* * *
Katherine
* * *
Patrick's memories glide over my mind. As grisly as they were, the sensation is as smooth as silk and of little consequence to me. I feel Camden's arms tense up. My world wobbles a little, and I become accustomed again to being the baby in his arms.
This baby thing is weird. Always has been, always will be, if it happens again. I guess I can count on that sort of thing.
Camden jogs my little body a bit. Huh? Oh, yes - I'm at a Trial. Being Advocate. Well, Camden's kind of standing in for me on that count, but still, I suppose I'm needed. Patrick's just sleep-standing right now - a common stance for anyone on Trial. It means Diyn or myself is communing with him, which tends to take all of a person's attention. Patrick's story doesn't surprise me much. I suppose it should, but my mind's pretty simple right now. In a way, that helps. I'm blissfully free from associating the later guilt with the earlier soul of the person. This is just a story. It makes it even easier than usual to be the Advocate.
Where next, though? The path of least resistance is always nice. Sure, we saw where in his life he was relatively blameless, but we need to see the choices he made under his burden. Crap things happen to people all the time. What defines them is what they do about it, if they can do anything at all. In most situations, they can. In the situations where they can't, or it's dubious whether they can... well, I'm called in.
I can also feel Camden's desire to see more of this. I aim a query at him in regards to that. He looks down at me, frowning.
Cad--Patrick's people and mine were once the same, long ago.
I blink. I recall that, yes. You never talked about it much.
Camden sighs, narrows his eyes, and pinches the bridge of his nose. That's because I hate the Dirvybik people regardless of whether we were once cousins. They killed off the Rhivendish Clans and sold our land off to foreigners when they didn't keep it for themselves. Still, once I overcome the anger, which is admittedly easier to do right now for what I suppose are silly Advocate-related reasons, I can think about Patrick's situation with a calm head. I start to wonder.
Yes? I hear 'Sy's voice make its own query. Oh, groupthink! That's always fun. I smile, then shift my weight as my guts cramp up a little less. Oh, goody, it's about to be my favorite part of baby-time!
Camden frowns, then shifts me around in his arms. I have a blood-tie to a monster locked under a seal. Patrick's Beast is not the Old Man. It's not the Old Man's horse, either - I'd recognize the breath of that mare. I didn't know of another, but my people had stories of other horrors and monstrosities. We always saw the old enmities as blood quarrels, though. Not of... puppetry from monsters. My family's story-memories don't go far back enough to mention giants from the north intruding on our lands as well. And yet... I think they did. The 'regents', as they were called - I might know how stories were passed down of them.
We do have our fairy tales, the beautiful royalty who would come and steal children if not appeased. By my generation, those were only entertainment for the littlest of children. We knew what real Fae were - the spirits of the waters and woods, the protectors of nature. There was no magical royalty among them. There were no people living in the ground, though there were certainly monsters that would devour the mind if one let them have their way. The witches and sorcerors in our fairy tales, the beautiful, imperious people... they were real to Patrick and his people. The regents? They would seem like giants to our ancestors. We're not a tall breed, after all, and we've only gotten as tall as myself over time. Another people have always been known for their great height, their pale skin, their bewitching beauty. Saying that the regents were the Xaillyndessen is no surprise to either of you, I'm sure. But knowing that the Xaillyndessen possibly created those monsters, or caused those like the Old Man to rise high enough that my clan and others would have to become seals... it changes my perspective slightly.
Camden adjusts his glasses again, as evidence of that. I just smile, ease myself back, let myself relax... and sigh. As we've spoken, 'Sy has drawn nearer to us, and so I get to see his face as he sees Camden's face, and it's like my own little party, just for me.
'Sy tries to keep his composure as Camden turns purple from holding his breath. Hey, I made a stink! It happens when you're this age. I'm a baby. Camden hands me off to 'Sy, then, who holds me gingerly, as if I might detonate again at any moment.
"I'll call a recess," says 'Sy after a long sigh. He sounds a bit stuffy. Trying not to breathe. After that, he and Camden leave the floor for a bit, and I get to have a fresh diaper.
* * *
Cade
* * *
Hah. The very recording that you're reading is already a fallacy. There is no Cade, is there? Cade is just a lie, to cover up Patrick. But there isn't a Patrick now, is there? When did Patrick stop existing? When the Beast started chewing up little bits of his mind? But if that's the case, which of those bits contained the essential thought-gum that was Patrick? What really makes a person that particular person, when you stop to think about it? Time changes men, but not often enough to make them different men altogether. Or perhaps it does. I'm not really sure, when I really stop to think. What mind do I have left, after all?
I would say very little, the Trident intones to me with its metal voice, but that would only be playing to your act. I know you exist, Patrick. I know there is enough of you left to call by the name of Patrick. And do you know why I know?
I'm not fool enough to answer that question, or brave enough. The terms have been interchangeable in my experience.
Even though silence is my answer, the Trident doesn't let go of my mind. I know it because I sense there's enough left of Patrick for me to call Judgement upon and destroy. The Trident doesn't even growl that out. It sounds amicable, even. Well, I suppose it would be happy about what we're discussing, wouldn't it?
I'm not very happy about it. I didn't want a Patrick. I've tried my hardest to forget Patrick, and here he is, getting all dredged up again, and then there's no me anymore. Me being Cade, right? Or am I Patrick? My mind gets shaken back and forth in this weird black unconsciousness. The Trident is trying to get my attention without stabbing me. ...Yes?
You will do well to heed the Advocate.
I let that sink in a bit. ...Thanks? I say in reply. I'm not sure what you reply to the most feared weapon that's wielded by a man, or at least someone shaped like a man.
I will kill you if you do not, and then, after I joyously watch the Beast of your nightmares devour your soul, I'll have to deal with the filthy thing when it rises. That will be burdensome, and so I'd prefer you did not die right now. Behave for the Advocate.
...I'll do my best. I'm pretty sure I mean that. I have the impression that if I didn't, I'd already be stabbed through by that three-pronged thing. But I do mean it: I don't want to die. That's been more important than anything else in my or Patrick's life. No matter what the consequences.
Something's changing. I sense more presences than the Trident's are here with me. I didn't even realize until now that they were gone.
Let's resume, shall we? says a voice I can't even identify. Then the floor swallows me up again, and all is black once more.
* * *
I find myself working steadily northwards as I run. I'm not literally running at all times - but I am definitely fleeing the Beast. It's been days since my escape. In the night I sense things chasing me. They're no more than shadows, but I'm certain that if I let them catch me they'll do more harm than a mere shadow can. They make leaves rustle when they run, and they leave footprints behind them. They're fairly dumb, though, and I mostly avoid them through cleverness.
Northward. Northward, and eastward. I feel a pull as if I'm the nail in a compass. It's not a disagreeable direction at the outset - any way that's not towards the Beast is a good one in my book. But it makes me wary, when I pause to think about it. (Such pauses are rare. I must keep moving.) Upon this route lies the way of the northern regents. I see signs of their passing, in fact, and spy many well-used trails that were obviously frequented by their huge steeds. I don't want them to see me. I'm certain that they'll know who I am on sight, and they'll drag me into the Beast and throw me back into that pit, and this time I won't come out. Or perhaps I will come out - riding in the Beast's belly.
No, let's not be seen. I'd prefer not being noticed by another living creature at all. After a little more experience, it turns out that it's rather easy to slip past most creatures. They shun me. They don't want to notice me. As for myself, I'm still so strong, so fast. Not as much as there was with the initial burst of speed, but I feel there's a power within me, or at least attached to me. Perhaps I do have the Beast's strength, or enough aspects of him that I can leverage them into my own power. That would be convenient, because I have nothing now. No weapons, no possessions, nothing to trade for either. I don't want to get near enough settlements to steal. Too paranoid.
But I'm being called northward. Towards the homeland of the giants, I'm certain of it now. Try as I might, I can't resist that call. It's a sort of destiny, I suppose. Was I meant to be part of that slaughter? Was I meant to go into that pit and become part of a pact with the Beast? Was all of this meant to be? I try to ask my tribe's gods, but all in my head is silent, and Fae refuse to answer me as well.
Fine, then. There is no better place to go, and if none have noticed me so far, perhaps the pale giants with their singing-speech will not see me transgress upon their lands. Perhaps I'll even get a sort of revenge. Northward, then. North, and to the east. I find it easy enough to sneak up on the animals that have the necessary pelts to keep me warm. Choking them to death is its own silent comfort.
* * *
That's a bit overstating it, isn't it? Camden's voice rings out, interrupting what I thought were my unaltered memories.
How do I have memories, though? I never had these before. They can't just be dredging them up from possession by Nul - I hid these from even my Master. I hid them from myself. How can I have them back again, all of a sudden?
We are reading your diary, you small, dimwitted thing. Diyn sounds almost fond of me in that statement. You are also dirty, untempered, foolish, foulmouthed, and not worth stabbing a second time for good measure.
It makes sense that he wouldn't mention in his diary that most of his actions were motivated due to shock. The Advocate's words are strange. I expect them to match the baby's form that her body is in, but the effect of her body on her mental voice is minimal. Once he recorded the memories, he'd look back on it and rationalize. He'd make it grand. In the moment, however, he wasn't thinking anything. He was alone, and desperate, and thinking of his family while trying not to. The routine that marked his entire life previous to this was shattered. Of course he followed whatever there was to lead him along - there was nothing else.
Hearing it put like that is strange. I want to argue with her that it was still destiny, that my job and subsequent crimes were all meant to be. That I wasn't just some poor confused sot who'd lost a family that I even now am too pained to think about directly. I'm angry about these new memories that I don't want and that can't even do me any good now. But it's either accept what she says is the truth (and I know it is) or protest, and end up dogmeat as punishment for annoying the Trident. I, as always, choose the path that preserves my life. I know where I'm going if I die. If the Judge truly is set on killing the Beast when it rises, it likely means that I'll be killed twice by the Trident. I'm sure that would only satisfy the weapon even more.
So I stay quiet, and let this mockery of a Trial go on in peace.
I was not aware that the diary had been brought to the Trial. Camden's voice is, as always, critical and precise. I can imagine him pushing his glasses up on his nose afterwards.
The Judge replies. I brought it. I didn't succeed in returning it to Jhe h'Logos, but it seems that was serendipitous. It belonged in this place, at this time, all along. And it seems we should read it with the fact in mind that the text itself is misleading.
Aye. Convenient, then, that two Poets are reading through the memories, especially with the Advocate being one of them. He sounds troubled. I don't see why. He doesn't know the half of troubles. Jhe Katherine, is the implication thus far that Patrick was not under his own will?
Thus far, yes. We won't have to follow every step of his journey to ascertain that. You only need look at what he is, really. How willful can a man without memories be?
Quite willful indeed, if given the chance. The Judge's voice is stern, and reminds me of the fate I could face if I lose. But if losing is letting these old secrets stay unburied and dying from it... does winning look that good in comparison? What if winning isn't living either? Why not just die quick and get it over with, dodge the pain of remembering what was well-buried--
Caught that, says Camden. Very clever. There's enough Nul in him to make this interesting.
See? How much Will can he have? The Advocate sounds so smug. I just feel sick, like cobwebs have been stripped off of me, while their stickiness still lingers on my skin.
The blackness of lost memories spirals up again. This time, I hold my breath and let myself plunge in. I'm beginning to get used to this.
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