19. Scourge

When Serac came to, sitting cross-legged next to her lotus flower, she’d half-hoped that Sublimity would be gone by then, taking her 900-odd Liminal Karma with them if need be. Perhaps they’d lost interest, or they might be off doing whatever else kept someone on Pathsight’s oversight committee busy.

No such luck. The Deva and their Deific Steed remained in the exact same spot, radiant in their armors and watching serenely as Serac and Zacko reconstituted at [Laceration Gorge North].

The first thing Serac did was look to Zacko with a grimace that she hoped could pass for apology. This whole ordeal did feel like it’d been meant only for her, and she wasn’t without remorse that her traveling companion had been dragged into it. The Manusya, for his part, responded with a wordless frown and a slight tilt of the chin in Sublimity’s direction, as if to say: please find a way to get this over with.

And Serac, by any stretch of the imagination, should’ve liked nothing more than to oblige. There was a small problem with that, however. For she’d just died to this Deva and their overwhelming ‘show of force’, and she—her dumb, reckless self—had somehow grown bolder for the experience.

Serac stood and approached Sublimity and their giant light-breathing dog, absent hesitation. She expected to be tortured or smited again at any moment, yet she walked in a straight line, brimming with a sense of conviction that was entirely unearned.

“What do you think you’re doing?” It was Trippy who interjected first, audibly bereft of his usual stoicism.

I’m going to tell this bureaucrat exactly what I think about their idea of oversight.

“Don’t be rash, Serac Edin! You’ve seen how powerful they are. How neither you nor the Manusya were any match even for their dog. Perhaps they’ll listen to reason if you just—”

“That’s quite close enough, Rakshasa.”

Serac winced and stopped in her tracks, still several yards away from Skyhowl’s gold-strapped muzzle.

That headache had started up again, this time at a low hum—a warning. The pain was still bad enough to make her eyes water and her hand reach subconsciously for her forehead.

She then did something that amazed herself. She sucked in a deep breath—all that Naraka goodness—then took one more step. Then another. Then a third one until she was within an arm’s reach of the giant dog, ready to pat its chin if she dared.

Every step came with a discernible worsening of the headache, as if every step had been a turn in a dial. By the time she finally came to a stop, she was shuddering all over and breathing hard through gritted teeth. Her eyes were so blurry from tears that she barely managed to see Sublimity recoil in their saddle, backing away and bristling as though Serac’s proximity had offended their senses.

Or perhaps their sensibilities. And because Serac did catch sight of that very non-neutral reaction, she thought she finally saw the person behind the radiant armor and silk-woven veil.

She knew Sublimity’s type. If not from hell, then at least from a previous life. The type that wanted to act like they were in perfect control all the time, only to lose their composure at the slightest deviation from the script—like, for example, a lowly Rakshasa getting all the way up in their business.

“What’s… the matter?” Serac managed to choke out through what she meant to be a big ol’ grin. “Afraid… of a little… eye contact?”

At this, something flashed behind a veil of woven silk—something that might’ve even passed for Sublimity’s eyes. But the moment was brief, and the Deva’s ‘face’ became an expressionless mask just as abruptly as they straightened in their seat.

At the same time, Serac’s headache subsided. The Rakshasa felt herself relax, gradually and still with plenty of difficulty. She kept her teary gaze fixed on where Sublimity’s eyes should’ve been, updating her appraisal of the Deva in real time.

So, you’ve got some real pride in you, after all. Glad you could see that this ‘show of force’ only made you seem smaller.

To be sure, she was glad, and massively relieved to boot. Because, honestly, she didn’t know for how much longer she could’ve withstood the pain.

“You’ve got nerve, Rakshasa, I’ll give you that—though it might simply be foolishness,” Sublimity spoke again, their tone unchanged, “Regardless, I still must carry out my business. Even if you truly know nothing of REVOLVER’s provenance, as you so claim, the fact remains that it’s a high-risk anomaly that requires careful study and supervised integration into Pathsight. Naturally, I can’t forcibly reverse its transmutation nor its pairing to you, but I can and will ask you to relinquish it voluntarily. And you can start that process by handing it over.”

Sublimity made no move to reach for REVOLVER, nor did they proffer their own hand to facilitate the transaction. The expectation, clearly, was for Serac to remove the six-shooter from her own person. Serac, for her part, also declined to move, opting instead to think through the implications of the Deva’s words.

Well, there we have the answer to Trippy’s question. REVOLVER and I can’t be decoupled by an outside force. So, naturally, the next thing I’d wanna know is—

“What if I refuse?”

A pause. Sublimity remained motionless, but something about the air shifted again. Serac found herself breaking out in goosebumps.

The narrative has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the infringement.

“You think you have a choice in the matter?”

“I don’t know. Do I?”

“… You saw what Skyhowl did to you. You think I’d just let you walk away and carry on as you were?”

“No, I didn’t think that. But I also don’t think you’d want to spend all your time here in Naraka, just to keep tabs on little old me. Because I do intend to keep going, you know. No matter how many times you try to stop me. Because I’ve had a taste of freedom, and it really was just that: a taste. Now I want the whole thing, and I won’t stop until I get it.”

“Serac!”

She ignored Trippy. Ignored the jangling of her own nerves.

She had no earthly idea where her spiel had come from, but once it was out, it sounded like the most honest thing she’d ever said. Was this the real Serac Edin, coming out of hibernation after gods knew how many years spent in the meanest prison in hell?

Sublimity, for their part, appeared unmoved.

“Do you mean to threaten me, Rakshasa? Threaten me with… more work?”

“Not a threat. I’m giving you a choice. Leave me alone and go do your other Deva things in peace. Or don’t, and I’ll make your life a living hell.”

“Oh gods…”

Another pause. One that was accompanied by… a rise in temperature. Then the Deva moved again, this time to throw its head back in apparent (yet silent) laughter.

“I must say, it’s been an age or two since I’ve been quite this amused by a soul’s antics. But the jest has gone on long enough. If it’s a choice you want, Rakshasa, then it’s a choice you shall make.”

Sublimity straightened themselves, any hint of ‘amusement’ vanished in an instant.

“Part with REVOLVER willingly, and you will have your freedom. Freedom to roam hell’s wastelands to your heart’s content, as befits a creature of your station. Refuse… and you can keep your Instrument, as is your wish. But if you so choose, I will take it upon myself to shrive you of your self, so your Wayfaring days will be as good as at an end.”

Serac’s unexpected burst of bravery hadn’t made her any more proficient in Deva-speak. Sublimity’s words sounded ominous enough to her untrained ears, but she couldn’t quite picture the business end of the ultimatum on offer. What she did pick up on, and rather emphatically at that, was that there’d been a discernible space between ‘your’ and ‘self’—and this space made all the difference.

“Sublimity means to subject you to their SCOURGE,” Trippy dropped more knowledge, in what was perhaps his grimmest turn yet as a built-in glossary. “They mean to invoke ‘the Mark of the Soulless’ and thereby strip you of what it means to be you. Every memory, every emotion, every impetus to realize your desires, and every will to fight for what’s yours. It’s a fate worse than death because, in a very real sense, it’s the only way a soul can die. Truly and irreversibly.”

Yeah, I won’t lie, that does sound absolutely godawful. Really makes you wonder why anyone holds these Devas in such high regard.

“Will you reconsider, then? Acquiesce to Sublimity just this once, then once the danger’s passed, we can try to find a new way to move forward from there.”

A ‘new way’? What does that even mean? If I give up REVOLVER, isn’t that the same thing as giving you up? I mean, you said yourself that you were my predecessor of sorts.

“I did, and I was. But… there’s something else. I haven’t been entirely truthful about my—”

“Really, Rakshasa,” Sublimity cut in then, oblivious to the furious debate going on inside Serac’s head, “I’ve been far more patient with you than was warranted, and I’m no longer in the mood to tolerate your insolence. Give your answer, right this Ksana. Otherwise, I will take your silence as refusal and act accordingly.”

“There’s no time. Answer them, Serac Edin! Give them what they want, so you may save your self!”

By any stretch of the imagination, Serac should’ve listened to the two wisest souls here—the two souls that had been to the top of the world and back, and therefore knew the shape of it. She shouldn’t even need to hesitate. Listen to Trippy. Give in to a force much greater than her.

Give up on her freest and truest self.

Because that was what this meant. Because she’d seen the shape of her Hanging Fruit and what it meant to her. Because to back down now—even if it was her only pragmatic and realistic option—would be to lose her self anyhow.

“No,” she found herself saying, barely above a whisper.

“No?”

“No.” Louder. Firmer. Her heart pounded ceaselessly, and her nerves jangled like the chains on a Jailer’s belt, but she was committed now. Committed to her choice—her own.

Looking down at Serac from the saddle on a giant armored dog, Sublimity moved again. They raised a gauntleted right hand, and along with it, the rusted tendrils of a five-lashed whip rose from the ground. The lashes now dangled inches from Serac’s face, close enough for her to catch a whiff of Kalpas-old despair.

“Final chance, Rakshasa. Hand over your REVOLVER now, or forever accept the Mark of the Soulless.”

A brief pause. One that served only to raise the temperature within Serac’s soul. She was committed. She was ready to go down swinging, come what may.

“N—”

“No!”

Trippy’s voice erupted inside Serac’s head, as it always did. Yet, somehow, it’d also reached out beyond it—into the physical world—as a klaxon that echoed across the desert of [Laceration Gorge North].

The voice was accompanied by a transformation. Solid into liquid into vapor into soul. Serac, by instinct, looked first to the six-shooter in her hand, but REVOLVER itself remained inert.

No, something else was doing the transforming. Something inside of her. Something deeply embedded and fused with her anatomy, for as long and as much as she could remember of her own existence.

It was her Penitent’s Circlet.

Or was. For the impossible had happened. The fine iron tendrils of the Penitent’s Circlet loosened, unsheathing themselves from Serac’s bone, skin, and flesh—before projecting into the air above her head as a cloud of Souldust, one that approximated the size and shape of a male Rakshasa.

“Steady, Serac Edin. And hear me, O venerable Herald,” Trippy’s familiar voice echoed somewhere just beyond the edges of Serac’s consciousness. “I would propose… an alternate solution that may be of your interest.”