Children of Terra

~Separated from the Stygian~ ~Within the Jianghu~ ~Ilyang Prefecture, and searching~ ~Pruflas, long gone duke of nowhere~       This land abode the old values.  Life was hard.  It made people hard in certain ways, and once free of Vykan, Pruflas felt the old memories return at the setting.  These were not people used to the cruelties of distant Spheri Mundi, home of Witchers; nor the damned of Limbo, of Inferno, of Terra Pruflas had long been familiar.  Yet they were hard.  He reflected on a walk down stone-worked road path through the Ilyang Prefecture, having left the now-named Zaha Inn where Vykan is.  People were tending the streets in bundled cloths, or skins, or over-garbs.  Pruflas stopped at the sight of an elderly woman and man sweeping together evening snow from the front of a shop.  One of the hallmarks of this time is a fixation on cleanliness.  It permeates the culture, from the simplest day philosophy to their methods of growth.        Pruflas watched the pair a moment before continuing his introspective walk.  There were a lot of reasons why he was taken by the need to reflect; all circumstantial.        Mind full, he drew in a crisp winter breath, holding it in his cheeks before letting the mist free into the air afore.  Night was just beginning to fall, activity in the town shifting in for candle-lanterns and slow work.  A light wind blew the mist into swirls off and away.  It's been a long time with Vykan.  Damn near a year, huh?  Gone and bye just like all the others . . . I haven't had to wear the mask in so long, and yet the instinct called to me as soon as I left.  Pruflas ran a hand through his pearly-white hair, a gift of his heritage as a Pseudomonarch, and the sight was absolutely out of place in Ilyang.  But here, people didn't loll long.  They worked.        Then there was the issue with time.  Was he really in the past?  Was Metile . . . Pruflas stopped as a mountain goat was corralled past, a bundle of herders laughing on the way to a drinking establishment.  He stayed still, watching their backs and smiles from the side of the street.  A dollop of snow falling broke the reverie as lantern heat warmed the lips of roofs.  Drawn to it, Pruflas drew from his robes Metile's dagger, meticulously cleaned even after the centuries.  Even if she is, and the child is yet to be, I am here, and they might be off in another world.  I just might have chanced it if Vykan wasn't sick.  But what about Lucifer?  Even if we could get to Inferno then, what could we do about him?        Then the logic of such things came.  If I did it once, could I not do so again?  What of possibilities?  What about a me yet?  That would be the Metile of another Pruflas, that way . . . so what about Vykan?  Does his power extend to past-vision?  Even still, if I could change 'the' past, it would not change 'my' past.  It would be the tamper of the past of a different Pruflas.  I see now.  If only I could have saved you too, Vassago.  Seir.  He placed the dagger back in his robes and continued out of Ilyang into night-lit back country then.  Pruflas felt he was starting to understand Vassago in that moment.         Even with control over time, I only had the one original chance . . . All other timelines were for the others.  His was forever tainted, and his had the Arches and demons demanding an answer.  He smiled.  Let another Pruflas be the savior of us all.  I choose the path of vengeance the moment I made the pact.  He wound over the trails, his demonic eyes clear in the night vision.  Redundant as the land was well lit by lunar light.        The moon was unusually giant, a supermoon of distant past.  It reminded Pruflas of the moon of Spheri Mundi.  And that night.  It was winter then, too.  Soft silver cast brightly the snow-dunes of ground beneath him -- caps of the grass below that.  And then the pebble-shadows opposing the light.  Pruflas drew in another breath as the light dimmed.  He stared up, noting then clouds.  The only way to tell them in the sky were the blank patches of stars, and moonlight facing off the sides back down.        Pruflas felt a laugh threaten him.  A deep laugh, bordering hysteria.  Like he was drowning in the past.  Nearly everything about Ilyang was some kind of echo, of return.  He let his legs give out, falling onto a pad of snow by the roadside, staring off into the galactic plane above.  A skein of aether kept him from cold.  Just like back then, too.  A thousand years and more, and yet I'm still stuck where I started.         The silence gave an opportunity, as he recalled reweaving his clothes by thaumaturgy.  In an alley, like hunted prey.  Is that all I am?  An itsy bitsy spider in a fluttering web?        From the repose, he reviewed the situation.  All the information so far was from tangential conversations both within and without Vykan.  From the dialect, nuances, phrases, and unit measurements; the pair were really far back in the past.  This might be the formative era of the Jianghu as far as that was concerned.  In other words, the era of legends yet to be.  An absolute opportunity, here.  Pruflas let faint weaves of magia flicker out, like cilia off a bacterium from his skin.  He could feel the richness of the area, whereabouts to go.  Where to find places to concentrate.  Like back on Great Kestrel.  But, raw power was not what Pruflas was after.  He needed the techniques to control power.          He withdrew the cilia-fibres akin to an anemone.  His mind drew inward just alongside -- what the duke needed was to find a sect, an errant master, mystical artifacts.  Anything.  Everything.  Pruflas sat up after.  Night had advanced to a point that nearly crushed the shadows to nothingness.  Midnight peak.  The moon was bright overhead, its hue casting a familiar calmness to the demon-in-snow.  So, what avenue was best?  Knowledge, no?  I will have to find a master.        He closed his eyes and repositioned into a meditative pose, sitting within the snow.  Demons did not need sleep.  What held Pruflas was the one thing he had lacked in all these centuries:  time.  The shock of such freedom anchored him, internally.  Was that perhaps the true source of these emotions?  He uneasily gave himself the opportunity to work through his motivations and tasks in the silent, brisk night -- one final breath out before entering a state of inward calm.       ~Elsewhere~ ~Back in Zaha Inn~ ~Days later~ ~Vykan~     The Stygian had a typical morning for him.  As soon as consciousness crawled belatedly up the mind-stairs, Vykan found himself out of breath.  His chest felt a curious blend of numb and inflamed, as if he both swallowed and inhaled a cactus.  Worst part was he could do fuck all, stuck at an angle under the comforter-grade sheet, the weight enough to prevent his feeble attempts to push it off.  Son of a bitch.  His arm gave annoyed shocks of pain at being used that way, the head responding like any exasperated parent.  With a headache.        Vykan grit his teeth and willed hatred into the Stygian lock -- where his heart used to be -- knowing full well the power wrath and spite had in survival.  His vision slowly winked into a dark green, the view of snow beyond the window lip tarnishing under his sidelong gaze -- then behind him came that voice.  Her.  He trembled under the sheets, unable to even turn over.  Don't look.  Only a rotten fig lies here.        Burning hands scalded his shoulders as they pulled him up to a prop against the bed frame.  Even as Gyeoul-Ah stood back, Vykan felt the flames burn him with vivid clarity.  It shocked him to alertness in the bed.  There was a brunette man standing next to Gyeoul-Ah, his handsome angular face hidden under glasses.  The warrior woman apprised the man.  "This is the foreign man, Doctor Moyong.  His condition has only worsened since arriving."        Moyong's eyes widened when he stared into Vykan's own eyes.  Then the apprising gaze drew Moyong to the gaunt features, the pale flush of skin, the dark veins.  The doctor swallowed.  "You said you found him at the height of winter?  Naked to the elements?"        Gyeoul-Ah nodded, without speaking.  Her hair was a mite messier than usual.  An almost imperceptible shadow clung under each eye.  Vykan lowered his gaze to the bed, unable to look at either of them.        Moyong rolled his sleeves up, the robes themselves a white silk with green accents, matching the eyes.  "Let's see.  He doesn't appear to have the bite of frost on him . . . "  He rolled up the comforter at the foot of the bed, looking at Vykan's feet and toes firstly.  The doctor narrowed his eyes, staring back at Vykan's cheeks.  Then the arms.  Vykan's hands were still under the sheets.        Tucking the sheets back at the foot of the bed, Moyong circled around, stooping at Vykan's side.  He waited with a professionalism before speaking in low tones.  "I must check the condition of your fingers, if I may, dear patient."  Moyong smoothly reached down, lifting the sheet up, reaching a hand for Vykan's arm to lift it up -- but as soon as their flesh contacted Moyong stepped back with a gasp.        Gyeoul-Ah had to rush to grab the doctor before he fell backward.  "Doctor?"  She righted him up, having to fix his shoulder as he nearly toppled the other way.  "Doctor Moyong?"  His eyes glazed over, thin trickles of blood just beginning to seep from his nose.  Gyeoul-Ah shook him gently, before she noticed the blood, and used a silken cloth at hand to wipe at it with an inhale of breath.        Moyong's eyes sharpened at the contact, which he then brushed her hand aside with gentle reassurance, and wiped his face clean with the silk.  "I-I'm fine, Gyeoul."  He stared at Vykan with a new wonder after.  Without turning away from the Stygian, he spoke instead to Gyeoul -- Gyeoul-Ah? Vykan wasn't sure what the difference was -- "Gyeoul, how did you get him to Zaha Inn?  You carried him, you said?"        "I-yes.  I carried him on my back."  Her eyes had an odd play in them.  Vykan found it hard to read her.        "And you didn't notice anything?"        "Nothing unexpected."        Moyong cleared his throat.  And he spoke the next line with absolute seriousness.  "Did you see whether or not he had a penis?"        Vykan would have laughed if he was healthy.  A grumbling exhale left his lungs as a half-measure.  For her part, Gyeoul-Ah's eyes widened, before collecting herself with a hum.  " . . . he has a penis, Doctor Moyong."        Only then did Moyong break the stare at Vykan, to look at her instead.  Was he seriously trying to read if Gyeoul-Ah was lying?  The absurd situation made Vykan chuckle, audibly this time.  Moyong turned back with a frown -- but it was almost more directed at himself than anyone else.  The doctor spoke directly to him.  "My apologies, traveler.  I am Doctor Baek, of Moyong Clinic.  If you can, what is your name?"        Vykan drew in what breath he could.  "Vykan."        The both of them stared at him for a while after.  In the silence, Moyong wet his lips and tried the pronunciation.  "Vie-can . . . that is a strange name.  Are you a monk of the far west?  Perhaps on the path of a eunuch?"        There's sarcasm there.  Vykan allowed himself a smile, but with the mind-translations by Pruflas, he knew the intent.  "No."  The Stygian gathered strength for a question as Moyong brewed.  "What, is the fascination, with my dick?"        The both of them shifted.  Probably a harsh translation there.  Moyong nodded.  "I'd like to confirm something, first."  He grabbed a plush stool, sitting next to Vykan, before taking a deep breath.  "May I?"          Vykan nodded.        This time, Doctor Moyong gritted his teeth, touching Vykan's shoulder.  He broke into a cold sweat soon after, before breaking the hold with a pant.  His glasses had slipped down his nose from the effort.  Gyeoul-Ah stepped closer, looking down with concern.  Moyong shook his head, holding a hand up to assure he was fine.  He closed his eyes to ruminate something, before speaking through a pinched nose.  "You, Vykan, have an unfathomable depth to your Yin energy.  Are you aware of this?"        What the fuck does that mean?  Vykan stared at Moyong, then Gyeoul-Ah, before answering.  "Uh, no."        Moyong opened his eyes, but instead looked out the window while talking.  "I could not even see the ends of it, despite my efforts.  Vykan, I have seen hundreds, if not thousands of patients in my time.  I have studied under masters, and traveled as a child.  Your Yin root transcends anything I have ever seen, heard, or read of."  Moyong looked at Vykan then.  "But that is not the end of it.  Your Yin disrupted my own internal energy.  When I touched you."        Gyeoul-Ah's mouth opened at the revelation.  She stared at Vykan as though in new light.  It was all lost on him, though.  He iterated such to Moyong.  "Wh-what, does that mean?"        "The purity, or rather density, of your internal Yin eclipsed mine.  I am no martial artist, no, but for that itself to even be possible . . . you'd have to have monstrous potential.  You dampened my internal cores with no effort- "        That word, monstrous.  The moment the syllables left Moyong's lips, Vykan felt his heart skip beats.  The suffocation he felt in the morning returned, forcing him to clutch at his chest in pain reflex.  Moyong shot up then, shouting for Gyeoul-Ah to gather his medical kit.  "The night moss dust, Gyeoul!  Mix it in water!  Now!"  He grit his teeth to ease Vykan back to a resting position, as his nose bled with increasing gouts from extended contact.  She had returned with a cup, which Moyong took and had her hold Vykan's face still.  With their combined efforts, they managed to force the solution down Vykan's throat through sputters and gasps.  But the pain did not abate.        Moyong stepped back, now that the cup was empty.  "Gyeoul, you'll have to help with the next part.  I simply cannot.  Guide him as best you can through the first stabilization of his energy.  Quick!  His energy is in reflux!"        Had she a choice, she might have opted to grasp Vykan's hand.  But in the spur of the moment, under pressure, she flung herself to touch forehead-to-forehead with the writhing Stygian, her eyes closed in intense focus.       ~An ocean in tumult~ ~The id writhing~ ~What is it that sleeps within?~     Vykan had his senses drowned in blackness.  But wasn't he still alive at the moment?  He clawed at the murk, feeling the wraiths of Wrath just as they were in Arcoscephale.  They had unfinished business with him, after all.  For the first time since his blessing, he felt, saw, heard, knew -- they had come.  Their teeth sunk into his now-soft flesh, the incisors tearing through sinews, canines piercing at his neck.  He thrashed against them, the wraiths in the darkness, but for naught.  Every second that passed a new chunk of flesh was taken, swallowed, ripped, torn.  He was as a bacterium surrounded by the phagocytes.  The reapers unseen.  And they had not mercy.        He choked on the darkness.  Instincts forced him to suck in for breaths, and instincts forced him to cough and hack the murk out.  He was losing.  The wraiths had him dying, playing with the offerings he himself gave!  You!  What you gave!  You gave us this!  It is ours!  All of it, fool!        And in the darkness, flame.  Just as he was on the verge of giving up, nearly gone to the wraith-swarm, fire burnished at the darkness.  But it did not stop at the darkness, or the murk, or the phantoms of Wrath.  The flames took Vykan too.  Water began to bubble in heat as it boiled into brimstone, black switching with the flames of torment.  He saw then the figures in flames.  That house, that night.  The child and her scalded, blackened, corpse.  Oh my god, no.  No!  He reached forward with the eaten arms, tattered flesh.  Only bubbles escaped those torn lips.        The flames turned blue, and water resolved to steam.  All of it became white then.  A roar of energy in the ears.  Ringing tinnitus filled the ears, until ringing was all of Vykan.  He could no longer see his arms flailing in the formless void, but he could feel them.  Suspended.        And he floated, unable to perceive save the floating sensation.  Of the clarity of himself.  Only then did he feel that warmth upon his forehead.  A certainty in the uncertain.  What?  What is that?        The moment his thoughts impelled him to look forward at it, and up, he saw but one thing.        Her.