Scourge of Chaos: Savage Healer

They continued through the night, even Vyn although his human constitution kept him from being too happy about it. The boy loved his sleep. Another lesson his sister had instilled in him with loving beatings.

Sunday was on edge the whole time but it became clear that the Voice, Prophet, or whatever that annoying bastard was called wouldn’t be making a return. Those last words had certainly sounded like a threat. Going for his friends? That was low, but not too low for a corrupted madman. How would it even work? Brainwashing the poor and the desperate was on paper much easier than doing it to those of stronger will. Wasn’t belief a choice, after all?

After the wine was gone Sunday used most of his essence as well, summoning moths to heal the wounded. The tragedy in this place was worse than he had imagined, but it was well hidden between the thick walls and clean exterior. At some point even the thought of growing his talent had left his mind, leaving only the desire to rid the wretched of their suffering.

Some wished to tell their stories to the trio, and some wished to be left alone. Some had even tried to refuse healing and the worst cases had begged for death. Sunday knew many of those meetings would carve a place in his mind for eternity and affect him going forward. Not just because of his talent.

They reached the Wayward Rat at dawn and Vyn went to sleep, while Sunday grabbed a bottle of booze from the bar without paying attention to the undead barman scowling at him and sat down at a free corner table. Kallus joined him. The wight was happy tonight.

“A work worthy of a hero! And what a way to make the tale go round, eh? The Savage Healer and his sidekicks, come to save those no one wants to save! Songs will be sung, legends will be told, and we will live forever! When are we doing this again?” Kallus said, his sleeves billowing as if he was in the path of a hurricane as he waved his hands around in excitement.

Sunday nodded along, finding himself smiling at the words. They had truly done good. The memories were less than stellar though. It felt like a drop in a bottomless bucket. All the broken flesh. All the rot. All the despair. It was wrong. To be given the opportunity at a second life, and have it become such a curse. Some seemed to have gone there voluntarily too. They had called themselves abominations, and stains upon the family honor – few of those had been well enough to go out on their own and seek help. Why not find a vocation to pursue, or try and explore the world? Surely death out there, looking at all the wonders lands like these could offer, was preferable to rotting away.

Perhaps it was another sort of belief. One that didn’t depend on Gods. He hadn’t looked into the customs around, but racism was alive and well even in such a broken world. Elora’s friend had been proof of that, having been thrown away by her own family. He doubted the case was isolated.

“Say, Kallus…” Sunday began, deciding that it was time to distract himself and perhaps get to know his new friend a bit better. Kallus was a strange one. “Where do you come from? How did you become… this?”

“I was born this way!” the wight exclaimed proudly. Then, like a deflating balloon, slumped in his chair. “I’ve not always been a hero if that’s what you ask. It took work. I know the path is difficult and what we saw tonight was a burden even for me. To be a hero of the common man, you need to restrain yourself from falling victim to the sights you’ll see. The world is fractured and those of us with power need to be the strong thread that sews it together.”

“Don’t you glue fractures? What you said makes no sense,” Sunday retorted, taking a sip from the bottle. “And I was asking how a wight comes to be. Do you get born like normal, or are you just another type of undead?”

Kallus shrugged. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?

“How does the sun come out each morning? How does the moon make the flowers on the mountaintop glisten with moonlight, and how does the wind carry the scent of a beautiful woman to me? Dreams are dreams, and reflections in crystal clear waters are another yous. I am because I am. And I’ll be because I chose so.” The wight said with a sigh.

What flowers is he on about…?

“What is all this supposed to mean? I haven’t spent much time with you alone, so I decided we might bond, you know? Or is this one of those ‘kill them with nonsense’ strategies because the questions I’m asking are too invasive, and you want to avoid them?” Sunday asked. He was genuinely curious.

“To be giving,” Kallus said wisely, wagging a finger, “is to be alive. For a virtuous existence, one should strive to relinquish all material wealth and seek enlightenment. So says the great Teaching of the Whole.”

Sunday pushed back, leg chairs dragging on the floor.

“Fine, fine. If you don’t want to talk, then say so,” he said. There I go, trying to prod at the craziest person around.

He was about to stand up when a hand draped over his. Kallus had moved to the closest chair, and his eyes had grown darker yet. Two abyssal holes, swallowing all light, accentuated by the ghostly skin. Suddenly, their table was sunk in shadows, a single lonesome candle having appeared from somewhere, its flickering flame making the darkness dance. Light played on the wight’s barely human features in a way that made it seem too tragic. The scene was set. His face was too perfect now. Had some of the lines changed? It was a picture of symmetry.

A deep sense of uneasiness took over Sunday. Someone had warned him about the drama of the wight, but it seemed he hadn’t known the extent of things.

“I come from the darkest depths, where resentment and unfulfilled will come together. I’ve no lineage like a vampire, nor family to call my own. I’ve myself and those strange abilities given to me by fate,” the wight said. His voice sounded deep and human, having lost its almost ethereal quality. “Mera took me in, taught me about myself, saved me from being a hateful wight, and showed me how to do good. I’ve grown up in this place, but it is also my prison. We, wights, roam between the worlds. Much like you. We’re creatures of chance and freedom.”

Sunday cleared his throat. The hand was gone from his, and Kallus was sitting back on the opposite chair, legs on the table and a dim smile playing on his lips. The shadows had retracted, and there was no sign of the candle. Did I imagine it? This is a whole new level of gaslighting.

The wight smiled. “I like to entertain myself. For an endless existence hides endless beauty. Who, if not me, can find it? That’s why I’m a hero. A choice. A poet of sorts, although rhymes are not for me. And that’s why I’ve decided to follow you. Your fight will be grand, and I’ll be there to witness it.”

“Just like that?”

“I’m but a free leaf set upon winds of change, my friend. You won’t believe what I see when I look from behind the veil. You and I are alike. Wights are beings born of chaos, of fragmented wills, of random chance. Unlike undead barred from the gates of death, we’ve not known mortal life. Even the bloodsuckers are closer to that elusive quality of humanity all put above even the gods of old. The ones before the Divine. The ones that loved their creations.

“You’re the same. You’re chaotic. Confused. Pulled apart and stitched back together. You need me to show you the other side. You have Vynny, and you have Riya, and you have all those weirdos that follow you around and try to catch a glimpse of your abilities, but you have no one like me. You didn’t before at least. Now you have the best me—myself.”

The wight toasted, while Sunday looked at him and strengthened his hold on the bottle he had taken. Had he grabbed the wrong booze, or was the wight scarier than he had thought? Some of those words though…

“What do you mean following me around? Who’s doing that apart from you?” And the guys from the Arcanum… the vampires perhaps?

“Everyone!” Kallus said, somehow managing to jump from a sitting position and into a crouch on the table. “Those geezers and mean ladies in the Council, the magi hiding at every corner, the thralls high on vamp blood, the ghouls of the night guard! You’re in their eyes, mouths, and ears! They talk of you, they seek to know what makes you special. All know you’re special now, they just don’t know how. You can’t trust anyone these days, ah! They conspire and talk, like old wives without work. I’m glad Mera doesn’t make me listen to them anymore…”

Sunday gaped at the wight and something clicked. It all made sense now. The strange duel in the Arcanum, the mock hearing where he had been supposed to get angry at the accusations, Sotu suddenly being capable of spewing fire and acting like he was born to fight. Had they tried to set him up, just to see his abilities? And all he had given them had been a shield, a step, and a slap. And he had taken a spell from them – one that was not important, perhaps. A sacrifice.

They had seen him slap people before, hadn’t they? They had watched over him, after all. Kloud had made a detailed report of each movement, of each step and action Sunday had made since arriving in the city. Of course, making the connection between exorcism and slapping was probably a bit below the great minds of the Arcanum. It was too obvious. They wanted something else.

But that meant they had known what he was since the start, and rather than make a scene, they had tried different methods of finding out his true capabilities. Letting him fight. Letting him risk himself and those around him. And now… playing games. Was Mera the deterrent keeping them from just chaining him up and torturing it out of him? Or was it because they had an inkling of what his purpose was?

Jokes on them. I don’t even know what my bullshit talents do, and I’m doubtful they care about the spells that much. Was Elora a part of it though? She was with me in that alley… Is Vyn?

A sudden sense of paranoia washed over, but Sunday took it by the throat and squeezed. He was not about to question everyone just because some people had nothing better to do than creep on him. I’ll let them look. If they learn something it might help me too.

“Why didn’t you tell me sooner?” Sunday asked. He did say he was a great detective… Goddamn it.

“You didn’t ask. You also didn’t look like you enjoyed my company very much. I can steal the attention of people like the stars steal the night sky. It’s a gift and a curse, unfortunately. Someone like you certainly wouldn’t want to share that. You’re a star! You crave chaos and want the world to look at each of your steps. Your actions lack patterns, even if you claim to seek stability. You float around like a lost seed searching for fertile soil. Like me!” Kallus leaned forward. “It was that slap that made me realize you’re worthy for me to take a step back. And what you did to those vamps… Ah, my choice is no mistake. And after all, what are a few years following someone who will burn as bright as you, compared to an eternity supported by the experience? I see you.”

“And what do you think will become of me in those few years?”

“Dead most likely. Like dead, dead. Torn to pieces or rotting in a pit in some distant land. You’ve bravery I lack. But what I admire most about you is your utter disregard for your well-being, and the inherent desire to insult anyone and anything. It’s quite impressive how much you can do with just a smirk and a glare. A talent, if I’ve ever seen one.”

Well, that’s just depressing. Kallus seemed to think that Sunday was the insane one. The unhinged one. That put things in sharp perspective. Perhaps he’s right. It’s not him who’s an outsider, after all…

Sunday looked up. Kallus was on the second floor now, hanging over the railing. Just a blink, and he had moved away. Oddly reminiscent of Chaotic Step…

“The morning calls, my best of friends! I’m glad we spoke. It’s been a while since I’ve had the opportunity to share so much of myself and my thoughts with another being. Pity you’re a man, or the night might’ve taken us in a different direction…”

And then he was gone just like that. The sleepy patrons didn’t seem to have noticed the actions of the wight, and Sunday was left wondering. He had neglected that first meeting with Kallus, and ignored how easily the man had seen through him and his origin. The wight was smart, even if he was strange.

With a heavy mind and a lighter bottle, Sunday slowly walked toward his room.