering dark. Let his voice speak through me, a true child of light. Let his love be shared with the one before me, and let their light shine bright. Here, I severe myself, and give that part to you. Let us become one, in life and death. And when the time comes for God's light to face a dark day, I place you before my own. I live for god, and die for you,” and with that the words were said, the pledge was taken and the two were bound. Bound until death.
“And with the oath taken, you, Isaac, and you, Nora shall share a place in God's light. Congratulations on your partnership, may it be fruitful.” Isaac heard nothing but venom and scorn in those words, but that didn’t matter much, not much at all. He had found something greater than god, he had found an excuse.