by Enoch Enns
“The Trust Seal of Bondage,” the man quickly corrected, body shaking in his chair from the excitement. “What luck you have struck! I wouldn’t have guessed one in a million for that to be your first.”
Locke was utterly lost. “This isn’t making any sense. Sorry, but here’s your card back.”
“No, no, no, no. It’s yours to keep! That’s the whole point of a gift: you’re given it, and then you decide whether or not to use it.”
“You mean it’s my choice to receive it, and I’m handing it back.”
“But you can’t, see? You’ve already taken it. It’s yours to keep. And I highly suggest you do. That is no easy come-by card. It may be just what you need it times not too distant.”
“What is the whole point to these cards?” Carls asked, shaking his fist about the air.
The fat man smiled. “They can only be used once. That particular card, the Trust Seal of Bondage, creates an indestructible (yet destructible) bond between the wielder and whatever he casts it on. It is a bond of trust— and it makes you responsible for the protection of the other, for its safe keeping. In return, well, like the card hints, you have its complete trust.”
“You mean this is magic?”
“By no means!” the man laughed. “Yes, it is like magic, except it is the card that does the casting, not you. You simply tell it when and how. And by how, I mean more so like in what direction. They are called Hensers. This here is a Deck of Hensers.” The man gestured at his stack of accumulated cards. “Here, I will also give you this since you are still doubtful.”
He handed Locke yet another.
“Chamber Gate of Fire?”
The man's tone hardened (surprisingly enough for his joking manner of business). “Use it well. Hensers are no joking matter. They do real things and have real consequences just like everything else. Simply draw, point, and release to call forth their power. Heed you do so blindly, you too might be burned.”
“Release? How do you release? How do I know you are not just playing tricks on me like everything else here?”
“Oh, hush. You are just like the other and so doubtful of the powers at work behind what meets the eye! Watch, oh ye doubtful, and learn.” The man stood from his chair (surprisingly enough to say) and drew a single card of which he held outstretched. Vacancy, it read at a glance. A stern look crossed the man's face as his muscles tensed and he suddenly swung his arm to the side. In an instant, he and his table vanished, leaving nothing but a whiff of air.
Shedding Light
Carls Locke was left to the distancing movements of the Fallen One that had just previously crossed his path. He didn’t believe in magic. His mind wouldn’t let him. But that hadn’t explained what just happened before him. The dealer had vanished!
He looked down upon the two cards he now held, not knowing what it was for sure he should do about them. For the time being, he stashed them into his pants pocket and shoved the confusing thoughts from his minds reach. Instead, he focused upon the hallway still before him, Xavier’s words echoing through his head: ask them yourself. His body shuttered to the thought as he reminisced his last encounter with them-- the illusionate. They were still human, and dying. He had to find out what had happened to them so as to save himself. But not just himself. Xavier wanted him to converse with the illusionate. To reach out to them and open their eyes. He had had a chance, but it had slipped. If he was going to find another one to break through, he would have to follow the Fallen One, despite how against the thought he was. I need answers, he told himself. I need a second hand.
The air was thickening as he pursued the beast. He hadn't yet fully grasped what had happened to them. Were they human? All he knew at the time was to avoid them at all costs, and yet this cost was too high to avoid. It was a price he was willing to pay. He had to find answers. He had to secure his sanity less it be founded upon a false belief. He slowed his breathing. The sight and sounds still haunted him, but at least now he was as prepared as could be for the unpredictable. If this thing were to turn on him, he knew but to only run.
Run, or use the cards.
No, they are not real, he reassured himself. You don't have to use them. You can do this without them. You can do this yourself.
He came nearside a pillar adjacent to an herb center into which the Fallen One had disappeared. Oh great, close quarters is exactly what I didn't need. Locke lifted the gun to his chest, calmly breathing out all the anxiety he could from his lungs. All I need is one. Just one.
He stepped into what was known as the Hanging Gardens, feet sliding across the floor from cover to cover. The place was moist. Very moist. The plants and herbs had overgrown their pots and divisions, some even climbing to the glowing ceiling for light. Artificial light-- it wasn't the same by any means. Carls could feel that his body ached for the real deal. His bones cried out for the sun, his skin beckoning to be freed from the moist of the damp and gloomy atmosphere around him.
A sound came in the distance causing his breathing to influx and hold. He knelt ever so low to the ground, the hilt of his gun pressing against his chest. It's empty, he reluctantly recalled. He'd used it on his last confrontation. I'll have to act close, without the aid of bullets.
Carls Locke was unaware of the form lurking overhead; unaware of the unprecedented darkness creeping about him. His focus instead was upon a single figure that wept dried of tears but drenched of moist and pain. Slowly, he eased to the last corner's bend, not knowing for sure himself what he was to do. He wondered to the source of their pain-- for they seemingly bore none physically. What runs through their head?
His shoulder brushed against a pot, sending it crashing. The noise instantly gave lead to his presence. The illusionate scrambled to its feet-- expression as though outraged at whatever had intruded upon its privacy.
And it was after him.
Locke had barely managed to respond in time. All awhile he ran, he beckoned the illusionate to stop. The only answering he was getting was screams and flying pots and shrubbery. There has to be something I can do!
He saw an overhang and went for it, but it was too late. The illusionate had somehow caught up (regardless of its poor condition, something drove it to react beyond human standard, yet blindly). His body crashed over the ledge and down, water engulfing them both. He'd already dropped his gun and now thrust just enough distance between him and his attacker that he could crawl out of the cold water only to wrestle atop hard marble tile.
“Get off!” he yelled as teeth bore down upon his flesh. With his feet, he propelled the figure backwards, crawling back to his own feet and bracing himself for its charge.
“Why won’t you just listen?” his voice cracked, back hitting against another isle as the figure toppled to the opposite side. Unlike his opponent, his body screeched in hindering pain.
They locked fists-- the illusionate trying to reach him yet again with its teeth. An animal! Locke couldn't stop thinking. Their behavior is like some kind of animal! He released a burst of oxygen from his lungs as he fought back the force of the male illusionate’s attempts to overpower. Conversate, he told himself, that's what Xavier hinted at. I have to conversate with them.
“Can't you see what you're doing?!” he bellowed, finding his back against a pillar supporting a second floor. “Can't you stop this and see!”
The eyes before him glistened in attempt to tear. It's working.
“Stop this foolishness and listen to me! I can help you... you don't have to be like this. You don't have to fight me.”
He felt a temporary break in oppression. I can help you, he reiterated, eyes staring into the figure before him-- a tear streaking down his cheeks. For a brief moment in time, he did not fear the life-strained, joy-abandoned figure that he struggled with. For a brief moment, his heart felt pity for them, and he felt an influx of strength pour into his veins. Not strength to overcome, but strength to be overcome by desire to give hope. “I can save you,” he said, the illusionate’s attempts sha
ttering as it suddenly collapsed to the floor, bent over its knees.
Carls but took in a deep breath, thanking God for whatever had just happened. He looked down at the broken form now weeping tears again. Weep with those who weep-- the saying came to him. The cause behind his was to the memory of his wife. He knelt beside the hunched figure of a once hopeless man.
“I'm not here to fight you, I'm here to understand you and give you hope. Please, stop this foolishness. Fight back. Not against man, but whatever it is that you are warring with inside. Please, fight back!”
“I'm... trying--” he couldn't believe his ears. Had the man just spoke? He rested his hand upon the shaking form, its weeping coarse and unchanged. Can they truly be reached? He began asking himself that. After all, they were still human. Just like him.
Screeching echoed to his attention. More were coming. They must have heard the noise from earlier and now beginning to answer. He looked and saw the figure on bended knee exposed and weak-- not about to move on its own strength. It wouldn't do to just leave him. No, I shall not forsake him.
Carls was forced to resort to lift the man himself and place him beneath one of the overgrown isles. He then stood, knowing all too well what was to come next. They will come for me. And as of now, he can do nothing on his own.
He took in a deep breath. Not to run, but to distract-- that was thought behind his next step.
Fatal Mistakes Have Fatal Reactions
The damp center opened up to a vast display of extravagant plants hanging from the raised ceiling. Across from the opening was a small pond being fed by an overflow of waterfall between two staircases that led to the balcony. Marble tiles were placed like checkers on the floor and light filtered through the smudges in the window panes above. He could see where he had broken through the railing moments before when the illusionate had been his pursuer. And here again he stood, the voices closing quickly in the background. The ground as his confidence suddenly faltered.
It was more than just illusionate coming.
His nerves were on their ends again in search of a spot to hide. A pillar was all he could reach before the Fallen One leaped from the top floor down to his-- the same one he'd followed into the place. Its roar of disgust vibrated the pillar to which Carls clang for shelter. His hiding was not good enough.
Giant arms swung around the pillars side and down where his body once lay. Carls ducked, rolled, and now was fully exposed in the clearing. God, I need your help right now, he pleaded, limbs shaking to the emerging beast. I’m hopeless.
The Fallen One had grappled with one of the isles, tearing a section off. It was sent ripping through the air as roots and dirt and shattered pots blanketed its shadow.
It wasn't directed at Carls Locke as he did all he could to cover his face from the shrapnel. He turned on his heels— the beast roaring in despicable hate towards a new foe.
Carls tumbled backward. There, above the balcony, was an emanating darkness. Its appearance was void of solidification, but all the more defined by a black shroud of... something. No arms, no legs, no eyes-- and yet it retained a sense of source (or head, as one should put it) from which the rest of it acted. It took no notice of the Fallen One's attempt to devastate. Instead, its form overcame its surroundings, bending them to its will. Any and everything was sent the creature’s way (and yes, that meant at Carls' as well). He took a large vase to the gut, crashing him back underneath the second floor, terrified. What on earth! His mind was yelling at him to stop the pain, but he had no longer control over his shock-frozen body. He watched as the Fallen One bore the onslaught of inanimate objects, trying to counter with what it could. In a manner of seconds had the dark form (a Possessioner, as they were called) descended upon it and the beast violently flung its body in all directions. The futile attacks showed its lack of full comprehension that it could not strike its opponent. It seemed to rage against the dark present's representation, as though angered by its daring presence.
But all that was changed as the Possessioner lured the beast into the water-- drowning it by its own attempts to wresting the possessed liquid. It soon fell lifeless and face-submerged. The Possessioner was then left to Carls, who still remained motionless.
God, help me move!
It was all he could do to avoid direct confrontation with the blast of cold water sent at him. The touch felt as though being drilled by a fire hose-- his skin cracked. I can't win this, he mourned as another isle was torn from behind and sent knocking him into the open. I can do nothing!
But then he saw her-- in the distance, just past the right-side staircase.
His daughter.
“Joan!” he shouted out, a desire to protect suddenly sweeping throughout him. She could not hear him in the least, nor did she seem to notice. Her small little form but skipped across the tiles-- completely oblivious to that which surrounded her.
“Joan!”
The Possessioner noticed her too. And as if to gloat of its evil intent, it turned toward her, Carls still pinned to the floor by the torn up isle.
“NO!” he bellowed out, squirming to get his arms free. God give me strength!
His hands were free and before he knew it, not even knowing what he had drawn, he held, outstretched, a single card. “Dare you touch her!” his lungs cried. The card sparked and quickly caught ablaze, soon scorching the air above and then everything around it-- including the figure of a man attempting to free him of the heavy weight barring down upon him.
He was too late to stop his actions. The same man whom he had saved not but moments before now tumbled backwards, body in flames. Carls' fleeting efforts to reach the man in time to throw him into the water were helpless and exhausting. He could do nothing, for the weight of the table still held him. He could only watch as everything around him burned-- even his eyes drying up, the moist on his skin instantly evaporating. He looked to where his daughter was, just hoping it hadn't reached her either--
She was no longer there, and neither was the Possessioner. “Joanna!” he wept aloud. Joanna... where are you?
Part II: Desperation
To Hear Her Sing And Feel Her Breathe
His body could barely move, but he crawled from beneath the table nonetheless. He pulled himself up against the small ledge of the outlining pond from which steam still arose and filled the air. What had happened, what he’d done, and where he’d been were all but a blur to him as his eyes strained to see around the curve of the stairs to where his daughter had been. Had he acted foolishly for her: taking another life that he might secure hers? He looked back to the smelted remnants of a man that had once been—who had tried to save him, and yet his rescue had brought death. Hands still burning, Carls dared to venture his palms to the water’s surface.
He jerked away. He cared not to wash his stains in the blood of his foe—for there still lay the Fallen One, its body seeping of strange liquid (resembling much as tar). The rough skin had melted to streams revealing the flesh of its prey buried deep within. It too had once held a separate entity. For some reason, he felt pity for the destructed life. And he felt remorseful for the life he had taken of one just saved from illusion. That, and he felt bitten to the pursuit of his daughter. She is still alive, and I must find her.
To his feet his body rose. Every muscle twitched from exertion but his mind was too occupied to tend to its plea for rest. Joanna was his first concern. But where? She could be anywhere in this place, he told himself. He came, with feet that staggered in pain, to stand before the staircase leading up the balcony. Before him, ash-like stains etched across the flooring. Or rather not as much as stains but steps. Steps? Had someone carried her?
Had someone stole her?
His mind pelted him with a million questions. First and foremost being if his daughter was even aware of the nightmare.
He still thought of his wife. How she had failed to realize until it was too late. How the bar had pinned her head of innocence just in front of him. How he'd been helpless to aven
ge her against the monster. How he'd ran.
And yet how he lived. How he breathed.
He disclosed the thought-- a tear stripping his face. I will find you, Joan. I will find you and I will never let you go.
His hands felt down to the remaining card he had still in his pocket. Trust Seal of Bondage. Just the idea of using it stirred nausea from within him. Instead, he focused his attention to the clearing just beyond the eastern entrance to the Hanging Gardens. The steps were fading even more, but he at least knew them to leave the gloomy atmosphere of his more recent tragedies.
Carls Locke stumbled across the vast space of two halls as he passed from the Hanging Gardens onward to the large poster plastered atop the opposing wall. He felt nimble and exposed; tried and alone; worn but cold. In the distance, he could feel no breeze and hear no sound. His legs but dragged. He longed for her-- his family. It couldn't be helped that a man be broken when his heart is ripped away from him and put on chain. Only, he had not the slightest idea as to where the chain led. For some reason, he felt tugged to simply press forward.
The poster hang loose above him now, his eyes straining to read: Life can only be lived once, so you might as well live it UP. He could tell by the signs and displays afterwards that he had entered another district of the grand mall. Deserted but packed to the likes of a city market, only with bars and gambling holes. He knew not the name of the place, only that there, off in the distance, was a small shape moving toward him.
And then the sound. The soft, gentle ring of melody-- a faint strain momentary hope. He stopped, heart pounding, eyes wetting, mind trying to put it all together. The voice came closer as he began to notice the form running towards him. Not in panic, but joy. His fingers sweat, knees dropped steadily.
It was his daughter. Or at least the flicker of light to her child-like eyes made it seem so; her hair waving in the motion.
Breathless. The singing penetrated deep into his swollen ears. Joan, he called to himself, then in a whisper-- his life on hold. And as she came within his breast, he reached out to embrace, eyes springing open, breath exhaling in a deathly plea. Her figure fell through his, his embrace empty to the hallucination his mind had fooled him of. The hope was shattered--
