Visus Verus Volume 1
Page 18
“Get to the point, Ratsy. What are you trying to say?”
“What I'm trying to say, my dear brother,” Balthazar produced a bottle of over-proof rum from under the table and proceeded to fill his and Noir’s glasses, “is that guilt isn't relative. It doesn't matter if you righted a wrong. It doesn't matter if you did the unforgivable.
If you killed one to save another, you're still a murderer. There's no greater good, no lesser evil. There's just the unyielding resentment of guilt. Guilt that should be felt for every person you've wronged, whether good, evil or otherwise; for every ounce of pain you have delivered. From now through to eternity.”
Noir saw the sincerity in Balthazar's eyes, “How can someone live like that?”
“It's hard but I believe that's why the dark lord created alcohol,” said Balthazar, bearing that infectious family grin as he raised his glass.
Although Balthazar stood accountable for countless acts of evil, he was inherently good. His father was an angel, which meant that Balthazar was born with the purest of souls, unable to be corrupted by anything or anyone. His chosen profession, mixed with a few negative life choices, led him down a road of pure evil. He enjoyed his life and he loved his work, but the purity of his soul meant that he would forever feel the guilt of his actions; this led to a deep and meaningful relationship with alcohol. Numbing the soul could never be a cure for the warlock’s plight but it really did help. As long as he was drunk, Balthazar knew he could continue being the man he was born to be.
Chapter Eleven
Silence slept. He had been asleep for hours. His dreams were of werewolves and wizards, zodiacs and intruding witches and odd smelling plants that could reshape reality. These dreams he wouldn’t remember, they were just the mind’s way of sorting through current events, and so for most of the night he had slept peacefully. That was, until he turned, sweating and fidgeting. Around him grew shadows playing an awful scene. This dream he would remember, this dream he would want to forget, this dream shook his soul.
It was dark. It was darker than dark, a darkness that could only be described in a dream. Silence wasn't really anywhere but at the same time he was everywhere. He could recognise the shapes that loomed in the darkness. However, they were to his surprise, upon further investigation, completely unrecognisable. He searched the darkness. Silence found himself standing still where he had previously been walking. The horizon was an empty black void, as was the zenith, as was the ground. A voice whispered behind him. It said nothing. It just kind of whispered with an unintelligible hiss. Standing before him was a shadow. He was sure it was a shadow even if he couldn't actually see it. The absence of form caused a quake in his mind and the shadow moved. He was sure it split in two and brushed past him.
He was sure it split apart more and more until it surrounded him, but there was nothing around him, just the shadow that stood before him, darker than the darkness that he found himself now floating in. The shadow spoke but said nothing. He felt something. He felt his mind slip. He peered into the darkness that was the shadow that wasn't there, and saw himself peering back, equally as confused and frightened. He spoke and said nothing. He reached out, both of him. His hand touched his hand, he felt nothing, he disappeared. He closed his eyes. He heard a lot. He heard the clinking sound of metal hitting metal, he heard screams, he heard the crackling of fire. He opened his eyes to see a darkness darker than the inside of his eyelids. He heard nothing, and he stood silent. A light flashed, then he heard a sharp sound like pottery smashing, and the light dissipated and once again he heard nothing.
Silence's body tossed and turned as the shadows around him danced on the walls. Images of himself battling a large winged creature bearing a bladed staff flooded the room.
In the darkness Silence began to run. He ran for what felt like hours, or seconds, he wasn't sure. The voided horizon lit up. He reached it, but he wasn't sure of his surroundings. He was standing before a man, slender and dressed in a black suit with a long jacket that reached his thighs. The man’s face was pale and hairless and his lips thin and red. They mouthed something.
“Nice to meet you.” Silence felt broken, like his entire being had shattered. The shadows that danced fell back into Silence’s body as he awoke, sweating. He looked around his room, feeling… he didn't know how he felt. He stood, walked over to the light switch and flicked it on. Sure that he was safe from any kind of malicious darkness, Silence went back to bed. As he nodded off, Silence was sure he heard the front door closing.
Noir had been walking home, which was surprising due to the treacherous amount of alcohol he had recently consumed. The first few glasses of over-proof rum went down a treat. A somewhat throat-burning, eye-watering, stomach-turning treat, but a treat nonetheless. The rum mixed with the pint of cranberry coloured vodka that lay dormant in Noir’s stomach had allowed the melancholy information broker to enjoy his time with his guilt-ridden insidious brother. The next few glasses, on the other hand, raised cause for alarm; an alarm that was shortly sounded and then dulled by the sloshing sounds of more rum filling Noir’s gut.
The brothers conversed for a while about important things, unimportant things and quite a few incomprehensible things. Slurs turned to laughter and laughter turned to slurs and eventually Noir grew tired. Tired, that is, of his brother and so while Balthazar relieved himself on the restroom floor a few centimetres away from a carelessly placed urinal, Noir left.
The twilit sky had once again darkened with heavy black clouds and rain enveloped the space between the sky and the ground. Although he was quite a few glasses of rum past drunk, Noir managed to reach the bin he had assaulted the night before. This time he passed the bin without acknowledging it. Instead his attention was on the rushing stream that was underfoot. He watched the still lit Christmas decorations that hung atop so many of the street’s now dark lamps, shimmer in the wet as he took step after squelching step and eventually, without incident, he reached his house. Noir was unaware of the time as he scraped his key across the excursion and into the door. Upon entering the house, he turned on the lights and flung himself down onto his favoured spot on the couch.
There was the sound of a pot smashing in the kitchen. Noir didn't ignore it. You don't really ignore things when you're as drunk as the now somewhat giddy, yet concentrated Noir was. He just figured as he wouldn't be staying very long, although it was his own house, that the sound was in actual fact, somebody else's problem.
Noir took a small black journal out from under his spot on the coffee table, reached into his pocket, pulled out a pen, flicked through the book looking for an empty page and wrote:
December Third, Two thousand seventeen.
I have found myself admiring the term delusion of grandeur. Humans are fixated on powerful people; they give them importance and follow them, allowing themselves in turn to become impotent wastes. Novels are written depicting men striving for power to gain the love and adoration of their peers, TV, films, it's all a kind of manipulation. The humans have truly ruined themselves. The meek inherited the earth and their ruling has given the entire race a delusional state of grandeur. I would destroy those who rose too high, but that's not the way.
Balthazar, he changed something inside me today. He made me realise that I too suffer from this despicable delusion. To think I'm any better than those that I hurt. I have to change. I have to. I have no choice.
At some point I lost memories, a lot of memories. I'm not sure why. I guess I don't remember why. I've come to realise I must have done this to myself and if I don't remember why, then there's a reason for that. There I go again, in my own delusion of grandeur. To think I'm so arrogant that I think I can control my own actions. There was a time I couldn't even control my own body. I'm afraid. I hate that, Afraid of myself.
Mr Clements was the last. I won't dispose of my mistakes anymore.
I won't even fix them.
I'll just do better. I'll do things differently. I'll stop.
I'll stop
trying to prove the creators wrong. It's been hundreds of years, it's done no good.
I blamed Seriph for my loss of control, but I feel my control slipping again, just like France. Just like the eighteen hundreds, but this time it's different, like something’s pulling me. Invoking the darkness. I didn't have to kill Mr Clements. I could have just ended the contract and emptied his accounts. I enjoyed it. I revelled in his destruction. It felt amazing. I loved it. I didn't feel guilty over killing him. I felt guilty for enjoying his demise. Like an ex-addict after a long night’s relapse. There's so much happening at the moment. Only four of us know. Jaydon might know but I can’t be sure, he may know even more than the four of us. So much to do, and if I don't help the future change, the world will be uninhabitable. Unhinged. War is terrible and I don't wish to engage in it, but...
Noir stopped writing. He closed his eyes and inhaled with the full strength of a man too drunk to behave drunk. The harrowing taste of rum mixed with the stale air of Noir’s homestead and did a barrel roll into his lungs, where something led his stomach to copy the breath’s movements. He opened his eyes, flicked over the page, and put his pen to paper.
The soul is weak when power reigns,
When pleasure lives on the edge of pain.
The heart that's mute should not have ceased,
The fault is mine and not the beast.
This guilt I hold shall never fold,
Till time is old and summer’s cold.
The meek, the bold, weren't mine to mould.
This world will burn if truth is sold.
So, I shall prevail with thought of tale
And save the land from what may hail.
When future comes, it shall be anew,
Till then I'll do what I must do.
Happy with his journal entry, the drunken information broker closed his journal and slid it back under the coffee table. He stood quickly, feeling the rush of alcohol sloshing in his stomach. He began to turn swiftly, he stopped, remembering the alcohol in his gut and then continued to turn slowly. As he carefully made his way to the door, so as not to upset his stomach further, Noir noticed a small bottomless bag that had been resting on the sofa next to him. Recognising it as somebody else’s problem, Noir turned the handle of the door and left.
Epilogue
After the fall-out of the blue moon came the realisation of an ancient prophecy, one that might bring an end to the creators themselves. With the knowledge of this prophecy, Noir moves to prevent its actualisation.
Due to his fear of a future he wants to forget, Jaydon has changed more than he can remember and has planned for a special class to take place in the morning. Will his changes make a difference or is he fated to fail in his endeavours?
Ashel’s love for Angela has caused him to become distracted, while Wyll and the wolves research the terrorist plots against the Vampire Nation. Who was the dwarf talking to and how did the man have such knowledge of the vampires’ blood-bank?
What does Noir have planned for the zodiac order and why would his little friend steal all the Lycanaid held by the Alpha pack? Will his inner turmoil and forgotten memories prevent him from doing what he must? And will involving Banhier help save the Vampire Nation from the greater threat?
Caught in the middle of it all, Silence searches for answers to his existence, only to find more questions. What does Noir know? Why is his existence so important? Who was the man in his dream, what does it mean, if it means anything at all?
As the moon falls, comes a new dawn. Will these questions be answered, or will there be only more mystery to shroud the supernatural world?
Find out in Visus Verus: Volume II
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