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Johnny Caldwell

My eyes are lost. But when one thing is lost, you grasp toward the others. I may not be permanently blind, but this Absolution has taught me that I need to prepare for it. A blind gunslinger… indeed a conundrum, huh?

Without vision, I rely on my ears. They are fallible yet reliable. I merely have to learn what they tell me. The winds, the steps, and the vibrations. What they all mean just as we learn what the colors do when we learn to see. And even if I am blind, there is something far worse. To see yet have no vision. I have a goal, and it will guide me even as my eyes fail.

Hearing an empty building barring the unconscious and comatose Wyatt, I move toward the young man with a hand slightly outstretched to catch me from hitting anything. My ears perk up to listen for Blake or Birdie, but the first lady left to find any books that might be down here, and the latter went to report to One-Eyed Issac. I'll have to go see him myself soon as the man who will top the Heights Of Hope when he dies wants to meet every living person to reach these depths.

Apparently, the 9th Sigil freaks down here actually do something. They are completely unlike the Prime. They each have the strength to shake the very earth, and yet, the Prime allows a territory to fall without any fanfare. Just from what I've heard and seen, that would not pass here.

Even Iva, the most ruthless woman to probably ever live, would fight any who encroach on her territory. But not the Prime. He simply cares for nothing but himself in his old age, seeking any way to extend his life.

My hand touches Wyatt's bed frame made of stone as I pause my hate toward the Prime and his negligence. Wyatt… Why won't he listen? Is he simply too young? Too rash? Too independent? I do not know, but I can see a repeat of Amelia, if only a bit slower and more gruesome.

I want to do more, but what can I do? The young man is killing himself, and for what? To grow stronger? To prove himself? To help? He simply doesn't understand. One must pace themselves. Patience is key. You must view things from more than one perspective before acting.

I want to beat this into him, but at this point, I'm afraid I will lose. Without my eyes, Wyatt could likely beat me in a fight. I should have been more forceful earlier. Even if I thought he would listen. But I did that with Amelia, and she just ran away from me. Fuck.

Moving closer to Wyatt, I put my ear against his chest. A slow yet constant thump of his heart meets my ears, and it brings quiet to my racing thoughts. He's still alive. For now, I suppose. I need to do better. Or he will die the next time he fights. Or he might even never wake up. At least not the Wyatt I know. And that's not even my words. Birdie gave those to me directly. Our conversation… was a bit heated, to say the least. I wince at the memory.

"This child… he's breaking apart at the seams. From brain damage to liver failure, he has it all. I only just managed to heal him earlier. Frankly, I'm surprised that man even managed to drag him all the way here. I can't imagine anyone I've ever met to survive with so little blood for so long. But that's all it is, Johnny. Survival. You let him fight again, and he will die. No ifs, ands, or buts. He will. I've done all I can and forced several others to help me stabilize him. There is only so much I can do for him, especially when that damned artifact is getting in the way."

I responded a bit angry, if only because I was unwilling to believe just how bad it was.

"No way, this child… he can't be that injured! He's a… he's too tough for that. And why don't we just get rid of the damned thing!? It's been plaguing him, and if you're here, then you can just regrow his arms."

She shakes her head animatedly enough to allow me to hear it through her shifting hair.

"That's just not possible."

"Why!? Why not? You specialize in healing, no? Surely you can help him!"

She just shakes her head again, only getting a bit frustrated with me.

"It's not that simple, Johnny. To remove his arm… would probably just kill him. I hate to say it, but the damned thing is keeping him alive, just barely at the brink. It's almost like it's torturing him. It's keeping him alive while simultaneously invading his mind, subconsciously making him angrier, more emotional, and more instinctive. And even if I could regrow his arms, I mean. They'd never be the same. They'd be unresponsive to Ether and easily damaged, more of a detriment than a help for him."

Heartbroken, I asked for any option to save this child. He can't die like this. I know why he's like this. He's in pain. Pain from his "mother," pain from his father, and finally, pain from the loss of Edmund. Such a young man has been through so much, yet he hasn't given up. Neither will I.

"Then what can we do?"

She moves close to Wyatt, a gesture of pain that even I can feel while blind.

"He… I will put him in a coma to recover on his own. A deep one. The artifact is stopping me from helping anymore. I wish I could override it, but the damn thing has the advantage in his body. This… could last for months. It seems to have a great deal of control over his body while he is asleep. It can't stop his own healing, thankfully, but his body is recovering slowly. And every day he's in the coma gives the artifact a deeper hold on his mind. Unless you're confident he can hold out unconsciously for that long, long enough for him to heal enough to exit the coma, I say it's better to put him out of his misery."

My blind eyes move to the unconscious boy. No, man. He has earned it even if he is quite stupid and puts himself in these situations. His strength is even to warrant that. Can he hold on for that long? He has to. Only he knows where the key is to the vault. Who am I kidding? I don't care about that. I just want the boy to live. I've been rough to him, and all he has given me is loyalty and aid. I give back to my soldiers. I turn back to her, confidence in my voice.

"He can."

Birdie just sighs and walks out, leaving words that strike me deeply even now.

"Even if he does, he will be changed. The boy you know may not be there when he wakes up."

I break myself out of the memory as I look at the arm in question. The Bloody Palm. A very powerful artifact that many would be willing to own, but I can't imagine any that would be willing to fuse with it. Even most Hollows aren't that insane. Eh… maybe they are. Speaking of, there aren't any down here, but I guess that makes sense. Only the Sigil of the dead is returned, and no artifacts are made from the people down here simply dying again.

Just looking at the Bloody Palm, though, brings a brutal truth to me. Had I not been afraid and relied upon the young man's bravery at the fight in Rustbank, he would not have had this conflict with his artifact. Sure, before, they had issues, but it was never this bad. I mean, I literally saw the damned thing reattach to him and regrow an arm. They were in a subtle symbiosis, even if neither would admit it.

Should one die, the other would as well, and they both knew it. Only after what I did, using Fixation and making the artifact neglect Wyatt, did the balance change. No longer was it willing to help. It just sat back and watched from then on. And that's why the young man is dying, because of me. He's going to change, because of me.

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Not again. Never again. If only these eyes of mine were stronger… The Cabin hinted at them growing when I make the leap into Angelhood, but that is far away. There is a reason why such a gap exists between even Forerunners, the most powerful 6th Sigils, and 7th Sigils. So many barriers exist to advance. An Absolution, a Proof, the time needed to adapt to your 6th Sigil, and finally, the Sigil itself you will imbibe. I only have one of those four, the first.

I need to find a way to help him. To stop that change in his mind while he heals. Maybe Abraham can help? Probably not enough. Could that Ogre? I'll have to go and see her. A Mentalist Angel could surely save his mind and give him time to heal, right? Maybe she could even force the Bloody Palm to heal him? That meeting with Sacate, Bonfire, and Primrose will have to have a raincheck. Wyatt needs me first and foremost.

I sit in the chair next to Wyatt's bed that Birdie used when she was trying to regrow his arm before we had that argument. From there, I pull out Downpour, and to relieve just a little bit of stress, I disassemble, clean, and reassemble the gun several times. The motions are so ingrained I could do them asleep, let alone blind. Fiddling with Downpour always calms me, but this time it only does a little bit. The twitching of my hands from stress doesn't fade one bit.

Thoughts just won't stop coming. Of all those that used to be beside me and who have died. Those who were either family or close enough to go to a reunion.

Naomi Glass

Myrtle Morse

Ann Farrell

Oliver Anderson

Bernard Hampton

Amy Pors

John Thomas

McCoy

Arme

Amelia

Levi

And I can't help but imagine Wyatt's face joining theirs soon. For each of these names, I looked for up and down through Heights and used Birdie's connections to branch into Apathy, but nothing. Even Levi is gone and didn't die that long ago. And I feel that soon, Wyatt will join that nothing. What can I do, a humble man, to save a Graves from a terrible fate, just counting the damage he keeps doing to himself?

Not much. That's the truth. If I push him away, he's likely to come back even harder. If I lock him away for his safety, he'll just break out. If I try to convince him to stay away and heal, he'll just convince me he's fine.

But that doesn't mean I just give up. No. I have to take one out of his book. Not that he reads much other than that odd thing he got from Alexos. I stand and take a few steps to his nightstand near his bed.

I take out my lighter, the thing that has fueled my smoking addiction ever since Amelia died, and put it on the nightstand. No more distractions. No more half-measures. No more carelessness. I will save him from this artifact. And if that doesn't help his self-destructive tendencies, then I'll protect him from himself.

"I heard you never had a father, Wyatt. While I don't think I'm a good one, I hope I can at least protect you like one. So get up, Wyatt. We got work to do–"

A knock at the door to the building Birdie got for us cuts me off from talking to the comatose Wyatt. I focus on my hearing as my paranoia spikes, but a voice quickly comes from outside that diminishes it all.

"Johnny!? Isaac is ready to see you!"

Birdie's excited voice comes from outside, calling me to come and see Isaac. I don't want to keep the man waiting, but before I leave, I say one last thing to Wyatt. The same thing I told my wife when she was shot during our mission. Only this one is less desperate and more filled with hope.

"Get up, Wyatt. We got work to do."

I lay my hand on the young man's shoulder before walking toward the door. Vivian might not approve of what I'm doing, but I continue anyway. I miss her just as I miss Amelia, but the dead are gone. Even in this world of fantastical things and walking undead, some are just truly gone. Something Alexos simply won't accept. Once a family is broken, there is no repairing it. If I can bring even just a bit of comfort or motivation to him, it's worth copying what I did to Vivian when she was sick.

The door opens just as I reach it, the sound of air rushing into the room from outside and the creak grating my ears.

"Oh! Hey, Johnny! Thought you didn't hear me."

Birdie sounds a whole lot happier now that she's back here. I just greet her and take a few careful steps outside. I've got work to do.

"I did. Just takes a little bit to maneuver through a house, y'know? Nice to see you, though; it's been almost a full day."

She wraps an arm around my arm to direct me, and I almost pull away, the thought of betraying Vivian striking me sharply. But the thought is quickly tossed aside. I'm blind. And this lady is undead. There is nothing more to this than simply guiding me.

And guide me, she does.

"C'mon! This way! Isaac is waiting, and he's so excited to meet you. Well, he is not that excited, but he is excited. It's been over a century since he last spoke to a living person. The last guy who came through like a shooting star didn't speak to anyone."

She pulls me along like a dirty rag through the city. The sounds of the undead city of those who are judged to be good of heart inundate my ears. Jokes, laughter, and happiness can be heard down here despite the bleak atmosphere, even if depression is quite common.

I can hear a duo having a friendly bout, wrestling on the ground to test their skills. I can hear a man playing guitar and singing a song I've never heard before, with applause right on his heels. I can hear a man telling jokes to any who will listen, getting a laugh almost every second. I can hear the rolling of dice made of stone followed by a familiar laugh. Silas? Probably. The money-grubber has to get back the gold he used on his wishes.

It's odd to think that all those here have died. That there are likely people up above mourning their loss, just as it is likely some reunited after they both died. It's not as bad as I thought when I first got here. It's just a bit worse than the stories, but isn't that just how everything works?

When have I seen something that lives up to the stories? Ah, I have seen one. Marshall. I wonder what that man is doing right now as the world is beginning to collapse. Is he holding it up with that unbreakable fist of his? Or is he striking back at those who do harm? I do not know. I just wish we weren't so reliant on his holding of that fort. Because behind the fort he guards lies the majority of humanity's farmland.

He does it for the greater good, but I reckon it's simply so the war he would wage doesn't split humanity in twain. For a good man to go to war such as he, it means the Devil has done his job. Though, am I any different? I fight for a future that I likely will not be alive to see.

My thoughts are distracted near the end as Birdie calls out to me.

"Uhm, Johnny? You there? Hello?"

I shake my head and turn to her voice, imagining her moving her hand in front of my face.

"Yeah, sorry, was just lost in thought."

She laughs, and I can hear a door creak open.

"You sure were. We walked almost a full mile, and you didn't say a single word; just let me ramble on and on."

I nod at her, trying to angle my face to where the sound is coming from, and I try to apologize again.

"A lot has been on my mind; truly sorry for ignoring you. Are we there already?"

"Hmm, Hmm! And it's not a big deal; there isn't much to do here besides telling stories and fighting, after all. Some just prefer one over the other. C'mere, through this door, and this one annnnnnnd here we are!"

I look around, confused, as I'm led into a relatively open room, large enough for me to feel a slight breeze. The habit of turning my head to perceive things is still present and likely will always be.

"Uhh, where is he?"

"Oh, through the door in front of you. He wants to talk to you alone, so just walk on in."

She steps away from me and makes some distance so I can move independently. I can only nod at her respectfully before taking a step forward and reaching for the door. It takes me almost a full second to find the inanimate object, but I get it after a bit of trying.

I ignore what is probably a humorous and pathetic sight as I pull open the door and step inside. The second my feet go within the room, I feel a pressure, one that lands upon my shoulders like an anchor and prevents me from moving. My legs almost buckle, but I hold firm, and just as quickly as it appears, the pressure dissipates. A voice replaces the pressure. A voice that is obviously full of experience, power, and, most importantly, empathy, a rarity among the strong.

"Welcome to my office, Johnny Caldwell. It's always a wonder to meet someone yet alive down here."

I hear footsteps come toward me as I stand completely still in fear despite his obvious welcomeness. One-Eyed Isaac gets close to me and puts a hand on my shoulder just as I do with Wyatt.

"Come. No need to be stressed; I don't bite, at least not like Iva does. Oh, and here is a little gift for meeting that psychopath. I wish I could do something about her, but the balance would be broken if I did. There are many more Lords down here than there are up there. Five, in fact. And that's not taking into account the many beyond the Stairs."

Isaac taps my shoulder three times before my vision is abruptly returned to me, and as it is, I see the eyepatch that adorns Isaac's left eye close. I'm not able to catch a glance at what's below, but something tells me it's better that way. I thank the man for doing what I thought was impossible, recovering my eyes before they did on their own.

"Thank you, sir. Truly. That is a massive boon for my group."

Isaac, a middle-aged man with short salt and pepper hair with a trimmed beard, chuckles at my words. The one eye not under his eyepatch burns a radiant white, one so bright it extrudes from his eye socket and adorns the entire right of his face, casting shadows all around him.

“Aahaha, it’s no big deal. Help where you can, right, Johnny? May I ask why you came down here? Simply curious. You know that Her Majesty prevents us from hurting you unless you trespass first, so feel free to be open and sit."

He waves a hand toward a fancy stone chair in front of me in this reasonably quaint office that can fit only two chairs. My eyes quickly roam the room and take in just how plain it is. One cabinet, two chairs, and a desk with papers atop it. That's all that is in the room of a Supreme, of a man who could rival the Prime in power. That fact finally sinks in. The Underworld is an amalgamation of our best if only they live long enough down here to stabilize.

I take his offer and sit, explaining why we came down here. The story is quite long, lasting almost a full hour, but by the end of it, he understands the situation on the surface and why we are down here.

"I'll be damned. It really is that bad, huh? I ain't been alive for… I think three or four centuries now, but it wasn't that bad back then. Sure, some Estates had great power, but they used it wisely. I wish there was more I could do for you other than reset your Ether. If there is anything I can do to help, feel free to ask, Johnny."

I adjust my position on the chair at the prospect of asking a 9th Sigil for help. My mind burns with focus as I think through my options. Of what could work and what couldn't. If only this man could just come above with us. But I know he can't. The restrictions on rising above are tight, and I imagine the more powerful the person is, the more dystopian the limits are. Chances are even Silas, with his genie in a bottle of a skill, likely can't come up with us, either.

So then, what? Weapons? Few exist down here. Some artifacts are here and there from dead demons, but there are minor in number and likely wouldn't make the difference.

Resources? What's down here that we could need? If the Cardinal was nearby, some bottles of its eternal water could be of help as they can both heal and hurt, but sadly it is too deep into No Man's Land to reach. There really isn't much that they have that we could take to aid us.

Information? What does he know that could possibly help us up there? Oh… skills. At least general applications of Ether. Surely, he'd know some of the best. Maybe even a Dzil… That's my choice for sure.

"Could you teach me some skills, then, sir? I believe that is the only thing that can truly help now."