When they left to find Anite, I was left with the rats.

In a fit of royal showmanship King unveiled the secrets of locksmithing to the world, levitating an ornate stone key towards Bart. The unsuspecting guard seemed as depressed to be here as I felt. As did Brynn, and Clementine's surly demeanor did little to alleviate the despair.

King delivered an inspiring speech about our place in this world and our need for camaraderie, for heroes. There were strings wrapped around my stomach, my heart, my lungs, that strung tighter with each procession of rat honor and rat hope.

If not for Amethyst and Tess, the whole affair would be too much to bear. In all honesty, it was getting there. Gradually, it grew too painful to draw even a breath.

It reminded me of my dreams. In my previous life I would harm myself to bear the weight of living. It was the only thing that convinced me I wasn’t crazy.

Somehow, I got my hands on a chisel and hammer, and someone got me to work the stone. Life seemed lighter, and the need for pain subsided. Someone saw me then, who recognized my struggle. Who was it? I couldn’t remember.

Sculpting became my worship, and I continued to, each and every day, hack away at the granite and stone to reveal the divinity, the humanity. If my hands weren't moving, my mind returned to a world without God.

These days, when my hands stopped working , it would remind me of all that was. My fur, my tail, my shallow existence. There were no gods here. My purpose was to worship the deities of man, but I was no man. I have been made the ultimate cuckold.

King forced me to continue my work. He understood it was the greatest form of prayer to devote days upon days to share the beauty of the divine. He reveled in its presence. To me the presence of the gods was not felt. None of my artworks inhabited a drop of divinity. They were empty, lifeless, a stone slap to the face.

Yet King wanted them to exist, needed, rather. He'd enter my workshop, stone grinding as he glided motionlessly over the floor, and magically sealed the room to be entirely alone in my pointless sanctuary. Entirely alone, except for me. His sculptor. His devout priest to the holy trinity. Why he permitted my presence puzzled me.

After the room was sealed, he’d change entirely, his demeanor, his affection, all but his hulking shape. He would rave and shout about the gods, about our sins, about the rapture and our salvation. Every single detail would be scrutinized, every cut and curve in my work. He would demand of me to explain my inspiration, my interpretation. He would cry. He would wail. He would make me promise that the gods still loved him, saw him, understood his plight.

In these moments, his need for me was all consuming. How could he be so blind to not see my own loss of faith.

As Bart, Brynn and Amethyst left through the newly forged doors, my breath caught, stuck in my throat. My vision started to blur. My chest ached as if it would implode, devoid of air flowing in. I was losing it. My breathing turned shallow. My hands trembled. My claws, my disgusting, disfigured, pink fingers dug their nails in my skin.

A hand touched my shoulder. I turned around to see Tess. Her brown eyes, filled with affection within the rat's visage. She smiled and dragged me into her arms, squeezing me tight.

'It's okay.' She said, 'I know it’s scary. Life is so big, and we’re so small. When I was just born, I feared every moment. I was so uncertain, and felt like danger lay under every stone. In time, I learned I had nothing to fear. We’re safe, and loved. I mean it, Belial, you're okay. You're safe.'

I held her shirt tightly in my hands. I shut my eyes and trembled, until the pain in my chest subsided. This made it all so difficult. The same thing that made it easier. If I closed my eyes, there was humanity. Right there.

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She walked me to my workshop. She would have wanted me to rest, she said, but she understood that I needed the opposite. I needed to not think, to create, to feel the grind of stone on stone as I chipped away shards to reveal the hidden.

She left, but insisted I had lunch with her and Clementine when the time came. She knew that I wouldn't. After several hours drifted away, they both came to join my workshop, nearly stuffing the foul meat down my mouth. The discovery of fire was a blessing, but the origin of the meat would send my stomach whirling in certain moments. Today was not such a moment. They talked and laughed, and through some miracle I managed to draw enjoyment from a simple conversation.

Clementine admired a certain depiction of Gloria. 'The order! The dignity!' She exclaimed, and I would chuckle. It fitted her so well. She cared so much for justness and righteousness. Everything should be as it should be, as King bid it.

When the stone ticked five and evening settled a lower degree of brightness, we welcomed the group of impromptu adventures back into the castle. It had taken them but a long day to return. It was a surprise to not see Anite with them. King made it clear we would see them off again, right here, right now. Somehow, it was bearable. They donned new armor, gifts from our liege. It was a true shock when waves of shadows washed over them to imbue the stone plate with dark magic. Through all the fanfare they were readied for a greater journey, and it truly saddened me to see them leave for a long time. Something I hadn't expected.

Clementine voiced her feelings through a sudden poem.

'Oh, lost hero, wayward brother. Will your path lead to here again? Heavy, the adventure, I sent three friends. Will they lead you here again.'

The room was dead silent. To my surprise, I broke it. I was reminded of an older text. Something that had given me strength, long ago.

'Woe child, in the darkness, alone. Woe brother, in the streets, alone. Woe sister, in your bed, alone. Through their loss, they are like me. I have been lost, like them. Like God, we have loved. I plead to forget not who have gone, and remember who remain. Or they'll be gone, and you'll gain their loss.'

Silence settled and shattered.

'Disgusting!' Brynn shouted, 'How could you?! We are going out there to kill monsters and save the poor princess, and you talk about love. Both of you should be ashamed. Ashamed!! Poetry, blegh. Bart, give me your helmet so I can throw up, or throw it at them, or both!'

'Wait, are you saying Anite has died? We should remember him?' Asked Bart, a bleak expression on his face. 'I'm not ready to accept that. My friend is dead?'

'It was a metaphor, you dunce.' Said Clementine.

'For what?' Asked Bart, and Clementine looked uncomfortably uncertain. Instead of answering she scoffed and looked away. It dawned on me that I had done a silly thing, but these were my people now. I smiled, softly.

'I liked it.' Said Tess, and took my hand. 'I don't understand it, though.'

King witnessed all of it unfold without much to add. He simply coughed and pointed at the door. The party was over, there was an important task at hand. We could talk again when they returned. Yet the tides had turned, and the brave soldiers left the castle in a lighter mood. Except for Bart.

I really wanted them to find Anite. This may sound pretentious, after all that I've told you about myself, but it's true. He's the first to show me I wasn’t alone. He too dreamt of tall skies and expressive faces, about a world which you couldn't begin to compare to this forsaken pit. He first opened up my heart, but a little. He saved me.

---

Life slowed down with just the four of us left. The first few days were lighthearted. However, after the third day, it became apparent that the loneliness would not get better. A fear crept up on us; our friends may never return. This brought the three of us closer together.

My workshop became a regular hangout of sorts. We ate together, worked together, only at night we separated to reunite in the mornings. Surely, this wasn’t because of the ambiance of my dreary art, but they went a out their work, infinitely knitting carpets, blankets, rugs out of mother’s rugged fur. The rough stone of my confines had become progressively soft, and although my sharp nails would occasionally get stuck in the rough knit flooring, it filled the room with warmth.

I don’t know if I had something like this in my past lives, people who cared about me, who made sure I sustained the vessel carrying my muted light. Without them I might simply fall over. I loved them for this, because they didn’t do it so I could create more art. They just wanted me to continue living.

The sad truth is, I am never in danger of dying. From experience, I know if I manage to crawl up to death’s door, malnourished and delirious after I’d slammed my head into the wall to escape the dread, a hulking shape would loom behind me, grimacing toothily as he pulled me back. Forcefully. No matter how empty I felt, I held great meaning to our sovereign, because as much as he kept me going, I kept him alive as well.