FINAL CORE - Chapter 122 (Patreon)

Fairy Marjatta

Fairy, Female, Scribe — Assistant to Cardinal Erzael of the West

Location: The Western Mountain City

How far away can it be? How much longer can it really take, until the sun returns to the world and the day comes again? That shimmering glow on the horizon, that spark in the air to fill the world with warmth and life. How far away can it really be?

Marjatta exhales, rubbing her face on her arm as she sniffles, looking at Cardinal Erzael, who is sitting on his chair, surrounded by all manner of tomes of knowledge to aid his research of the cosmos and the heroes of the world. The pages of the books move, as the wind presses in through the open window and flutters over them, pushing aside the strands of his long, gray hair over his closed eyes.

He’s dead.

In truth, she knew this was coming sooner or later. But she just… wasn’t expecting it to happen so… quietly. She was just starting her morning. Today is the big day. The hero has to leave the mountain and head to the south, there isn’t any time left for them to delay. So she got up, washed herself, got breakfast ready and made tea to bring the cardinal.

And here he is, just sitting in his chair, having left them in the night without ceremony or decree. He just… stopped.

Marjatta holds her face in her sleeve, letting it soak up everything for a while as she returns her emotions to her own control. There isn’t time for this. There’s work to do. The man is gone, but the wish remains, and it remains in her hands.

The fairy gulps, swallowing her pain as she looks back over her shoulder, and then flies to close the windows and the doors to the room, before leaving it.

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Deutero

Human, Male, TRUE HERO

Location: The Western Mountain City

Daybreak.

Today is the day.

He stands on the precipice of the mountain, staring out over the world towards the distant east, towards the endless night in which shines not a single glimmer of light. It’s an endless sea of nothingness. People gather all around the clearing, members of the church, high priests, priestesses, monks, and all manner of holy men and women of the cloth.

How long has the world been like this? How long will it have to be like this? He looks down at himself, as a small hand places itself on his shoulder from behind. Deutero looks over his shoulder at Marjatta, the fairy who hovers there, and she nods to him. “It’s time, big guy,” she says, nodding to him. “Make me proud, okay?”

He nods. “We’ll watch that sunrise together,” he promises, looking back towards the east.

“Sheesh, why do you have to be like that?” asks Marjatta, rubbing her arm. “Gonna make a girl blush in public if you’re so shameless.”

“No,” he replies, lifting a hand towards her, his fingers curled in to make a slight fist. “It’s a promise between friends,” he says, as she looks at it for a moment, trying to understand his gesture.

A small sigh comes a moment later as he feels her strike his fist in return.

“Isn’t the cardinal coming to say goodbye?” asks the hero.

“Nah,” replies Marjatta blankly. “He had to do some old man stuff together with the other cardinal from the south,” explains the fairy, shrugging. “But he said you’re ready. The gods are counting on you — blah blah.”

He looks, then nods.

“So, uh, how do I ride one of those things?” he asks, nodding his head at the anqas the church procession has brought with them.

Marjatta blinks, realizing they never trained riding. “Oh… uh, just wing it, you’ll probably be fine,” she says. There’s nothing else to do about it now. “Just sit down and hold on. They’re smart birds; they’ll know how to not die.”

“Pardon me, excuse me,” says a voice from the side. They turn to look at a courier, standing there with a small parcel. “Delivery for one Marjatta,”

“That’s me,” she interjects, raising a hand.

“- From his grace, Cardinal Erzael,” finishes the courier. She lifts an eyebrow, looking at the small parcel, wrapped in the paper commonly used by the Holy-Church. It is stamped with the wax stamp of the church’s craftsmens’ guild.

“Huh?” she asks as the man gives the package to the hero, salutes, and then runs off again. She lands on his arm, looking at the parcel curiously. From the cardinal? That doesn’t make any sense. She grabs the brown parchment, pulling it off to reveal a small jeweler’s box.

“The heck?” she asks, looking inside at a small talisman with a note attached to the top of the inner lid, as wind blows over the peak, tussling the loose paper.

‘Dear Marjatta,

Thank you for your service.

Erzael’

She blinks, looking at it and then at the talisman.

[Fairy Talisman]

Made by the finest craftsmen of the Holy-Church, this talisman is imbued with a powerful, rare source of ambient magic and constantly emits passive waves of it out around itself, sustaining anyone who wears it.

• Effect: As long as this talisman is worn, it will replenish the fading magics of a body, allowing a fairy to leave its confines.

Marjatta’s hair blows past her face as she looks at the small charm, just big enough for a fairy to wear.

She purses her lips, rubbing her face against her sleeve.

“Marjatta?” asks the hero.

“Desert dust,” replies the fairy, sniffling. “Told you. It flies in from the east.”

“Oh… huh…” replies the man. “Wasn’t that only in the summer?” he asks, but receives no response.

It seems that she has a lot of dust in her eyes.

________________________________

Witch Gauden

???, Male, Witch of the Blue-Rot

Location: The Dead City, An Underground Temple

Gauden sits down on the ground with his legs crossed, drumming on an old drum he found with his hands as he thinks.

— Well, it’s not so much him thinking alone as it is him thinking together with the thoughts of his patron entity, the thing that gives him his powers.

He drums and sits, his long hair bobbing in the rhythm of his movements, the long, greasy strands swaying like fronds in a breeze as the thoughts come to him. They are thoughts of the many futures of this world and the one they are heading towards in particular. They are thoughts of everything all around the world, thoughts of people in distant, far away regions, thoughts of animals, skittering beneath the city’s rubble, thoughts  of old places, which humans would not attribute the action of thinking too. All of these things reach his patron, who has its tendrils in them, and it in turn passes them on to him.

Witch Gauden has already seen the future to come, so he knows that he is needed here most, in this southern city that is beginning to sink in the muck of the world. It doesn’t make sense now, but in the long run, in the grand scheme of things, the best thing he can do to be a good friend and person is to just stay right here.

That’s what it tells him at least, the blue-rot, his patron and the bestower of his powers as a witch.

This all needs to play itself out. It’s for the best, for the world, and for his friends. Pipi might not see it now, given her temperament. But when she comes back to him next time in… ten years or so, she’ll have lightened up a lot.

It makes him sad that she’s going to have to think about what she has to think about, but it really is for the best.

The man drums away, deep down in a temple that the members of the Witch’s Sect are carving out, listening to the endless whispering in his ears.

__________________________________

Witch Spillaholle

???, Female, Witch of the Red-String

Location: The Dead City, An Outside Alleyway

What a strange circumstance, but it may perhaps be for the best.

After Perchta had vanished, she had gotten up from her chair and gone outside to head towards the library to find a new book — one that was less troublesome for her mind.

The woman leans out of the alley, looking at the fully destroyed house, of which not a single door or window remains, having been crushed entirely.

“Witch Spillaholle!” calls a voice from the side. She jumps in terror, clutching the wall with her hands. “Are you alright?” asks a warm voice. Her heart stops. She turns to look behind herself at him, of all people.

“Mister Anderwal,” replies Witch Spillaholle, standing up straight and clearing her throat as she does her best to play it calm. This is her chance to finally leave. If Perchta thinks she’s dead, she can make a break for the east, where she can finally have some peace and quiet for the next few hundred years. Perchta is nice, however, she has done her part to fulfill the obligations of their friendship, and enough is enough. “I am fine, thank you.”

She wants to go home, before this nonsense escalates any further.

The witch nods to herself, opening her eyes to look at him and to tell him that this was fun, but it’s time for them to part ways.

Her mouth opens to say just that, but instead she just makes a sort of dry croaking noise as no words come. She clears her throat, wetting her lips as she tries again. “I…”

— It hurts in her chest. Why?

How troublesome.

She stops, scrunching her face with her hands in agitation, as she can’t say what she wants to say. Her body won’t let her, as if it were having a tangible, unpleasant response to her thoughts. Her gut is in a knot, and it churns around itself. “Mister Anderwal,” starts Witch Spillaholle, practically dancing on the spot from the awkward shuffling of her feet. She has to tell him before the spell over her grows stronger, before whatever this wickedness is that has taken hold of her soul completes its corruption and takes her whole. She lifts a hand. “I -”

He grabs hold of it with both of his, this simple movement entirely disarming her and leaving her powerless.

“Leave with me,” says Scholar Anderwal. Her eyes go as wide as saucers, an icy chill running down her back as her heart flushes with hot blood that courses through her suddenly sweating body.

“Mister… An- Anderwal,” she starts.

He pulls her in. “This is going to escalate,” he says, looking past her at the destruction. “I need to leave now, or my work will be in jeopardy,” he explains, looking back down at her. The leather satchels full of journals hanging over his shoulder moving with him. Somehow, his hands have found their way to her shoulders. “Leave with me, please,” he asks again. “Now.”

It’s over.

She already knows it is. The side of her that yearns for total quiet, total solitude, and total separation from all other aspects of life screams and rages in her core as its desires are left unfulfilled. However, its voice is overpowered by the other, unfamiliar voice — that of a singing, screaming piece of red that connects the two of them.

“I, Mister Anderwal…”

But her old instincts tell her to try nonetheless, to shake him off, to tell him to go his way and she’ll go hers and they can both just exist separate from one another.

And they are shattered in an instant as she finds their lips together, their hearts beating against one another, and their hands wrapped in each other's.

The beast has taken her soul. The monstrosity with no form. The parasite that takes over hosts, making them do its bidding has full hold of her and inebriates her to the core with euphoria, the likes of which she can feel tingling from the tips of her fingers to her toes, her head buzzing with electricity.

“Okay,” replies Witch Spillaholle, as they separate for only a second as they break a connection that her body tells her to reestablish immediately. She looks at him in the eyes, nodding. “Okay,” repeats the witch, knowing that it’s too late for her. It’s already over. She’s as good as lost.

She’s fallen in love.

Scholar Anderwal firmly holds her hand, feeling what she feels, and turns as they run away together, vanishing into the night, where they might never be seen again by anyone they know, at least.

And in distant years, there might be whispers of a strange couple, far off in the distant east at first, and then other places as they move to avoid the endless chaos that befalls the world, always staying a step ahead of it, so that they might exist together in perpetual quiet, apart from the striking of the other’s heart and body against themselves.

But those whispers are never verified to be more than strange stories from a passing traveler or scribe, whose tomes and books are often bought out wholesale by a mysterious private collector. In the end, all that remains of Scholar Anderwal and Witch Spillaholle are the footprints they leave behind themselves always two pairs — until one day, a few more pairs are added to the collection, together with many more books — although these are meant for children.

Or not.

Who can really say in the end. It almost sounds like a fairytale.