Chapter 40

Voice of the Broken

“FREE ME!! FREE ME FROM THESE CHAINS!! I WILL DEVOUR YOU ALL!!”

The Fragments

Noah sat inside his room, lonesome, having just watched Myrell and Sash depart toward the northern part of the fort to purchase their slaves. However, his mind wasn’t with them; rather, his eyes and his attention were focused on the spherical, black thing in his hands, standing still and faintly cold, unmoving. No matter what he did, there was no response. The thing seemed to be an unmoving, strange rock more so than anything else. The vague info the King gave him was worthless – he may as well have not said anything.

His words, however, did seem to startle the King out of his boots; the figure darted moments after Noah informed him of Sumnner’s warning, vanishing as though it was never there. It wasn’t rapid sort of a movement, it was magic – the figure blended in with the shadows like smoke and disappeared within the blink of an eye.

Everything was strange, eerie even, and unknown. It made him feel queasy, uncertain, even afraid. He shook the sphere, but there was no response. He kissed it, rubbed it, chanted at it, spoke to it, threw it… no response. The Dark… antithesis to the Light… should he even try and unlock the secrets behind it? He postulated he would gain access to magic through it, but there’s a chance it might be more trouble than it’s worth it.

Sighing helplessly, he threw himself back onto the bed lazily, staring at the dull ceiling. The saying that no tricks mattered in front of the absolute strength really was right, he mused. No matter how much he schemed, planned, manipulated and played the world, he only had to cross someone like the King, someone who can find him no matter in which hole he hides, and someone who can kill him without ever even going near him. Magic… magic is the absolute reality of this world. His petty resistance was pointless, a child’s play.

He closed his eyes, drifting. Thinking. Thinking. Always thinking. Since his youth, that was his greatest weapon. It wasn't the guns, the goons, the wealth, or the power he'd acquired. It was thinking. He wasn't terribly clever. He couldn't calculate quickly, or remember things like others. He couldn't see flaws in everything at a first glance. What he could do, however, was spend hours in his thoughts, dismantling every little bit of information, simulating every possibility imaginable before reaching the most likely scenario. Now? He can't do that. How can he simulate the reality with the magic as a variable? Magic, by nature, is the unknown. Incalculable. Chaotic.

“… come…”

Even if he is given the Kingdom to his name, what of it? It can be taken away at Olivia’s whim. One morning she can wake up and realize she no longer needs him. How can he resist? He can’t. She doesn’t even have to do it herself, just send a band of goons to kill him. It was the depressing reality where all odds were stacked against him, but he resisted. He will continue to resist, regardless of everything. He never succumbed to the stacked odds; he molded them, cheated them, abused them, and exploited them until they were flipped upside down, and those gunning for him were lying at his feet, bleeding, weeping, pissing themselves.

“… hear…”

He may have lost plenty, but he was the ultimate winner; his name may have been known by the world, but his face was an enigma. Here? That wasn’t the case. Everybody knew his face – at least everybody that could threaten him. He can’t hide from them. He can’t throw baits around, lead them by their noses, and strike when their guard is down. He can manipulate the masses, he can change the hearts of the millions if given enough time… but one miracle of others is enough to undo everything.

“… accept…”

The curtain was pulled back and he found himself inside a hideous room, tendrils of smoke wiggling about like worms, the entire reality hazy, as though he was stoked on drugs. It was ashen gray, monochrome even, the luster of colors nowhere to be found. He felt unsteady, queasy, and weak. His voice wouldn't come out, and his limbs wouldn't listen. Just then, an apparition blew out of the thunder of black fire, spat out violently, jerking amidst the dying roars.

As the turbulent mist cleared, a figure came forth from within, freezing him. He didn’t feel this even when he met Sumnner. Why? He pondered inwardly. Why him? Of all the souls in the world, why was he drawn to all this? He didn’t want to come eye to eye with the reality like this. He didn’t need it.

It was tall, several dozen feet tall, grasped in thick, smoking shadows of black, draped in the rotting dress of black silk. Thin pair of arms stretched, skeletal, decaying flesh bending over the corroding bones, holes rapidly widening and narrowing, almost like the blinking of an eye. A see-through veil fell over its face, dangling like a flag, ashen-gray in the dye, hiding hideous features beyond. A pair of eyeless sockets stared down at him, black and hollow, protruded cheeks flushed in pale white, holed, lips thin and ghastly gray. A choker-like collar wound tightly around its thin neck, spitting out a black, goo-like liquid that folded over the narrow, atrophic chest. From the faint bulges, it looked to have been a she sometime in the past. A long, long, long, long distant past.

She floated just above what he thought was the floor, smoke unfolding from beneath her and spreading in a ring-like fashion. She was more a ghost than a living thing, an undying remnant of something abominable. Cold, ugly, tepid. She suddenly reached out, her skeletal arm elongating like a spear, thin, horrid fingers touching his cheeks, caressing them. It felt like daggers were gently tracing over his cheeks, his skin freezing as she passed by.

“… you’ve… come…" a sordid, weepy voice whispered, white beam of light blurring out behind her. It was a wide and spacious room he found himself in, one in ghastly ruins, with broken pillars scattered about, their charred remains floored out around her. There was a gaping hole behind her, looking out into the outside, though he was too blinded to notice anything.

“… w-where?” he muttered in a weak, scared voice, trembling.

“… I—We—I shall grant… grant you… it,” the weepy voice of the ‘woman’ ignored him, continuing. “In turn… turn… you must find me—Us—me, and free me… free me…”

“I—”

“I cannot be… Queen of Ashes… not anymore… not anymore… not anymore…”

Noah didn’t understand why, but tears coalesced inside his eyes, his heart seemingly bleeding. There was something striking about her misery, something so overbearing that it washed over him like the violent waves, repeatedly beating his heart until it gave in.

The world flashed in the majestic color of the fire as he felt himself flung amidst the inferno; a grand city, well down below, burned. It burned like the eternal flame, the screams hung like medals of honor upon its streets. The scent of the burning corpses overcame the world. It was a wide, grand, majestic city. He didn't see it in such a state, but he knew it was. What happened to it? Why was it burning?

An explosion thrust him down like a meteor, springing him through the thick walls like a cannonball. It was beyond his control – everything was. The melting faces of the children, the burning throats of the weeping mothers, the scorched arms of the fathers embracing them, the diluted armors of the soldiers boiled from inside out. He couldn’t change it. It was hell. Hell beyond description – one matching and outpacing everything he’d lived through on Earth.

In the hazy blaze, the golden pillar shimmered amidst the fire. In it, a figure floated, her burning hair scattered about like tendrils. She was screaming in madness, enveloped in thickening, black-woven velvet. Around her, disfigured corpses lay on their knees, their skins glued to the tiled, charred floor beneath. A ghastly sight. A terrible view. Ugly. Inhuman. The pair of eyes veered from beyond the flames and met his. She wept. Wept like a newborn babe. She fell from the air and onto the ground, crying still, sobbing uncontrollably. He wanted to reach out and touch her. Comfort her. Hold her. But his arm burned out in a painless blaze. His skin melted off, his bones turning to ash. He vanished, turned into a wisp of the black smoke, thrust back through the membrane of his emotions.

Noah jumped up, finding himself in the empty, silent room inside the inn. He was doused in sweat from top to bottom, breathing madly, his hands dyed crimson from digging his nails into his palms. He wiped his eyes, tracing more blood onto his hands. He was lost, madly looking about, searching for the miserable figure. She was not there. Nobody was there except for him. And the wisp of black in his mind. The trace of something dark, something primal.

He could feel it snuggling inside of him. It was like a lump in a throat, but everywhere. No matter what you did, it stayed there. It caused you no harm, it didn’t hurt, but you felt it. It was uncomfortable. Annoying.

He stretched his arm out, merely picturing that thing drifting through his veins and out of his fingers… when it happened. The pale fingers jerked violently for a moment before they spat out a black mist that shrouded them. He realized he could control the mist at will, mold it into anything he wanted it to be. A ball. A cup. A sword. A knife. Even a gun. He’d acquired it, now. Magic. The variable that made him uncomfortable. It was within his hands, however antithetical it may be to the magic of others. Yet… he hardly felt free. The body-wide lump remained. The weepy voice still stuck in his mind. The mindless plea she muttered looped through his memories. It felt more like a burden than a tool of liberation. More like the weighty mountain than a sharp blade.

He sunk in silence and fell back onto the bed, absentmindedly staring at the ceiling. He didn’t care that he was drenched in sweat, or that he could hardly afford to laze around like this for too long. For today, he decided… he wouldn’t move. He would let himself drift, wherever his broken mind may take him.