Chapter 11 - A Final Conversation

There was no gradual change as the skill took effect.

One moment, Dominic Jones had been standing close to Celike, looming over the dead [Cobbler] like a valkyrie from the myths and surrounded by all of those that, like him, had struggled to save a life. In another moment, he was far away – though, if he knew it right, this place could not be found by traveling a distance.

It didn’t exist. The [Death Doctor] could tell that in the same way he had known the requirements of the skill. Just another System-caused little tweak on his brain, though now Dominic couldn’t help but consider the sudden intel useless.

His head moved left and right, taking in the gray darkness that now surrounded him. Not true blackness – the pure, primordial lack of light that sent shivers down human spines since time immemorial.

This was different. It was the penumbra one had over their eyes after they adjusted to the dark -- when shapes turned into suggestions prompted by one’s memory and the mind played tricks with the blurred edges. Though here, in this new place Dominic was, there was nothing much for his mind to hallucinate upon.

He could not see a limit to the open area beyond. The dark, plain land stretched infinitely in all directions, never rising or lowering and simply disappearing where his sight ended.

Dominic took a step forward after feeling something surrounding his feet. The [Death Doctor] had his cane with him, brought alongside the suit he now wore instead of the Imp-made robes Trakia had given him – and his shoes, made of proper leather, were not enough to protect his feet from the liquid that invaded it and turned his thin socks into disgustingly damp pieces of cloth.

He brought a hand to the floor, holding his cane tight and praying that the rubber end would be enough to ensure it wouldn’t slip on the perfectly uniform stretch of land. Dominic’s fingers touched the liquid, feeling its lack of viscosity and smell. Water.

Water all over the floor. A low, stale pool of liquid rose just above his ankles and dampened the rim of his pants. Not blood or any other possible foul liquid he would have expected from his Class and skill. Just… water.

Dominic rose again, with shaky knees and a firm grip on his cane, and didn’t know if he should laugh or fear. He… hadn’t had the time to expect much of how [A Final Conversation] would work out, but part of him had expected a more esoteric approach.

Maybe a kind of séance, as the mediums did in the movies – with lots of candles and a square of tacky purple cloth over a table, golden tassels moving at the edges due to the clearly supernatural movements of the psychic. Or, perhaps, a short-lived resurrection – Celike having the blessed opportunity to tell them what she wished through her own mouth.

Though that would have been a sad sight. Dominic imagined the dead [Cobbler], half of her face destroyed by the Ashen Lungs, rising from the dead like a zombie turned from embers and ash, and couldn’t help but shiver. That was the type of sight horror movie directors would pay to be inspired by – and no matter how much sympathy the [Death Doctor] had for the dead woman, and it was a lot, Dominic feared he wouldn’t be able to keep his stomach from revolting.

No… this uncertain development was better, in the end. The unknown fear over certain dread, right?

Dominic firmed his stance, getting himself ready to explore his Skill, and took another forward – the sloshing of water at his ankles the only sound in the unending landscape. The [Death Doctor] walked with a purpose, however, towards the only thing that could possibly tell him something more about what was going on.

From how far he was from it, the light looked like an angler fish’s luminous bait. It hung in a curve, a hooked structure with a light-producing tip that shone with the yellowish color of fluorescent lamps, painting the darkness around it with a disturbing sense of clarity amid the rest of the limbo-like landscape.

At the distance Dominic quickly calculated was between them, about fifty meters, the [Death Doctor] could perceive a few other details from the sight – which grew in definition with every slow step he took, ensuring his cane found as solid a grip as it could on the slick floor.

The odd, twisted lamp post did not have a proper lightbulb. No matter how hard he looked at the light, the human man saw nothing but a perfectly spherical orb of light – shining without restraint and hanging like ripe fruit from a branch, heavy enough to make it bend. What it hung from, however, was no organic growth, thankfully.

It looked like metal. Jagged and twisted in places, as if it had endured a bombing – or made in a way to disturb the mind with shapes Dominic hadn’t ever thought metals could assume – and it was not the only odd object in this place.

Dominic touched that which was illuminated, feeling the crude material beneath his fingers. Poorly carved and cared for, with no other apparent tending to beyond being cut from its source, the wooden table rose in a single axis from the wet floor – the scent of mildew a strong presence when this close to the forever humid wood.

It still had visible splinters and the bumps and lines made by whatever edge had cut it into shape, the circular surface only large enough to maybe fit two people with some comfort – or, at least, as much comfort as the chairs it came with could provide.

The seats, much like the table, seemed to be almost purposefully made to be as uncomfortable as possible. Straight out of a child’s imagination – or an amateur carpenter’s wildest drunk plans – the duo of chairs was lopsided, too short for the table, reeked of mildew, and had no cushion to possibly make the rough and unlacquered wood anything even remotely close to a comfortable seat for one’s bun.

Dominic was reluctant to sit on it, but the few minutes of dragging his feet through the low water around him made his bad knee begin to pulse – and, if he were, to be honest, the [Death Doctor] was more tired than he had any right to be, especially considering he had not slept yet.

Still, he endured. Dominic summoned the last dregs of feverish energy granted to him by his own emotions and Merino’s tea and sat on the chair with only minimal grunts and moans. Very wisely, the man refused to rest his aching back on the rough chair back, too conscious of what the rough material could cause to his unblemished suit – an odd comfort granted by the Skill, but one that he would not complain about.

It felt good to be back in clothes he felt comfortable in. Something about the robes given to him was too windy and wide, making Dominic feel as if he had been swimming in the cloth, and bringing none of the perfect comfort a well-tailored shirt and blazer could grant someone.

The man sighed, shook his head a bit, and leaned his cane on the side of his chair – only stopping for a second to ensure it wouldn’t slip into the dark water if he moved. Finally, after a deep breath, he faced what seemed to be the last of the skill-given objects.

A piece of rough paper and an old quill, tip wet with dark red ink.

Dominic stared at the writing tool for a while, noticing how the yellowed feather looked matted in places, caked with dirt in ways that killed its appeal and sophistication. But the ink was fresh, still dripping fervently onto the table like blood and dropping onto the water below through a thin river it formed.

The [Death Doctor], very pointedly, chose not to touch the very much ominous and magical quill and resolved to set his eyes on the paper beside it – or, more importantly, on what was written on it.

The very same story he gave to the System. That… half-collection, half-creation of his that resumed Celike’s life into a few paragraphs. It stood there, neatly written with a flowy calligraphy that looked neat even with the small spills of ink Dominic saw on the paper. And there, at the bottom, was a new addition.

A small x. Tiny, when compared with the rest of the writing, but followed by a dotted line the old entrepreneur recognized immediately. It was, after all, an addition he saw every time someone gave him a contract or proposed a deal. A mark of bureaucratic advancement that made clear who the parts involved were.

A place to sign his name.

He stared for a moment, holding the shiver that threatened to go down his spine by sheer force of will, and only gulped as the realization sunk in. Hesitation was apparent on every limb -- and the [Death Doctor] chose to call for the only possible source of answers in this place.

“Hm. System? What am I supposed to do?”

Silence. Dominic couldn’t say he expected anything else, but part of him still felt frustrated at the hands-off approach of the apparently all-mighty System – and, if he could give it any advice, he’d first ask it to hire some middle managers so that he could get some darned information when necessary.

It wouldn’t be today that it happened, however. So Dominic sucked it up and only pursed his lips for a second before shaking the thoughts away. At least no one seemed to hear him speak.

Still, with no clue left on what to do, the [Death Doctor] slowly – ever so slowly – took the quill onto his hand and hesitated as it dripped ever-flowing ink on the paper. He closed his eyes, gave a silent prayer for the Lord Almighty so that this wouldn’t be some kind of deal with the devil in disguise, and signed his name in red ink.

Dominic cracked an eye open – and the paper remained in place. No sudden flames or tentacles growing out of it, which already marked this situation as not the worst it could have been, though now he did wonder why it would require his signa–

The contract answered to a breeze he did not feel. It began to sway, right in front of his alarmed eyes, and the [Death Doctor] remained stuck in place as it floated upright, bent within itself like a small letter, and simply… vanished.

He couldn’t even say it was unexpected – just another thing to burst his freaky scale. Dominic sighed before lowering his eyes from where he had been watching the paper move and jumped as his heart came close to a stop.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

Someone was sitting in front of him, occupying the other skewed chair [A Final Conversation] had put in place. An Imp, apparently female under the simple robe she wore.

Dominic felt the sudden scare leave his body immediately as he recognized her, a cold shiver going through his bones. Her snout was not burned away, revealing the dark pink that merged seamlessly with the rest of her skin and with none of the oranges and blacks he had seen. She stared at him with confusion, blinking slowly as if she had just woken up, and Dominic recovered sooner than she did.

“Celike?”

He saw the twitch in her snout, eyes focusing for a moment on him – a microexpression he had learned to read on the Imps’ eyes, as the utter blackness of their pupils seemed to shrink slightly enough to reveal their white sclera whenever they were lost in thought – and the [Cobbler]’s face scrunched for a second as if in pain.

“...Yes. Who – are you?”

Celike spoke with a slight lisp, a hissier ‘s’ than even the other imps Dominic had met, and her tone was far from accusatory – but hurt… pained, even.

The [Death Doctor] felt his pulse speed up despite the realization, Celike’s confirmation finally bringing with it the weight of what he was doing. Dominic hid his excitement and relief under a smile, though the way his eyes crinkled told much to the people that knew him.

He extended a hand above the table, guided by memories and instincts of a time before the System, and spoke clearly and slowly – years of practice making his diction smooth.

“My name is Dominic Jones. I was the one to call you here, after–”

Should he say it? Should he break the news of her death? Dominic’s smile stretched as the pause grew, a facade that lasted for a second as he made his choice.

“--After you fell ill.”

The [Cobbler] frowned, taking on his waving hand after the more insistent prompting from the [Death Doctor]. Both settled down, and Celike took a moment to gather her thoughts.

“You… called me? We haven’t met before, have we?”

“No, no. I was one of the few trying to take care of you, under Elder Trakia’s guidance. My… skill allows me to talk with those in a more delicate state.”

The woman frowned, eyelids seemingly heavy as she brought a hand to her stomach, rubbing the area with her clawed fingers. The other went for her feet, scratching a place on her calf and moving the water beneath their seat. Dominic felt the small wave wet his shins.

“I… was sick. I kept trying to breathe and – there was no air. The pain… I think I fell. Did I hit my head?”

The question caught him off-guard, and Dominic took a beat to find out how to answer.

“Why do you think so?”

“It’s just… I can’t remember. It’s so – distant.”

Celike’s voice turned distant as she continued to rub her stomach, patting it without a thought as her eyes threatened to close in sleep. Dominic immediately lowered his hand and flicked a few drops of water onto her face. It seemed to do the trick, Celike surging back from her drowsiness enough to clean herself.

The [Death Doctor] cleared his throat, pausing to form his next phrase. The outcome was not as good as he wished.

“Apologies. But you should not sleep, Celike. There are things we must talk about.”

“...Really?”

“Of course! Everything you still wish to do, to make, to speak… for yourself and others. You are pregnant, after all.”

Celike’s hand paused, eyes widening as the words sunk in. The [Cobbler]’s eyes turned watery, her face scrunched in effort and then relaxing suddenly. She patted her flat stomach, touched what was not there, and sniffed.

“I am… pregnant. My baby – My sweet Eyoka. I – Scarlet Sun, how could I forget?”

A dark tear fell from her eyes, staining her pink skin. Dominic’s heart throbbed, a suspicion of why Celike was so confused rising in his heart. Still, the [Death Doctor] helped her burden with whatever words he found, breaking even further news.

“It’s alright. Eyoka is a pretty name – though you will need to choose another, Celike.”

“Another… name? Ah, they are twins.”

“Indeed. Were you not aware?”

The imp hissed twice in a negative, cleaning her claws that had been scratched at her legs in her robe. Dominic watched a small black stain appear on the cloth with furrowed brows.

“No. I – knew that. We visited a [Midwife] sometime before. I thought of a name, I think… Barik. That was it. A girl and a boy. Oh, Eiko was so happy. He will be a great father, won’t he?”

The question made Dominic pause, and his smile slipped away. He knew she was a widow.

“I… can’t say I’ve had the pleasure of meeting him.”

His words were slow. Measured. The [Death Doctor] watched intently for her reaction, but the woman seemed… blissful. Away in her own mind.

“He… He is great. He loves children so much, and… yes, a great father.”

Celike rambled, dangerously at peace, and Dominic almost flicked more water at her – but the [Death Doctor] froze before he did it.

She still cried. Celike smiled with tears rolling down her face, dripping silently onto her clothes and unnoticed by the [Cobbler]’s fragile state. Her mind was scattered, and Dominic couldn’t tell if it was due to his use of the skill or just a natural confusion after her death.

Still, he recovered – and gulped hard before continuing.

“Eyoka and Barik. Lovely names. But, Celike, do they have someone else to take care of them? Your… parents, maybe?”

“My…? No, no – they died a while ago. Eiko’s as well. We… will take care of them, you’ll see.”

Dominic took a deep breath, closing his eyes for a moment. He needed to know more – but the [Death Doctor] had not the training to deal with someone so confused, and it showed. Still, he tried again, using empathy and the same small prodding.

“I’m certain they will be taken care of. The ones trying to help you are being careful in helping the babies as well. Mister Orieke, Iaakis, Merino, Elder Trakia…”

Celike hissed once, a long confirmation, while her hand once more went for her calf – scratching away at something that, under the light above them, Dominic saw was staining the water.

And it was reaching his knees.

“Ah. Orieke and… Linkri's daughter? I know them. They’re – good people. My children… My twins… They – Ah!”

Celike shouted suddenly, making Dominic’s eyes widen even further in alarm as he took his attention from the rising water and to the dead [Cobbler].

The imp brought her hand closer to her face, and on it was a piece of something. Hard-looking and white, it dripped some viscous liquid down her palm – black as petroleum. Dominic looked agog at the piece of tissue Celike carried.

It was the same as the White Stalker’s flesh. All white bone and black sinew, dripping with dark blood.

Nightmare flesh.

Both held their breaths as the twitching, cancerous mass tried to screech – but all that came out was a mix between a choked gurgle and the scratch of nails on a board. Immediately, Dominic held his palms against his ears, trying to block the sound that didn’t stop until Celike closed her fist and smashed the tumor into a pulp.

The [Cobbler]’s expression was the clearest Dominic had seen since the beginning of their conversation. Her eyelids no longer hung heavy against her will – and Celike’s eyes were focused intently on the dripping gore.

She mumbled, half incomprehensible words – but pens that grew in volume slightly with every affirmation.

“Eiko… Eiko is… Eiko… is… dead.”

“Celike?”

“My husband… is dead.”

She turned her eyes towards Dominic, dry orbits of pure blackness expanded to their maximum size by the shock of the memories.

“I am dead. I – died.”

The [Death Doctor] did not hide the game. Dominic took a deep breath -- and relaxed unconsciously as the weight of the words unspoken left his shoulders.

“Yes. You… died not long ago. We tried our best at saving you, but the disease…”

“It was that plague, wasn’t it? The Python’s spell? He killed Eiko. I saw him burn from within, cough ashes as if a bonfire lived in his heart – and now, he took me too.”

Dominic… had no answer to that. No words came to mind on how to follow up, so the human man – old but lacking – reduced himself to his silence.

After all, it was the truth, wasn’t it? Brutal as it was, it was the truth.

Celike still spoke, widening the gash as she lived through the pain once more with every sentence uttered, making it ache in both of their hearts.

“My babies. They… they won’t have anyone. They will be all alone.”

Dominic bit his lips so hard his teeth nearly met, trying to hold it in what his heart wished to say – but the words overflowed both mind and tongue.

“...They will be safe. They – will be taken care of, Celike.”

“But you are not his parents!”

The mother hissed – and Dominic lowered his head. His eyes met his reflection on the water, now so close to his waist. The [Death Doctor] did not have the heart to worry. He knew what it was, and it was rising faster.

Dominic cleared his throat.

“No. We aren’t. No one will replace you or Eiko. But someone… someone must care for them. Someone needs to love them.”

Celike banged her fists on the table, a little gore spraying on the impact.

“And who would do it? Trakia? My master? They are not their parents. It… It should…”

It should have been me. Been us. The woman didn’t need to speak to make her heart clear for him to see – so Dominic took her hands onto his own, breathed deeply, and spoke.

“It isn’t fair that they will grow without you, Celike. No child should be without their parents. But others… others will rise to the station. I’ve seen it happen – and so have you. Has Vriako not taken care of all his [Apprentices]? Has Trakia not already taken an orphan under her wing?”

Had he not done the same for Jules?

The woman struggled a little to tear her hands from his grasp, claws scratching at his wrist, but Dominic tightened his grip and kept her in place. Part of him knew what to do, the burden that was him to take because no one else could – and he feared his knees would buckle under it for just a second.

But it was his job, wasn’t it? To stop the pain.

“I can not bring you back, Celike. I wish I could. I wish I could make sure you met your children. But… I can’t.”

He struggled to keep his stance, the words turning difficult to enunciate. It was a path of no return, to do what he was doing. Dominic knew it – because he would never be able to use his powers without doing this again and again. He didn’t have the heart to deny someone the realization he had.

Celike grimaced and snarled, weakly, full of pain, but the [Cobbler] didn’t fight his grip anymore. She listened.

“But I can remember you. Talk to me, Celike. Tell me all you wish you could have said. All your hopes – all your… messages. And I will carry them for as long as I live – and that… I can promise.”

Celike struggled for a second. Her tongue twisted inside her mouth, and all she could do when it managed to get free was scream – then cry.

Her tears fell into the water, lost. But Dominic knew she understood what he could give her.

The opportunity so few had.

So the [Cobbler] spoke, through sobs and hiccups and sudden whimpers. She talked her heart out, one last time, so that at least one person could carry it somewhere else and put it on display for all to see.

To see that she had been here. That she had lived, loved, and gone away.

And Dominic? He sat in silence, opposite to the spill of words, and felt the water rise slowly as he once more did what he did best.

He ensured her dream came true.

***

Somewhere, far away, they walked.

Their steps were unhurried, drifting over the barren land as they searched underneath stones and inside caves. Slender fingers pried information out of what should tell no tales, and they smiled as another hint was found.

They paused, however, when the letter appeared. A piece of folded paper, bent into itself until it occupied only a fraction of the space it should, drifting slowly onto their hands. Slender fingers returned it into proper shape, nose furrowing at the crinkles on the page, but soon enough a smile blossomed on their face.

A little tale was written there in the artificially organic calligraphy of the System, based on nothing but hearsay and imagination. A lovely little hopeful play. And the name at the bottom, signed in red ink…

How delightful that they came so easily.

Their teeth flashed in a vulpine bent of lips, and they spun in place as they held the letter. A sigh escaped lips painted in ruby red, and a song drifted a moment later. A small nursing rhyme, made in time immemorial.

“~~ Death, oh Death.

Of ten, far told.

Your final breath.

He takes a hold. ~~”

They spun once more, feeling the moment with all their body as they danced over dead soil and ruined reality. Another, also searching, stopped at the sudden peppy song.

They continued, remembering the old lyrics as they came.

“~~ He chops and culls.

You’re next in line.

A shriveling heart.

The Reaper’s right. ~~”

The one watching stood closer now, in position as they waited. They had not found it as well, but there was no bad mood – unlike the other times.

“~~ The singing scythe.

That cuts your soul.

There’ll be nothing left.

After the Reaper goes. ~~”

The song ended on a lower note, extending itself like a mourning dirge.

A soft clapping echoed in the space, armored hands ringing their metallic sound as they touched each other. The singer bowed, head lolling from side to side as the rhythm continued on their tongue and feet, making them bounce from time to time.

Now, they began to walk once more, their steps never hurrying as they clicked and clacked their shoes. They left the scourged place behind with no fanfare, but all the stones and skeletons would forever remember the song.