Feel the fire, Willem thought to himself, trying to slow down his heartbeat like when he had cast magic before. Feel the heat of the flame on your skin. He tried to reach for the magic in the pit of his stomach, tried to pull it up and out of him like before. He tried to remember the feeling when he had opened the rift, that sensation of desperation. Yet once more it eluded him, and he tried to reach out even harder. Yet an uninvited voice spoke in his mind—go and tell the others, it whispered. A sudden jolt of pain shot through his mind as he fell over panting, his face covered in sweat. There was a slight heat in his palms, but nothing more. Not even a spark, he noted glumly as he breathed hard, his heart rate suddenly spiking from its previously leisurely pace.

He fell back on the stones, feeling the harsh winds scrape against his skin and chill his body. His hot breath plumed in the air, and he stuck his fingers into his armpits in an effort to keep them warm. There had been some too-large clothes scavenged for him from the living quarters, the rough cloth abrasive against his skin. Pain shot up his leg, in the toes that he knew would not be there when he looked. They ached dully, serving as a constant reminder of what he had lost even as he recuperated. He kept his gaze fixed firmly on the sky, refusing to look at the bindings on his legs. He needed no further reminding that he was a cripple—was a lifetime not enough already?

He had lost his foot, his right leg now ending just above the ankle. As for his left leg, it now ended only a hand’s length from the hip. The open wounds had been cauterized, sealed by flame in the hopes of preventing any infection after they had been cleaned. Bandages were secured around them both, wet with blood and pus almost constantly. He had to change them daily, hoping that the flesh would not get corrupted. If that was the case, well, there was not much left to cut off.

Two wooden crutches lay on the stones next to him. They were there to give him some semblance of autonomy, but in truth he knew it to be a facade. His leg ached painfully whenever he put the slightest pressure on it; he could no sooner walk on his own with those crutches than he could dance a jig. He had to carried by Norus up to the walkway just to practice magic.

Had it been a week already since I met them? The days seemed to blend together, like some constant pressure that he bore on his back. He was not sure what to make of these legionaries; they seemed nice enough, but he felt a danger whenever he stood near them. His instincts were practically screaming at him to keep his distance. He could only smirk inwardly at the thought—if he kept his distance any further, he would fall over. Cripples had no right to be independent, he reminded himself as he sat up.

Norus cocked his head questioningly, watching. The man was silent most of the time, although there were talkative days where he almost spoke in whole sentences. Willem had never quite worked up the courage to ask where the scar on the man’s throat had come from, although from its shape it seemed to be some kind of blade.

“Done?” he asked, getting up slowly. He and Kat took turns watching over Willem and exploring the Gates. The hope was that Willem would be able to work the waygate and send them all back the way that they had came, but they also tried to find the way down from this massive wall in case he never could. With limited food stores and the lurking threat of the skal’va, the sooner they could leave, the better.

A week’s time had borne little fruit, at least in trying to open the waygate. Whenever Willem tried to bring the magic out of him to cast a spell, he was either struck by phantom pains of his missing limbs or interrupted by those voices from that corpse. Nevertheless, he resolved to keep trying. Magic was the only thing that might drive this helplessness out of his heart, that might help lift the shackles of a cripple that he had worn since birth.

He rose awkwardly with Norus’s support, hobbling over to the waygate. The rune-covered stones were motionless on the wall, pristine and untouched by any wear whatsoever. Yet without any formal magic training and without any people to help him, Willem had no idea how to use the waygate. Just try to move the stones for now, Kat had told him, but how was he even supposed to accomplish that? These crow-cursed things were heavier than grown men; even when Norus had hauled with all of his strength, they had not even budged. He was supposed to use magic, he resolved, but he could not even move the magic from where it lay coiled in his stomach.

Taking a deep breath, he sat down in front of the stones to try once more. Gently, he cupped his hands around one of the stones, his gaze fixed on those indiscernible carvings. The runes seemed to change shape even as he watched, and so he gave up on trying to make out each individual symbol. His gaze grew unfocused, taking in the entirety of the image before him as he settled into that trancelike state once more. His breathing grew more even, his heartbeat slowing as he repeated what he had done many times before.

Slowly closing his eyes, he reached inside himself, searching for the familiar feeling of the magic. It was coiled and tangled in the pit of his stomach, like so many strands all wrapped around each other, and he needed just one. Yet even as he reached, they slipped through his grasp like sand, like water. Over and over he tried to pull out just a single strand of magic, and over and over he failed. Frustration grew inside of him, his heartbeat beginning to rise in speed as his thoughts churned. Five and three curses, just a single damned piece of magic! Yet the harder he tried, the more it eluded him. His heartbeat continued to rise, until the sensation of the magic began to disappear altogether, as if he was reaching for something that was fast flying away from him.

Someone placed his hand on his shoulder gently and his eyes snapped open, fury and frustration making his features red. Glancing around, he saw Norus standing over him, the soldier shaking his head gently. Breathing hard, Willem hung his head in defeat, knowing that in his state, and further attempts would certainly be fruitless. His face was covered with sweat, despite the cold wind that chilled his skin. Taking his damp palms off the runic stone, he wiped them on his shirt before having Norus help him up. Leaning against the side of the wall with his crutches, they slowly walked towards the wide stairs that would take them below to the living quarters.

Another day for failure, he muttered inwardly before shaking his head. Those thoughts would get him nowhere, and this was no place for self-pity. There would be time enough for tears when he was dead; right now, he needed to make that time as far off as possible. THe skal’va, the corpse, even this battered body of his, they were nothing that he had wished for. They were nothing that he had deserved, unless some perverse god was mocking his past life. This life was not one that he had asked for, not one that he had wanted. But complaining would not make it better; self-loathing would not make the pain go away. That was the resolve that this harsh life had taught him.

Kat came back later that night with news to share. As they sat around the fire for dinner, there was a gleam of pride in his eye. Norus ignored him and Willem was busy gnawing on the bricks that they called food, and so he continued to squirm until finally he burst out. “Is no one going to ask me?” he demanded, snatching one of the rations for himself and tearing into his with unnecessary viciousness.

“What?” Willem muttered through a mouthful of what seemed to be both paste and sand, crumbs flying out of his mouth. Blood and bones, there’s enough salt in this thing to cure a corpse, he grumbled, feeling all moisture leave his mouth the more he chewed.

Kat smiled widely, seeming inordinately proud of himself. “I found the way to the bottom.” he proclaimed, holding his stance as if waiting for some form of applause. When there was none coming, a glum look quickly spread across his face before he sunk back into his meal. “Really? Nothing?” he grumbled, throwing his arms wide. “I found us the way off this crow-cursed rock. Blood and bones, I knew the mute over there was going to say anything, but nothing from you either, Willem?” he pouted.

“Oh,” Willem managed as he forced the lump of food down his throat. “Congratulations? But then where are we going?” he asked before taking yet another regretful bite, wincing as the harsh food abraded his sensitive tongue.

Kat shrugged noncommittally. “We can always take the Kingsroad back to the Capital. Lord Florell’s camp is close enough—just a day’s march off the Kingsroad at most..” How did he manage to eat this dried mud so easily? A sudden thought seemed to strike Kat as he stopped chewing—did he break his tooth on the food?

“That is, if we haven’t already marched.” he mused, and Norus seemed to give a grunt in agreement.

“Marched?” Willem asked. “Where to?” He had to resist the urge to spit out the food, almost resorting to using his fingers to push it down his throat.

“Marched on the Capital.” Kat explained. Norus stood up—did he already finish this crow-cursed shit? How? Kat continued, chewing thoughtfully. “House Florell’s one of the parties fighting for the throne after King Alerick died. We were sent here to win over support of the garrison at the wall.” A cold smirk crossed his face. “An amazing success that was.”

Kat too stood up, brushing some of the crumbs off his legs. He was done too? How did these soldiers stomach this? Willem set his half-eaten brick on the ground, shaking his head. “I can’t finish this.” he muttered, coughing as some of it threatened to come back after all the effort it had taken just to send it down.

Kat merely laughed, tossing a few more sticks into the fire. “It’s godawful, isn’t it? The food at camp isn’t much better. You get used to it after a while. Come on, finish it up. You’ll need your strength for tomorrow—I’m not carrying your arse down a thousand hands of ladder.” he remarked dryly before making his way over to his cot. “Make sure to change your bandages.” he reminded.

“Aye, mother.” Willem grumbled, breaking another tooth gnawing on that brick. Tomorrow, he mused. What would it be like, to travel with them? His whole life, he had been trapped in Mea Vatal. Then, two weeks ago, he had resolved to flee. That first voyage of his life had taken him to brink of hell. Now, one week later, he was going on another journey. What kind of hell is waiting this time? The thought troubled him as he forced the last of the rations down.

He thought about his dream, about the corpse that had spoken to him. What had he said? What had he called Willem? Intruder in the tomb of Faith. Was that his name then—Faith? What a farce; what a mockery. Yet his grasp had swept over all of Malifor, and he said to have succeeded where another failed. His servants, the skal’va, dwelt and lurked in every shadow. What was he to do in the face of such strength? What was he—a mere cripple—to do in the face of a foe that he could not even flee from?

Go and tell the others, Faith had commanded him. Spread the word of my god. A cold twitch fought the corner of his mouth.

What kind of crow-cursed god used a cripple as a prophet?