Captured Sky

Havoc knelt, as though in supplication, on the ebony floor within the Chamber of Inheritance. He gripped his stomach and projected from his mouth a putrid, black filth. It showered the marble-like surface. The ground shifted and softened to receive his vile offering, accepting the foul substance now trickling from his lips. When the last drop slipped into the puddle, the surface of the ground solidified once more.

Waves of violent nausea retreated, and he collapsed to the ground. Once again, gluttonous hunger and ravenous thirst tore through him; it was as crippling as when his trial had first begun. A strange kind of death loomed over him. It would not claim him, yet it refused to leave his side. He was, once again, subject to the Chamber’s predations.

It’s not so bad. He thought, having no strength left for words. I’ve faced worse.

He had, indeed, faced worse. Spirited away to where he did not know, he had encountered true malevolence and terrible power.

He had met terror incarnate.

And yet, I’m alive…

Resilient as he was, he was not fool enough to believe he could challenge that… thing. He did not believe there was a man, beast, or worse who could.

‘And yet, I’m alive,’ he croaked, having slowly regained the little vitality permitted in his undead state. He was truly bewildered. The entity had spared him, that much was clear, but he had been broken. Every bone had shattered; every organ burst. The Chamber would keep him from death as long as there was light up above, but as for repairing his living remains, even going so far as to erase the criss-cross of scarring inflicted during his incarceration... He did not think Chamber so merciful. As for the entity… He did not believe it to have knowledge of the concept. Yet he could not deny his restoration. His arms and his legs, no longer a patchwork of jagged reminders of his torture, was smooth and supple to the touch, as though newly birthed.

He rolled onto his back and basked in the light. Darkness had claimed the vastness of the void, but a cluster of crystal stars had reignited in the entombed heavens. They had not been there before. He had not forgotten when the last star had burned out. He had not forgotten being left in the dark. He had been consumed by the night, both inside and out. It had flooded his veins, seeped into his bones, and drew him into its depths.

There had been no escape.

That isn’t true… He retorted against his own trail of thought.

Rummaging through his mind, he tried to recall the encounter. When he probed at the boarders of the experience, he could distinctly remember he had descended into the murk and ascended through creation into stranger lands. But the details were scrambled. He knew he had witnessed the profound. It was as though the curtain of rationality were rolled aside to reveal unbounded chaos, renewal and destruction, simultaneous and never ending. It left an impression deep in his soul, but It was not a mental image he could retain. His fleshly mind would not tolerate the incoherence of cosmic order.

To his recollection’s grip, the retention of the entity was far more fluid. It slipped through his every attempt to hold on. Something had happened and for the second time, he had been reprieved, as for the cost and duration of that clemency, he could not even guess.

Perhaps it was best he could not remember. His human captors had required he seize the power of the gods to be forgiven. Whatever it was that a god among gods would demand for his absolution… it was not worth thinking about. At least not yet.

He did not know and he could not know, His recollection of the events had been fragmented and crushed. Like shifting sand, he could not piece together its original form. The best he could hope for was to create something new. But a castle moulded by the seaside held few clues concerning the structure time had destroyed for its formation.

Though his fists were clenched, he had no choice but to let go. And as a newly born star began to flicker above, he no longer cared. He was given a chance. As to whom or what he had to thank, it was a secondary concern.

His first task was to inherit; his second was to survive. No matter how he had suffered, he would suffer it again. He could not leave the Chamber, but neither would he try. Were a door to appear and shepherd him from harm, he would slam it closed and remain. He would not leave without his prize.

He had bled for it, died for it, had been condemned to Hell for it. Nothing would pry his hands from it. Balling up a hand into a fist, he struck the ground. The pain was nothing; he struck once again. Again and again, his fist collided with the unbreakable. The slip of his blood painted the floor, but its all-consuming black would allow no stain to show. He howled into the void. It was a wail unfamiliar, but he knew its cry. It was a call of resolve. A declaration that he would not be taken alive. He had no surrender left to give. He gritted his teeth and stood on shaky feet.

The chamber spun, but he held still. His body was restored, but disorientation and fatigue lingered. His vision swam. Squeezing shut his eyes then opening them, he stepped forward into a less hazy expanse. Staggering past scattered remnants laying hazardously on the ground, he was careful not to so much as brush past the smallest artefact. Step after step, he walked the corridor of shelves. One by one, the few lights of the Chamber were being extinguished. Darkness stalked him, cutting off retreat as he pressed on. He could not run, but he moved at a pace, looking to his left and right, trying to feel… something. He still was not sure what he was meant to feel. Whatever that pull of compatibility was, he was yet to experience.

It was not until he reached the last row of shelves outside the reaches of boarding darkness that he felt anything beside his own determination mixed fear, hunger and ravishing thirst. When he saw the urn, he was instantly taken. If asked to describe the feeling, he could not. His sister once said that falling in love could not be explained, one just knew. When he looked upon the remnant, he just knew.

Still, he hesitated…

His attraction to the vessel battled with repelling dread. A single feather had shattered him; he was not eager to contend with a remnant more substantial.

The ivory jar was not much to behold; beyond the inscrutable runic writing encircling the remnant, there was not much in its form to entice. By appearance alone, it was, perhaps, the least impressive piece on the shelf. To its left, a crimson crystal skull of a species he could not identify. To its right, a dagger adorned in jewels. If he trusted only his eyes, he would have taken such a treasure. But he knew better than to trust sight in this place. Instead, he leaned on older senses; feelings he intuited to be more primordial than vision. So powerful was the draw, If not for the memory of his last attempt, the urn would already be in hand. Its call was like a siren’s song. Soft and inviting, it promised all things. Holding out a trembling arm, his hand hovered above the urn. He reached out to touch it, but at the last moment, pulled back. The sirens of tales drew men to the depths...

I’ve stared into the abyss and I’m still here. What is left to fear? Silently repeating his mantra in his mind, his fingers traced the urn’s curves and clutched to a grip

He held the urn firmly and filched back. He was not repelled. Even so, he did not trust its benign stillness. But his true fear was of the encroaching shadows. They spread with each passing moment.

The runes around the urn began to glow. With a racing heart, his priories shifted. He tried to unclasp but the urn held his grip. It resisted his efforts at dislodgement. Frantically shaking his hands, he stopped as the cold metal warmed in his grip. Its heat flowed through him, spreading a semblance of life though his undead flesh. It Eased his hunger, lessened his thirst, and cleared the fog clouding his thoughts, He could not say he was truly alive, but he was not quite as dead as before.

As the vanquished stars burst back into full radiance, pushing back the darkness, he was left without doubt.

He had found his anchor.

***

With his legs crossed and his eyes closed, Havoc sat. Hovering his hands over the urn he had placed in front, he strained to feel any connection. At first, he counted the seconds. When the unruly numbers rebelled against his focus, he used the slowed thump of his heart to measure the passing of time. It was not an accurate measure, and before long, it too was discarded in favour of unbroken concentration. However, try as he might, he could not feel anything from the enchanted vessel. The urn was his anchor; that much he knew. As for how the tangible remnant was to bind to his soul…

I don’t understand…

It made no sense to him. The remnant was physical; his soul was not. For all he knew, it might not even exist.

Do killers have souls or did I trade mine for vengeance? To Havoc, it would have been a bargain nonetheless. In any case, his fixation on the urn was proving fruitless. Groaning in frustration, he opened his eyes and leaned backward. Not for the first time, he returned to the lessons of his maddeningly enigmatic tutor.

Graceless had instructed Havoc on what he must do, but provided sparing detail on how it was to be done.

‘To inherit, you must form the anchor to your spirit chains.’ Havoc rolled his eyes as he repeated the instructions, doing his best to imitate the intonation of his “wise” instructor. ‘As if it's so easy!’

He dissected the statement but could find no clues in its anatomy. He did not know what it meant to form an anchor. Limited as his education had been, he only had a passing understanding of what an anchor was.

‘It has something to do with boats, but I’ve never been to sea!’

Chains were a more familiar concept. In the past year, he had become something of a self-taught expert in their function and form. Chains were used to connect one thing to another. In his experience, chains were used to bind him to walls, heavy slabs of metal, or other immovable objects. They allow his guards brutal liberty without fear of reciprocity.

‘The anchor is the wall, or rather, I am the wall the anchor is bolted to…’ The thought came to him as the words left his mouth. A wall was part of a larger structure.

‘The Dungeon…’

It still made no sense. Based on Graceless’ teachings, an inheritor was chained to the Dungeon; they were not, themselves, a part of it.

‘That could be the point…’ Havoc mumbled. ‘A wall out of place, or maybe a drawbridge?’ The loose threads began to tie together in Havoc’s mind. He was not a fixture of the Dungeon, but to inherit, that is what he would have to become, and the point of connection was the anchor. It was a confused metaphor, but sufficient.

An image formed in his mind.

He could see a grand fortress, tall, imposing, but incomplete. Large breaches marred its exterior. Surrounding the structure were the materials of its repair; Havoc was among the materials. He was a wall out of place; an unfitted stone to a much larger edifice. He would not be affixed by mortar, but rather by chains, chains reaching towards the heart of the keep. It was the chains that would hold him in place once the anchor had been secured. In his ruminations and understanding, a thought penetrated his mind. The Dungeon was a prison held together by chains, but...

What kind of prisoner needs to be chained to each stone… He did not have the time to meditate on the thought; he could not have, even if he wanted to. As a strange kind of power surged in his chest, he could not bear to place his focus on anything else. It was like going from death into life. He felt both emptied and filled. Emptied of himself, his weakness, and frailty, and filled with might. A new perception awakened within him. No longer constrained by sight, smell, sound, taste, and touch, no longer limited to the physical, he could feel his soul.

It was expanding.

He delved deep into himself. The further he went, the more distinct the force building within felt. Although, “forces” was perhaps the more accurate description. At first, he could not tell them apart, but as he grew accustomed to the foreign sensation, he became aware of its discord. What he had thought to be a singular force swirling within was rather the clashing of two conflicting energies.

It was akin to fire and ice.

No, it’s like order and chaos, he thought as he wrestled to understand. He did not reach enlightenment. Before fully grasping what had happened, it was over, thrusting him back into the chamber. But the power was still there; he could feel the paradoxical magics, for he was certain it was magic, within his innermost. It was not as distinct as before but was present nonetheless.

Did I fail? He had not. When he opened his eyes to see the urn no longer before him, he knew he had inherited. A smile spread across his face. It stretched until he could feel his cheeks push up on his eyes. When his lips had journeyed as far as they could go, a manic laughter burst from his mouth. If anyone could see him, he was certain they would deem him insane. He was just as certain that he did not care.

***

Once he made his selection, it did not take much time for Havoc to forge his first link. Following his ascension into the world of the gods, everything had changed. The remnants resting on the shelves lining the chamber no longer warded him away but rather beckoned him closer. Some called louder than others.

With a multitude of crystal stars pulsating above, he had been in no rush. Graceless had warned urged him to select a weapon as the remnant to follow his anchor, and Havoc was careful in doing so.

When he examined each remnant, from most he felt nothing, but from some he heard whispers. Unburdening itself of its secrets, a knife had sworn that it would burn his enemies to ash. The Searing Cut, as the knife had introduced itself, made a tempting offer, but Havoc kept searching. A shield boasted of its ability to make all who would look upon its enchanted wood lose heart and the will to fight. He did not dwell on its self-exultation. A spear which could bend in any direction bade him welcome, but he gave it his farewell. It was only when he had seen the scarlet blade of The Thirsty Edge and had heard it flaunt its capabilities that his search had come to an end.

With runes marking one side of the blade, the sword was not the largest. It was narrow, broadening towards its point. Havoc was not too knowledgeable about swords, but he was familiar with the design of his chosen. A falchion, he believed it was called. The very same edge he had used to stab, slash, and savage the man who had harmed his sister.

“I will drink the blood of your foes, and you will be restored,” the blade had whispered.

The weight of the chamber's mysteries pressed upon him, but The Thirsty Edge gleamed, hungry and ready, in Havoc's determined grasp.