Chapter 37 - The lady of loss (Pre-final Evolution arc)

　　Eternity lurks in the succession of moments, each one divisible to a near-infinite extent. A long wreathed flow with no cause for an end, save for the final one. Why then is joy so easy to measure, both in depth and duration. And why the hard opposite—like chains interlinking, the flow of fell agony. Inexpressible by words that have meaning.

　　The prince posed no questions; his mind was lost to wonder. Or its inverse, the rueful stagnation that skinned him alive, always alive. And all too aware.

　　This stream of hellfire boiling over, dissolving him. His every cell and the whole parts of his soul.

　　There was no end.

　　The prince screamed in rage, at first—he felt strong still, equipped to strike back at the pain that lashed him. Then panic set in, and that too was an attack—his own mind adding pangs of hysteria, leveling it out over time to a constant. The terror of one moment that endured till the next.

　　Hell was here, inside the egg.

　　--

　　At times, soothing chants sought to pierce the veil between worlds—the three seers Gorkon had assigned to watchful duty. They anchored him to being, reminding the prince of his state in the egg, for it would not be hard to forget. To fully mingle with the waves of unending torment.

　　They spoke to him, the seers and the statistician also. The latter`s voice was sharp and as always too cheerful. She had tried to talk in a dozen or so stints, but her words were lost to the ruin of him. Still, the attempts stood out, like landmark-posts in a long-stretched field. Her voice a measure of distance, interspersed with the infinite. Cutting it down to sizeable chunks.

　　"You are drifting closer to the surface, Blackrose goblin—we are all so very proud!" The statistician reaching through, the thirteenth try that rang clear enough for the prince to hear. "I cannot get a read on your stats," she continued, "but your level... it has gone from 22 up to 26, simply by sitting in the interstitial goblumen—ah, the environment of the egg I mean. What a marvel you are. A growth rate beyond what the greatest of goblins can boast!"

　　Her words had no body; she was speaking down from the dark.

　　"Soon the second phase will start—more of your memories will start to materialize. Do not let them drift and do not interfere. Embody the points of your prior experience. Each one is nothing, but summed up in total, they are you. The whole that is more than the parts."

　　A mindful lull in her busy chatter. Though to her, the esoteric was still strictly statistics.

　　"Oh—and they give a lot of levels, all the memories. You are training the mind as your body reforms!"

　　Then the chants took over, the three seers singing for one wayward prince. Afflicted by the past and the purely physical. Pain came in many forms.

　　--

　　"My prince, finally you spare me a moment." Artisan stared at the prince, a close-lipped smile to soften the strain—stepping in from the spectral bridge was not so straightforward.

　　The roar of a battle rose behind them, rookies flaring out simple and savage. It was the end of the rookie games; they were near to the birthing chamber. Right after the huntress had left them. Had saved them.

　　How many shades of the past had he seen by now? Too many to bother counting.

　　"Hell is here," said the prince, avoidant. He did not seek his vassal`s eye. It was the first time in years, it seemed, that he used his own voice. There was effort involved in the act.

　　"Aye," Artisan offered. "Final evolution is level 25 and up, ordinarily. Reduces the hurt and the ever-present chance of failure. But you left them no choice, leaking brain matter all over—what on earth were you thinking, taunting the groundskeeper?"Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author`s consent. Report any sightings.

　　"Whereto?" the prince stated; it was hardly a question.

　　"Straight on for now. There`s someone else here to see you."

　　True to memory, the prince held the buckler and dagger. The wooden toys he had used in a hell long ago. He tossed them both—no sense in keeping old relics. They meant nothing now. The present can void the past in its essence.

　　Walking through, they heard the crackle of eggshells underfoot, wading past Gorkon`s desk and into the chamber proper.

　　Linaria was there, the blue sparks of her failing magic. Attempts to unlock her soul box with Artisan`s medallion.

　　"Linaria," said Artisan. "He is here now, our liege. Try your best to cross over."

　　The past image of her spasmed and jerked, proved hard to displace.

　　"Prince," Artisan whispered, so that Linaria would not hear if she were to arrive. "The lady has... had a rough time adjusting. She is fresh from the egg, a second-grade goblin... but I can tell her heart wavers. Holding on is a challenge after some deaths, and she`s had three, I believe—the body does not quite endure; leveling up becomes seriously more difficult. And her mark... it is dreadfully faint."

　　The prince gave no comment, saw rookie Linaria sitting there still, in the corner of the chamber, jittering as though possessed—the struggle between the old and the new. Current-form Linaria was trying to travel along the spectral bridge, to meet them here in the joint memory that was theirs, then, to reshape.

　　The three seers joined in a single vibrating hymn, trilling their tongues to aid the lady who was halfway there, from the looks of it—the bent figure of her was bigger but not solid, a ghostly apparition holding the box with her soul.

　　"She will fade soon, I am afraid," whispered Artisan. "The lady knows the folly of her purpose—her body is too worn to ascend to the third grade. And without the power of a level 30 frame, there is no chance she can wield Truor鷖t... not that it would do her much good—half a god-blade is not sufficient. Believe me, for I have tried."

　　"So her purpose is dying," the prince surmised. "Will she be herself still?"

　　"For now," Artisan said, "but it is vital that you learn her soul, so you may recognize its pattern, the traces that linger in her real body, half-decayed from first death and buried in the Arcanicum graveyard. Locate it later, and use Dicebolg. Free her."

　　The prince nodded, for words would only harm—the Lady Linaria was beaming through from the real world to within.

　　Her mark was scarcely there, the Ruin kanji so dull it was barely a blur.

　　"Ah, my prince," she said, looking slow and uncertain. "Worry not; I am well," she lied. "Soon we will be all three together again."

　　Again, the prince only nodded, moving in close to support the lady—help her up or sit with her in comfort, whichever way she preferred.

　　Artisan joined, idly reminiscing about their first time here, the oaths they had sworn. The one for the three and the three for the one. To outsource one`s own vengeance to a higher force, the prince in this instance... would it serve them? To make matters so cast-off and remote? Sure, the odds of success were greater now, reasoned the prince. Though the cost was that of no self-attained satisfaction; it must be deducted. And is that not what vengeance is, its very nature? The good hurt of hurting another.

　　"Have you faith in me still, noble friends?" The prince needed to know.

　　"Always," said Artisan.

　　Linaria took a breath. "And I for longer still."

　　But a flash of concern rippled through the two men, seeing Linaria so absentminded, setting aside the box with her soul item. The magiguard gauntlet to wield Truor鷖t.

　　"Speak of your vengeance," said Artisan to her. "It will embolden you, fill you with resolve."

　　The lady merely shrugged. "The hooded acolytes that ambushed me that night. All of them should die." The words were strong, but they lacked fell conviction. It sounded rehearsed, a line off a script. No force and no purpose.

　　"Let us all three sit," said Artisan, and show our souls now we have the skill.

　　They sat in the corner with the dazed lady, and though she was three times the mage Artisan had been, even in the days of his unfettered youth... the two men had to guide her—she was that out-of-touch with her true inner self.

　　With painstaking effort, the prince followed Artisan`s lead, pushing his battered soul close to the skin so that all might see—this is the fallen prince you see as saviour.

　　And it took a great while longer for the master mage to manage. First in flickers and spurts, like a fizzling spell, the lady emanated a pale blue and silver, tattered and worn like a path well-trodden. Featureless and bare, exempting the growing gaps in the ethereal fabric. A soul ready to fade, the light failing to a long hell-dark night.

　　The prince took it in, the evanished form of her. There was nothing besides, no great sadness to lean on. He felt hollow like a burnt-out star, once hard and bright. Naught now but a void.

　　They got up in silence, the prince and Artisan first. Watching the lady peel the magiguard gauntlet off, the one she always wore. She did not speak and neither did they. Better to grieve in silence, pre-empting the loss—that way the pain is more scattered. One can take in the parts, then discard it in full. Till at length it wears thin. A feeling of nothing.

　　"I had two things to show you," said Artisan to the prince, walking away from the lady who lingered. "Thanell`s wisdom was the first."

　　"And the second?"

　　"I was there," Artisan started. "When a god and a king fought for final control."

　　"Gorkon..." the prince mused.

　　"And Rodrich. The man was a genius... and he was bested." Artisan sighed. As though he were there in thought already. "It is time for you to see what lies in wait. To learn how a god does battle."