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Virgil 'Wraith' Boone
Time has no meaning. It has no presence. I simply am.
Slight whispers inundate me here or there when I feel a hand grasp mine, but I know that I'm asleep. It's not hard to fathom. This dream of mine, however, is hard to categorize as peaceful.
The dream is a maelstrom of shifting shades, endless creatures that swathe me at night. A constant cacophony of nightmarish visions assails my senses, leaving me no peace. A dozen memories repeat each second, most of regret and personal pain or failure, but my surroundings help me ignore them due to the prevalent danger.
Grotesque figures emerge from the inky blackness, their twisted forms contorting in surreal patterns as they reach for me while wrought in pitch. Their hands never catch me, however, and they are pulled back into the gloaming. Faces without features perforate out from that sticky darkness, limbs that elongate and twist just on the sides of whatever is staring at me. I slide back and forth in my tiny cell, evading the grasping claws eternally.
I don't know where I'm at. I don't know how I got here. The last thing I remember... is entering Eli's abode. Did he send me here? Was I catapulted into another realm?
But then... why can't I leave? I can't feel my Ether. I can't feel... anything. It's all cold—so so very cold.
Holding my frame tightly to preserve my heat, I find myself freezing in a twisted festival lathered with snow, where grotesque creatures with painted smiles leer from shadowy corners. It reminds me quite heavily of the week before my parents left my live forever. Only the light memory has been replaced by simple grimness. The street is empty, but the many alleys decorated with fancy colors hide those terrible creatures, their eyes peeking out from their skin to gaze at me. Coughing out blood that raises my worry as it rolls off my hand, I stumble forward as footsteps ring out beyond the alleyways.
Gotta keep moving.
Music hails from some distant room or building, creating a haunting melody of high-pitched tones as if mocking me. I bumble further, finding a fork in the road as a searing pain comes from my chest. My leg gives out as I crumple to a knee, the pounding behind me rising.
The night isn't bolstering me like it used to. What is happening? Where is my Sigil? Did he take it from me? Frantically, I search my pockets, boots, pants, and sleeves for knives, even my hair, only to find none. I'm weaponless. Fuck.
Again, I cough out blood as I force myself to stand. I don't know where I am, but I find a way out. In a place like this, no one will save me. I'm alone. Just as usual. Kicking forward with a hand on my chest, I turn a corner, only to find a massive mirror in the street as I fall onto my front, reflecting only my facade.
The entire street, the festival lights and decorations, and even the things chasing me are gone. It's... nothing but empty sand.
Twisting around for confirmation, I'm suddenly thrust into a dark forest, where gnarled trees reach out like skeletal hands. I catch myself as I crash forward again, and I throw my body back to my feet with a trained sense of balance. I stand still for a moment, breathing in the cool air with heavy gasps on the balls of my feet. Then, I hear rustling in the underbrush, the movements leaving an unsettling ripple in the shadows.
A wolf? No, it's too big. A fox—no—too big. A man...
Yes. That's the sound of a man.
Once I recognize the sound without even moving, I hear many more rustles around me, hinting at the fact that I'm not even close to being alone. Fucking Hell.
I pivot, searching with my eyes and ears at once to find a path, the only way without an obstacle. I rush ahead, grasping for the route to survival as the forest explodes with motion. Trees reach for me, slicing into my clothes as I cough more.
With gritted teeth and pure force of will, I keep moving even as my lungs leave my throat in search of frantic air. Blood reaches up my throat and slides out my lips as I duck under a thrusting shadow. The movement has my right leg give out, but I use the momentum to roll under another threat. Then, with my wrist, I flip over again, dodging a secondary attack simply due to the instinct that there would be another. When I reach the end of my tumble, I land on my back, suddenly trapped in a cathedral underneath an ocean of starlit darkness, staring up at the partially faded ceiling. I lift my head to see my surroundings, surprised once more by what I find. Beyond the many empty pews in the weightless church lies a massive pipe organ extending upward to the ceiling. But it is not the organ that holds my attention. It is the thing living atop it.
An arachnid—some kind of spider with more legs than it should have and those that end with ostensibly tiny worlds at the tips, sits unmoving. The orbs at the edge of the legs remind me of flickering flames in the depths of a desert upon closer inspection. However, they are far more threatening than the bit of hope those fires would typically hold.
But the creature doesn't move as air enters my lungs. It simply lies still.
I take a moment to think, reaching deep into my memories of Sigils, Gods, demons, and all that exists in the world, trying to find any answer that might fit. And the only thing that comes to mind is Wyatt's description of The Cathedral—one of the Lighthouses. Why am I here?
What is happening?
Am I becoming an Angel? No way... I haven't even achieved my Proof.
I slide my feet across the rotten floor slowly, gradually crossing the grounds of The Cathedral. Nothing else is here, but I still keep my silence as I remember Wyatt and Blake's experiences here. Creaking wood and my own forced calm breathing are all that hold in the air as I reach underneath the spider.
Looking up at the spider, I find it seemingly... asleep.
A sigh of relief exits me before a sudden pressure descends, enveloping and paralyzing me.
Infinite eyes open upon me, gouging deep into my soul. I can feel something grasping, reaching forward to end me as if finding a new threat, but then, this 'dream' undergoes a profound transformation. The swirling nightmares, the biting chill, the agonizing breaths, and even the terrifying spider dissipate, leaving me standing in an expansive desert of endless sand. As far as I can see, there is nothing but yellowish-brown bathed in eternal night. The horizon is nothing but sand one very direction.
Again, relief fills me as I fall to my knees, and I hope it is true. I spend a few moments checking myself for wounds, only to find none. The sands, vast and calm, however, worry me. I squint, trying to find anything amongst these dunes, but I see nothing. I only hear.
I hear only a single sound. The sound that punctuates the desolation is the distant cry of a raven.
The noise cradles a shiver into my spine, but a unique kind of shiver that excites the depths of my bones. Driven by the haunting call without much else as I'm bereft of food or water in the worst place for that to occur, I ascend a towering dune. I pull myself up with my hands and legs, digging into the sand that shifts beneath my feet like an undulating sea. At its crest, I gaze downwardly and discover a colossal raven, its once triplicate pair of majestic wings now broken and tattered. The wingspan, were they not crooked and partially missing, could reach hundreds of feet.
Air fills my lungs that I can't let go of as golden ichor oozes from its wounds, staining the desert sands beneath before becoming that very sand. A sinking feeling enters my bones.
I don't know why. I don't know how, but a burning pain enters my heart, not a physical but an emotional pain. My knees slam into the sand before I even know what is happening.
The pallid eyes of the wounded raven fixate on me. Their depths draw my own gaze as they hold a mournful wisdom. In the vast silence, its caw echoes through the landscape, carrying a message that reverberates in the recesses of my mind. It shakes and reflects a dozen times, guaranteeing I could never forget a word.
"The Wastelander. He will turn it all to dust. You must stop him. We are crazed. We are immortal. We are broken. But he is far worse. He is Endless."
The revelation hangs in the air, an ominous prophecy that breaks all the thoughts I had about Vincent Harvey. As the raven speaks, however, its eyes turn from that pale, sickly color to the eternal night that I know from my Sigil. It... calls to me.
Standing as if possessed, I step to the raven, unable to resist it. I can only call out to it.
"Who... what are you?"
The being's bones crack and shatter, much of it turning to sand as it speaks, breaking apart with every uttered word. It doesn't sound like any being I've ever known, instead possessing a genderless quality that seems to be made of Ether itself. It is Mother. It is Father. It is all the figures I've ever lost at once. Tears fall from my eyes despite me not knowing what this being is.
"I am called many things. Or... I used to be... not that what I am matters. Only She and He do. She came in a whirlwind of death and decay. He is much the same. Their war will shatter this world of ours. Stop them. Whatever it takes, my child o' night. In the embers, none will remain should they cross paths and war to the end."
I struggle to fathom what it means and hustle to it, kicking sand underneath me as I trip from my rush. My legs slide out from under me, and I roll all the way down the dune. In just a moment, I land beside it and reach for the little of the raven that remains as I realize what it must be—a God. However, I'm too slow. Only its head and neck exist amongst the sand as the dune has grown even more extensive than before.
"Who are you? Are you talking about Vincent Harvey? And the one below? How am I to stop them?"
The crow's head wavers, shaking as it vanishes into the night, leaving only a cluster of feathers sticking out of the sand where its skull sat.
"I am... P'mola. My name has been taken from me. So has my mind. Only upon Desolation have I regained myself. You speak the God's name. Do not do so carelessly. Do what you can. You are only mortal. A gifted mortal, perhaps, but only mortal. Sixteen remain O' Child Of Night. Sixteen more rumbles. Sixteen more transformations. Sixteen more falls from grace. Once the man finishes his first goal, he will move on to his next. He surprised us, so the battles from now on will last much longer. But... I do not see a world where the Desolation loses, even to Apisirahts."
I hardly have time to think as the words hang in the air, but my thoughts hang onto one thing.
There are sixteen old Gods left? That seems... like such a large number for how little they have done in the past millennia. Wait... there must be two more since they are probably only counting the turned ones. Meaning, Death and the Devil make that number eighteen. Not that the Devil is technically an old God.
So much more runs through my mind as I see the cluster of ten feathers in the sand begin to turn to dust, too. My heart beats with despair as I dart forward for them. But I'm too slow without my Ether or the enhancement of night.
So, I leap, kicking off the sand as I reach desperately for one of the feathers with a craving desire that comes from my very soul, and I smile as I feel one wrapped within the palm of my hand. I sit up as the others have already joined the earth, and I gaze down at the feather with curiosity.
It's filled with a gloaming that eclipses any night I've ever seen. It's darker than the darkest black. Deeper than the most profound chasm. More threatening than the scariest being.
A voice, the same one as that which came from the raven, P'mola, scratches into my mind from the feather. It's cool, calm, and... remorseful?
"The death of every God opens a hundred doors, but it also shatters a thousand hopes. Ten beings, the ten closest in resonance or Sigil to the dead God, are gifted with its remnant resonance, the Ether and Sigil within too powerful to simply fade whilst too much for the lesser to bear. You are not among those ten. You are not gifted or powerful enough."
I grind my teeth as I hear for the thousandth time that I was not chosen. That I was ungifted. That I was simply unlucky. Those damned trainers way back when always told me had I been born as an Estatesmen, I'd be legendary. But no. I was born a simple commoner and quickly orphaned. My skills are simply not enough for these grand beings. Talent is what matters most to them all.
Is this thing mocking me? I clench the feather, about to toss it aside.
But P'mola isn't done. A long pause drawls out before the voice returns, and I can feel it preparing to speak. So, I wait, unable to let go of the feather that feels like condensed darkness, a sibling of some sort in Sigil.
"Yet... you found me. In the deepest dark, the darkest night, the final shadow, I saw a hint of light. I do not know how you did so, only that you did. You're teetering on the brink of life and death, holding on only by the gifts of an abnormality, a being that shouldn't exist. More abnormally, it is not the first time this has occurred to you. Take the feather with you for when you are pulled from that cusp. When the skies close, the curtains fall, and the cycle of day ends, raise it to the heavens. That... that should Prove to me you are worthy. Because... to find me here, on the edge of finality, you are to me. It is not the same as being Chosen. But... it is all I can do for you."
And as P'mola finishes speaking, the voice softening with each and every word, the feather vanishes from my hands, leaving me alone in the sands. Shock wracks through me as I fall backward into the sand. I stare at the gloaming above, the eternal and endless night, as I consider its words.
I just spoke to a God.
A real God.
A shiver runs through me, and I realize the gift it has given me.
It gave me a way to instantly reach my Proof. I don't know if that means I can immediately become an Angel afterward, but regardless, it's enormous for my future. The Proof is always the most challenging part of becoming an Angel, well, that and the Absolution. But most capable Forerunners already possess the latter. And... I got my first from the help of Wyatt. An abnormality, huh?
But where did the feather go?
I search all over to find an inky blackness covering my right arm. A long feather extends from the crook of my elbow to the top of my palm.
A tattoo... hmm. Not the worst-looking thing ever. In fact... I kind of like it.
Pulling my attention away from the tattoo and P'mola, it sinks in that V— that the Prime really ascended to Godhood. And... he's already killed a God. Probably more, as I doubt that there were seventeen of them. Numbers like that simply don't exist in nature or really anything. Now, that could be a stupid thought, but seventeen is a scarce number. Eighteen makes more sense.
Regardless, this changes things. It changes so much. The last time a battle for Godhood even happened was over a millennia ago with the ten Dominions that created Pained Peaks. Legends say that is where the Devil's story began.
My hands tighten as I think back to what it said.
I'm on the brink of life and death—held on only by an abnormality that shouldn't exist.
Some part of me thinks that it's referring to something Eli did. But... deep down, a crooked part of me knows who it's talking about. I only know one abnormality.
Someone who sticks out amongst all the others I've ever met. Someone who, by all rights, should not possess the power he does in such a short time.
Wyatt's keeping me alive. I don't know why he shouldn't exist to a God, but I won't think about it. I'll just close my eyes and believe in him.
I'll just... rest... for... a... little...
And so, the next thing I know, water is entering my lungs, and forces are pulling me every which way. My heart accelerates as I open my eyes, finding Wyatt exactly as surprised to see me as I am to see him. Then, I hear Abraham's voice.
"He's awake! Quick! Help us swim to the surface, Virgil!"
I glance around in the darkness of the water with my eyes as we spin tumultuously in the waves. How did we—? No time. Their hastiness is clear. Wyatt's face is also turning bluish. He's low on air.
I must have been holding them back, unconscious like I was.
The water in my lungs eats at me, but after what I just saw, I can't possibly panic. However, as I reach for my Ether for Shaded, all I feel is a bone-deep pain in my lower body. I immediately lose hold of my Ether and gasp out, the water in my lungs burning further.
Memories slide into my mind of the battles in Eli's bunker and then those in Blackstone. Then, the struggle to escape Blackreach aboard the Steam Train. At the finality of it all, in a split second, I see myself reaching for Wyatt before failing. If only I had used even a little bit less Ether previously. Just a little less... I wouldn't have misstepped.
Tightening my gaze, I find the way upward in the dark using Abraham's help and force Ether into my upper body, leaving my lower to be dead weight. Then, we gradually move through the waves, seeking the surface.