**************
Wyatt Graves
Sequester's hand approaches my chest, holding the vortex of spiraling air so condensed it reminds me of the souls flying away to the God above in the Underworld. I thrust my hand, endeavoring to catch his wrist, but I'm simply too slow.
Agony wracks my whole form as he slams the maelstrom of air into where my heart should be. And instantly, the flesh, bone, muscle, everything that guards my innards is torn to shreds. Only by the time the swirling death reaches the halfway part of my chest, removing half my lungs, the cavity where my heart should be, and several other organs, does my hand touch his.
The strength of my prosthetic arm is primarily independent of me and my condition, allowing Sequester's hand to wrench upward, not quite piercing entirely through me as I drag it up and out of me. Like an endless stream of infinitesimally slight cuts, more burning pain slashes at me all over as the maelstrom is sent up and out of me. But as it leaves my innards and ascends, it scrapes the mask born between the Bloody Palm and me, revealing the left side of my face to Sequester.
A pained scream originates from the Bloody Palm as I clearly see the Nahullo for a moment. Then, all my senses return to usual, and the Angel steps back, merely staring at me.
Everything is wobbly, woozy, and I can see two of Sequester.
Am I going to die?
I... I can't feel my heartbeat.
Death's Lantern prevents my heart from being affected, but Sequester removed all the veins, arteries, and, frankly, almost my entire chest cavity. No more blood is flowing.
It's all going cold. My fingertips, the ones I could feel on my metallic arm, are fading.
I go limp, falling to my knees as my head hits the ground. Meanwhile, in my rapidly darkening vision, I find that we are in the eye of a storm. Virgil still struggles to move a foot forward, but he's changed his strategy. He and a Silhouette are pulling each other forward, step by step.
His face... it reminds me of when Vernon died. Grief, sorrow, loss, with a boiling hatred underneath. He's always been good at keeping his emotions down. That is completely unlike me. Mine...
My emotions kind of just come out.
It's similar to how all my blood is falling out.
The Bloody Palm is attempting to help me, to save us both, but it's hurt. Whatever Sequester did has it screaming in pain as it tries to regrow the flesh around my heart. Only, it is slower than usual, not quite at its typical regeneration speed.
Can I survive long enough for it to heal me? I don't think so.
Everything is already dark. I can only see Sequester's face as he kneels in front of me, still holding that vortex in one hand.
"A worthy opponent. I won't let you bleed out. That would be dishonorable."
But before he can even move that maelstrom toward me, a screeching wail enters the hallway, the noise of the door opening. Earl...
I want to say something. To tell him to run. But... I can't.
I can't even breathe. Strugglers Gasp won't work. No air will enter my lungs at all. They don't exist anymore, after all.
A gunshot, the noise of Coil, bounces off the walls, shaking some consciousness into my dimming eyes. As everything grows darker, I tell the Bloody Palm one last thing through our connection, hoping it can follow my directions.
"Do my lungs first."
No acknowledgment reaches me. All that is for me is the darkness of Death, her embrace cold and shallow.
***************
Sequester Yorn
Striding forward, the winds of Maelstrom a bit strong even for me to step through, I keep my gaze focused on the one holding the door. I don't think he has the Fabricator with such scrawny arms and slight bags. I need to take care of him. He's frantically reloading whatever weapon is in his hands, but the speed of that thing is dangerous.
Seriously dangerous. It'll easily pierce through my Carcass. I'd wager a guess that the Viceroy's or Viceray's Corpses could take the hit without shattering, but I won't guess for mine. I got lucky my Thipa, the swirling ball of furious air built from my Power, deviated the path of the moving bullet. But... that's all it was. It was simply luck.
So, I foot away from the bleeding youngling and advance toward the other. I would be lying if I said I didn't feel just an ounce of guilt. None, not even Ahbram, deserves to bleed out. But... the mission is more important than anything.
But as I take my fifth step away from the young man I placed my Thipa through, a single heavy footfall slams behind me. Who else?
Pivoting quickly, raising the vortex of Ether in my defense, the size of it gradually lessening, I find that very young man staring at me. Only, it is not him. The artifact he bears now reigns.
The left of his face is wholly ruined flesh, similar to a scorched steak with all the slashes from Thipa, ignited by a crimson pupil, while the other is still hidden by that awful mask. One knee is positioned onto the ground as if he is preparing to stand despite all those wounds. Scoffing, I twist, not finding him to be a threat.
It is creepy, exceedingly so, but the wound I placed within him slows even the movement of Ether. The winds of Thipa delve so deep it leaves permanent damage to the channels of Ether in a being. Even other Angels can't recover from it. It doesn't matter if he's a Wendigo or not. That kid is going to die. No. He already is. The artifact is merely attempting to rage with a corpse.
Shaking my head, I continue onward, lifting Thipa to cover my visor from the human with the gun. With my other hand, I cover my heart, just in case they fire at my main vitals. Yet, as I advance another step, another footfall resounds. Stunned, I twist my neck partially, creaking my Carcass' steel as I do so to find the man in a heavily slouched stand.
My breath catches in my throat, and I'm momentarily paralyzed by the nightmarish scene before me. I've seen much blood, gore, and death. But this is something else. This is... otherworldly... impossible.
The young man, now turned into a monster, stands unmoving, with two arms hanging limply at their sides, swaying with an eerie rhythm as if disconnected from any control. The two arms are both unnatural, one of metal and one of only bone that drips enough blood to dry a man. Their head tilts downward, hiding most of their face beneath a bone-covered mask, but I can still see the twisted grin forming at the left corner of their mouth.
Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.
I still, breathing heavily and trying to recuperate after dealing the fatal blow and using much of my saturation. The kid is dead, yet not. Their movements are sluggish, as if they are not in complete control yet, which is to be expected. I basically ruined even their spinal cord.
Yet, they extinguish all possibilities I've ever known, moving despite the wounds. As they slowly raise their gaze, I see a face half-covered by bone, a gruesome reminder of the damage I inflicted. But now, staring at it, I see not an opponent. I find, instead, a hunter, one born of Death.
"Once dead. Twice alive. The Wendigo breathes terror into the earth."
I've never cared to learn about these creatures, thinking them too rare and unlikely to come across, especially after we allied with the humans to rid the world of the Comanche. But I can't even breathe as I peer at it. The blood, bone, and viscera are not what gives me pause.
It's the namesake for the Comanche. What we called them in place of their true name. Hollows.
Their chest cavity is empty, a hollow space where life once thrived. The bones jut out from their face, half-covered by the twisted mask. Bits and pieces of the bones hold holes that have no end, tiny voids existing that drill deep into the flesh.
I'm transfixed by the sight, utterly terrified yet unable to look away. With a deliberate lethargy, they raise their head, and I meet the chilling gaze of their single eye not covered by bone—a dwindling crimson pupil that, unlike most, doesn't burn. It chills with a fathomless void. It's a sight more akin to witnessing a God than a man taken by madness.
I can feel a shiver run down my spine as they emit a low growl, a warning that chills me to my core, reminding me of the horizonless nature of the Pale Cavity and the frigid currents of the north. I need to move, to act now, but I can't. That eye... it draws me in without letting me stop.
Slight murmurs enter my mind, bits of happiness and pieces of madness that whisper sweet nothings and brutal ends.
But while eating into my mind with only its eye, the creature lunges forward with surprising speed, and I barely have time to react. I dodge to the side, narrowly avoiding their attack. As I regain my balance, I glance around, searching for any advantage I can find, only to hear the crack of a bullet and feel the impact of it. I attempt to dodge, my body bolstered by the winds of Thipa, but a paralyzing force covers my body. In the corner of my eyes, I find a pitiful half-breed, tears in his eyes and blood trailing down his nose with an outstretched hand despite the situation and his wounds.
Cavity be damned. Irham was wrong. This one does have guts. I always thought he was carried by his father's efforts. Too bad I didn't recognize that earlier.
Looking down, I find a hole that pierces right through my heart, a large portion of it from my body. Agony runs up my spine, biting away the chill as I concentrate on the Wendigo. I can last two minutes without a heart. It's all a part of training, after all. Two minutes. I can do this. I just need to... What do I need to do? This Wendigo has to die. But how? Half its chest cavity is missing, including its heart and lungs, and rapidly coming back, yet it won't die. If all the enemies are dead, I can replicate a heartbeat with a Mantra. I just have to find someplace cold.
My mind races, and then it hits me—I need to destroy the artifact. The half-mask on its face needs to break all the way. Tightening my grip on my vortex with one hand and my Claymore with the other, I crash onto the Wendigo, aiming for its head.
**************
Wyatt Graves
Instead of the deepest darkness of Death's embrace, I find myself at a crackling campfire. The flames dance and sway, casting ghostly shadows that seem to come alive. The fire offers a flickering sanctuary under a moonless sky as night reigns, endeavoring to eat into the flame.
I breathe a sigh of relief at the sight. At least I'm not dead. Not yet.
And there, on the other side of the campfire, is a man. He's unlike anyone I've ever seen before. His body is covered in scars and unhealed wounds, each one a testament to his battles and struggles. His throat is slit, yet he still breathes, pale, diseased blood slowly trickling down his neck. One of his eyes is missing, and his hair is long, extending to his shoulders, though torn at several places.
I know him. I've never seen him, but I've lived as him.
This is Cassidy. Cassidy Monroe. The man who died and was reborn as the Bloody Palm.
He seems unbothered by my presence, simply poking the fire with his revolver from the memories, as if lost in thought. The sight is unnerving, to say the least. I feel a mix of confusion, curiosity, and a strange sense of safety.
As I take in the surreal scene, I can't help but wonder if I've gone mad or if this is some kind of strange hallucination. But the vividness of it all, the smell of burning wood and the warmth of the fire, make it all feel real.
Seconds pass in silence, only the noise of the embers dying to righteous flame fighting off complete quiet.
But as I stare at him, the man finally looks up at me, his remaining eye locking onto mine. There's a deep weariness in his gaze, as if he has seen far too much and carried burdens beyond comprehension. He doesn't speak, opting instead to merely gaze at me, just as I do unto him.
The campfire continues to crackle, and the darkness around us seems to recede ever so slightly. Yet, our pupils don't move. A strange discord rises, and I speak the first words, hoping he can talk with that damaged throat.
"Are you Cassidy?"
My question is simple, yet it is something I want to know. Who is he? Is he him? The Bloody Palm? Something in-between? Or nothing at all?
A grumble emits from him as he drags his revolver back from the fire, opening his mouth.
"Once upon a time. Not anymore."
He pauses for only a moment before continuing, asking me a question.
"What about you? Are you Cassidy?"
I shake my head, answering swiftly.
"No."
But he doesn't take that so easily.
"You sure? You ain't so different."
I want to refute him, to say that we are entirely different people, but I know what he means. He's referring to the Bloody Palm. And... he's right.
We're similar. Way too similar.
Nothing can scare us. We hate being controlled. We fight until our whole bodies shatter. We are emotional and easily angered. Irrational. Instinctive. Swing first, think after.
The most significant difference I can find is that I have the body, and it has the arm. Other than that... sure, it's bloodthirsty, partially deranged, and unspeaking. But... I don't think any of that is its fault, only its nature. Nor am I that far from those aspects.
"I suppose we aren't. But what does that matter?"
Cassidy lightly shakes his head, motioning to the fire.
"That's all that's ever mattered."
He shakes the fire some more, throwing tiny sparks and embers onto the nearby ground beating away some more of the darkness. I don't understand what he means, so I wait until he continues.
"For two to share a body, they must be compatible. Perhaps that was the most extraordinary stroke of luck we ever had, you and I. Finding each other. Fate perhaps? Or was it the whim of some being beyond reach? Who knows, Wyatt. Who knows. We both would have died long ago without that stroke of luck. Outside, we fight like an animal, one untaught of how to even walk, raging against its captors..."
He trails off, his voice lowering before heightening once more in volume as he chokes up a bit, the pale blood falling with greater intensity.
"But it's not enough. We will lose this fight. I... or what's left of me, cannot win. Neither can you. So... here we are. "
I still don't get what he's saying. He keeps swapping from speaking as if he's the Bloody Palm and as if he's Cassidy. What is happening?
"How are you here? How are you speaking to me right now?"
Cassidy simply laughs at my question, a short chuckle bursting more gore from his wounds. But he does answer me after breaking into his laughter.
"Don't you know, Wyatt? You're mad. Insane. Beyond saving. All Philosophers are. You made me. I'm a temporary figment in your mind, nothing but imagined Ether to think I am the Bloody Palm's previous life. Only those with shattered minds or brains that never were truly right can become Philosophers. You know this, too. We know this."
What? I'm insane? No. I'm perfectly right in the smack-dab middle of my damned mind!
"No, you ain't. I know what you must be thinking, but you ain't. We're broken. Irreparably. But... it's not Aniwye who did this to us. We've always been this way. She never taught us to be reckless, irrational, and so itching to fight. She did all she could for the opposite."
Cassidy... Or I suppose, Me, smacks his lips before continuing to strike me with thoughts I've never even had before. This can't be me! The Bloody Palm has to be playing a trick of some kind!
"We're perfect partners for the Bloody Palm. Once you accept that, anything is possible. The artifact... Its limits are non-existent. The limit for an artifact, for a being once dead and twice alive, does not exist. They hinge entirely on whether or not you can feed it more powerful beings. So, feed it. That darkness... it is endless, just as our madness is."
His words finally stop me as the darkness begins to seep deeper, encroaching on my back, lapping away at my clothes. I scoot a bit closer to the fire as Cassidy slides across the edge of the bonfire to me. He drags the revolver in his hand across the embers until he brings it to face me, allowing me to look down the fathomless depths of the barrel. It's a standard, typical revolver with nothing special about it, but it makes me feel uncomfortable nonetheless.
"You need to wake up, Wyatt. He's out there fighting for you. Not because you asked. Not because he wants to. Not because he likes to. Cassidy, the remnant of the man at least, is waging war against itself. You can feel it, can't you? Look closely."
He speaks again, motioning around into the dark as I finally take notice of echoing growls, noises that originate from the gloaming and end in the shadows, never to see the light. It's... as if a lonely battle is fought in the night, without the chance of seeing day.
The Bloody Palm? Is it fighting for me? Why? I thought we only had a deal? A trade for a trade? Why is it so insistent?
Cassidy... or my figment, whatever he really is, nods as he takes in the nearing shadows. Some of the dusk taps upon his knee, and forevermore it fades away, leaving my figment without half of his knee.
"You see, Wyatt? It rages against Sequester for you, gradually extinguishing its own life. Because... despite what others might think, we know. We know that artifacts are alive. They have wants, needs, and some of them even think just as we do. And why does it do this? It's clear. You just need to look, and you need to accept it."
My head falls as the night grows more profound, slowly consuming Cassidy. I can't even see past a foot from the fire anymore. Only my figment's face remains in the light, smiling with a tinge of depression and acceptance.
I need to look...
Where do I need to look?
No... I don't need to look anywhere. I know why the Palm's fighting for me. It's simple. All artifacts keep parts of themselves after they die. Usually, it's the gruesome ones, the hate, the depression, all the negatives.
But... as they become more conscious, more... alive at higher Sigils, different parts start to show, right? Like Lily, as deep down, there is that hunger, but she is joyful, a sprinkle of light in the dark. Perhaps the Bloody Palm is the same.
It's nearing the stage of an Arca, after all. It only misses a Power. Though... I'm unsure if it needs one to become an Arca. It might only need me to feed it the Sigil of an Angel.
Cassidy... from those memories... three things stand out more clearly than anything else.
Cassidy Monroe holds hate beyond all things for the Estates, wanting to ruin them to the core for the hand they had in his family's death.
But... two other things lie in that dark.
Every night, he'd look at those photos, staring at what could have been, thinking of having his child alongside him and aging with his wife. Those moments are even more common than him hunting down Estatesmen.
Yet... he also had one rule. He never killed a child. No matter what. Whether they are from the Estates, Nahullo, or even demons. He would let the children live.
What does his remnant see me as now that it's developing further? Am I merely its possessor, or am I, perhaps, its family in some twisted way?
In its eyes, am I its son?