by Cebelius
I wouldn't have been raped in the dark for years ...
Squeezing his eyes shut, he forced himself to remember that the memories weren't real. It was just a game. He could log out any time. These emotions were implanted.
It's not real.
"Abram?"
Angrboda's voice recalled his attention, and he realized his hands were clasped before him so tightly that his whole body shivered with the tension.
He shook them out and took a deep breath, his attention flickering to his stamina bar before he stood and said quietly, "I'm rested. Let's get going."
As he turned to face down the endless stairs, he felt a hand on his shoulder and froze as Sif said, "I'm sorry. What happened to you ... we should never have allowed it."
He stared at that hand, at the delicate fingers on his shoulder. He turned his head until he could see Sif, and noted again how emaciated she was. How frail. That the choices of the mountain trolls had left her in such a state was small consolation to him though, and he said, "No, you probably shouldn't have. But you did, and we are both where we are now because of it. For what it's worth, life in the mountain will be better when I rule."
He turned and took a step down, forcing her hand from his shoulder.
"Of that, you may rest assured."
10
Persistent World
The Great Stair thankfully behind them, Abram walked behind Angrboda's proxy with Sif bringing up the rear. The stairway had given out into a vast cave. Abram's dark sight revealed the ceiling to be at least fifty feet above them, arching higher and lower in places as columns of mineral deposits shaped the space.
It was obviously a natural, living cave, and the air was cool and damp. The only sounds aside from their own were the unsteady dripping of water from stalactites into low pools or pedestals of rising mineral deposits destined one day to meet their makers above to form yet more columns of delicate stone.
There was no obvious path here, no road, and Abram's hands were soon soaked and cold as he had to constantly reach out for balance as the three of them made their unsteady way forward. Angie seemed to know where she was going, and didn't bother asking questions as his attention was entirely taken up with not falling on his face.
He didn't have proper boots or shoes. Angie had moccasins she had made from skins, but they were sized for her proxy bodies, not for him. His bare feet felt like blocks of ice, but his regeneration healed the small cuts and gashes he was getting crawling over the stone. Since it wasn’t costing him hit points, he simply ignored the pain by thinking of how much worse he’d had it in the clutches of the Mor. He also had to constantly flex his hands and fingers to keep them from locking up from the cold. The ambient temperature wasn't bad on its own, but given it was impossible to stay dry, even the vague chill in the air was enough to slowly start seeping into his bones.
Only by concentrating on moving forward was he able to put aside his many discomforts. The cave was novel, and displayed natural wonders he'd have surely taken time to enjoy were he a tourist. As an adventurer, they were simply obstacles to be avoided.
Sif seemed to have no trouble at all moving through the cave, and Angie moved with surety if not complete ease. One slim benefit of all the cave formations was that it kept them from moving fast enough to exhaust his stamina bar. They'd had to stop so many times on the way down the stairs that it had become a point of embarrassment for him, though neither of his companions had said anything.
It struck him abruptly as he clambered over yet another rock formation that the three of them were actually in essentially complete darkness. The only color Abram could see anywhere was the blue of Sif's irises.
He tried to imagine navigating this cave without being able to see, and had cause to hope that whatever the Mor was doing at just that moment, she didn't die. Losing his dark sight would suck.
Going to have to decide what to do with her in the long term, provided I can capture her alive. If I kill her, I really WILL lose my dark sight.
It was frustrating, knowing that he wouldn't be able to burn her down as he so desperately wanted, but Abram was an engineer. He was practical. The Mor would serve him best if he could keep her alive. That didn't mean her life would be pleasant though, and he absently daydreamed of a variety of tortures he could inflict on the one who had caused him so much pain.
Just a game ...
Shaking his head to clear it, he slipped and almost fell, catching himself at the last moment by slamming a hand against a nearby stalagmite. The wet stone further chilled his already half-frozen fingers, and he cut loose with a string of muttered profanity as he shook out his hand.
He caught Angie glancing back at him and scowled. She thought better of whatever she might say, but Sif either wasn't as observant or simply didn't care. She said, "You seem exhausted. We can find a place to rest for a time."
Abram opened his mouth to argue but paused as Hantu Raya's text scrolled across the lower left of his vision.
'You truly are exhausted. Your stamina regeneration is not the only thing you need to pay attention to.'
He didn't feel tired, at least not mentally. As he considered himself though, he realized his body was sending him all the signals. His eyes felt gritty, his body ached. He was physically exhausted. It had been so long since he'd felt this way that he hadn't recognized the symptoms. After all, he never left his apartment. He didn't exercise. He was accustomed to being mentally exhausted, but never physically. It was odd and unpleasant.
"Fine," he said, shifting to press his back against the stone and settling into a low space. Inwardly he added, Log me out.
Sif blinked incredulously at the template, then looked up at Angrboda as she asked, "That's it? He just ... passes out? Is that normal?"
The giant's proxy sighed and shrugged as she said, "Abram is ... not much like the last template I knew, no."
Pointing, Sif said, "He's fallen asleep in a puddle. Should we move him?"
Angrboda nodded and scooped the still body of the template up, tossing him over her shoulder as she turned and said, "We may as well make a bit more distance. This cave gives out into a forest in another mile or so. It will be warmer there at least."
Sif nodded, and the two walked on for a time, picking their way carefully through the treacherous cave. Eventually she asked, "Can you tell me a little more about him? He seems ... volatile."
Angrboda looked pointedly back at Sif as she said, "You've been aware of him for much longer than I have."
"I was never allowed to interact with him. I only ever saw him once, and I was beaten for going near his chamber. The Mor kept him under strict control. Honestly, in all the years he was in Svartheim I don't think they ever unchained him. It's amazing he's alive, much less able to walk."
The giant didn't answer immediately, and when she did eventually speak, she sounded hesitant.
"Abram is able to walk, but he did not come through his ordeal unscathed. I suggest you act cautiously around him, Sif. He clearly blames you in some way for what was done to him."
"I don't know why. I was just as much a prisoner as he was."
"You were chained to a table, living in your own filth for years on end?"
Sif cringed under the giant's words, and could find none of her own with which to make adequate answer. Eventually Angrboda said, "I thought not, and he obviously came to the same conclusion."
"There was nothing I could have done for him," Sif said. "I had my own problems. We all did, and most of them thanks to him. If the hobs hadn't appeared, we'd have been able to retake Svartheim from the goblins eventually."
"So he blames you, and you blame him. A fine set of circumstances," Angrboda said, and Sif couldn't tell if there was judgement there or not.
Choosing to let it pass, she said, "I'll keep my word. If he defeats the Mor, I'll put my power at his disposal."
"What do you know of templates?" Angrboda asked, without looking back.
Sif considered her answer for a lo
ng moment. She knew he had something to do with the rise of the hobgoblins, but aside from his ability to breed the goblins into something more than they had been, she'd only ever heard of templates in stories, and usually those stories ended badly for them.
She decided to fish for information. "Well, I know that he's somehow responsible for the hobs. I assume that's because he can cross-breed with the goblins. I ... I heard they can grant wishes, but I don't know if that's true."
Angrboda nodded thoughtfully, but didn't answer, and the two fell to traveling in silence. Sif frowned, but she didn't know what else she could have said.
Eventually she decided to try again.
"Did he grant your wish?"
"He did, actually," the giant said with a quick glance back. "And given a chance, he'll grant yours. Does your control extend down this far?"
Sif let out a breath as she focused on the world around her, then shook her head as she said, "This place is beneath the roots of the mountain. I can feel the peaks above me, but my ability to control stone is very limited here. I can sense life in the area."
"Anything interesting or dangerous?"
Another moment of focus, and she said, "There's a darkhawk off to our left, but we won't pass near enough for it to bother with us. I can sense the mushroom forest we're heading toward, but my awareness doesn't reach much beyond that. I can't even sense any stone there."
"So you'll be of little use through most of this journey. Are you certain you don't want to wait in Svartheim for us to return?"
She shook her head emphatically. "I'd rather die out here than risk capture by the Mor while you two are gone. Unless you force me to go back, I'm staying."
"Any skills?" Angrboda asked.
Sif frowned and shrugged uneasily as she said, "I can cook almost anything, and have. I always know the quality and type of the stone around me. I can find minerals. I ..."
She trailed off. She had other skills, but they were of a sort she didn't want to talk about and gained under circumstances she'd rather forget.
"It's all right. You don't have to talk about those skills. I am not unaware of the behavior of goblins and their kin. I'm surprised that you're as frail as you seem to be, given you say you can cook."
"Just because I can cook doesn't mean I was allowed to eat what I made."
Angrboda nodded again, and shrugged as she said, "That's fair. I can prepare most of the edibles in this area, but I usually don't bother. Since you're no good for protection, we'll task you with food preparation. That at least should gain you some traction with him."
"So he can grant wishes?"
"After a fashion."
Angrboda hesitated a moment, then said, "Serve him well, and nature will take its course. Templates come to Celestine to grant their power to those who can take it. How that power is taken often determines the fate of nations. The Mor took it by force, but she was greedy and kept him alive. The results are plain to see. She is surrounded on all sides by enemies, and I believe she is doomed ultimately to a fate worse than death. Abram is not the forgiving sort, that much is obvious even after so brief a time with him."
Sif said nothing as she thought about what she'd been told. They navigated through the cave without incident, and with almost startling abruptness, their circumstances changed. In front of them was a crevasse. A bridge of stone that Sif could tell had been shaped by bergsrå in some past age arched across and connected to the abruptly flat space beyond. The temperature had risen noticeably and as they crossed the bridge, they passed into a weird world of fungus.
Mushrooms of every shape and description carpeted the ground and rose around them, some their equal in height, others so tall that only their stalks could be seen. Many of the smaller mushrooms were also luminescent, giving off glows in eerie shades of blue, red, and green that were just bright enough to ruin Sif's dark sight, severely reducing vertical visibility while allowing her to see that the forest was thick and extended in front of her far enough that she couldn't see the end.
The air had an odd smell to it that made Sif wrinkle her nose. It wasn't rot, not precisely, but something similar, and she asked, "What makes them grow? I thought mushrooms needed soft dirt or rotting vegetation, but there's none of that here."
"There is," Angrboda assured her. "What we're standing on isn't stone for one. It is a giant. I never learned his name. His origins and mine are different, and he has lain here for as long as I have been a prisoner at least."
She hesitated, then added, "I honestly don't even know for sure he's male. I just found that the more comforting of the two options."
"Is he dead?" Sif asked, reaching out with her senses only to realize that Angrboda was telling the truth. What lay beneath her was not stone, yet though she could usually sense life, what she felt beneath her seemed to be neither living nor dead. It was an odd, uncomfortable sensation.
"I don't know. I think so. No heartbeat, never moves ... but one can never be certain about such things. All I do know is that there is much more activity here than there was in the cave we just left. We should probably rest, and wake Abram before we continue."
"I'm surprised he hasn't woken up on his own," Sif said as she settled against one of the larger stalks, brushing away a small clump of caps that broke and scattered with the lightest touch of her hand.
"He has a familiar of some sort that protects his sleep," the giant said. "It has not spoken to me and I honestly don't know much about it."
"I meant to ask earlier. What are his affinities?"
Angrboda hesitated a moment, then said, "I don't know precisely, but right now he seems to specialize in killing. I expect once the Mor is dealt with he will broaden his skills."
Sif watched as Angrboda settled the template down on his back before taking a seat next to him. Their eyes met, and Angrboda asked, "Are you and your brother truly all that's left?"
"Yes. The hobs were ruthless. Most of us died in the first year, and the rest were kept as hostages to ... to insure my good behavior. When I abandoned the Halfrekkr, everyone but my brother was killed. I thought the adventurers would beat the Mor, save them ... I never thought they would just give up and leave the way they did."
Sif clasped her hands tightly in front of her, but though she felt sadness, there were few if any tears left to shed. The truth was that she was both relieved that lives were no longer being held over her head, and ashamed of that relief. She had been responsible for protecting her family from the hobs, and had failed miserably. Her brother was a brute, and there was little love lost between them. Now, the only thing left for her was revenge. Only if the Mor were brought low did she have any hope of a real future. She knew she could leave the mountain, but the thought of doing so was more painful than any other. It was her mountain. Svartheim was all she had left.
"I think they will return," Angrboda said quietly. "Tyrfing only has one purpose: to kill templates. When they learn that they left one here, they'll come back for him."
"So long as it isn't too soon, let them come," Sif said, not bothering to hide the resentment. "Once Svartheim is restored, we will deal with them as is proper, and take back the treasure they stole from us."
Angrboda nodded, and a quiet fell between them as they waited for the template to wake.
Abram glanced around his bedroom, bemused and not quite sure how he'd gotten there. He didn't remember logging off, brushing his teeth, doing anything really. Instead, his last memory was of sitting down next to a stalagmite and having Hantu log him out of the game. Everything between that and now was a blank.
Not like it matters.
He had a thousand memories of logging off other games, shutting down his systems, going to bed alone. This latest example would have been no different, and he had been truly exhausted. He couldn't remember ever being that tired, and though it seemed so obvious in retrospect, in the moment he hadn't even recognized the feeling for what it was.
Maybe it's a bug with the interface.
Rol
ling out of bed, he walked to his door, opened it, stepped through and turned into his bathroom. His apartment was pitch-black, but he'd lived here all his adult life. He knew where everything was, had every step memorized, and could navigate perfectly well without light.
What he did need light for was to see himself in the mirror. He flicked the switch and turned, then froze, staring.
The man in the mirror was smiling. It looked like him. Round cheeks, lanky black hair curled upon his brow, cut just short enough to not be in his eyes. His skin was pale to the point of being sickly for lack of sunlight. His body hair was sparse, and the body itself was soft and dissipated. But the dark brown eyes were hollow and sharp with intelligence, and the smile was cunning and vicious.
The problem was, Abram wasn't smiling.
He blinked, and the moment passed. His face was soft, his expression confused and a touch fearful. He reached up, covered his mouth with his hand, and for a long moment he made faces in the mirror, feeling the muscles in his lips twitching and flexing through the motions. It was his face. Yet as he finally began to brush his teeth, he couldn't escape the feeling that something wasn't quite right with him. Something didn't fit.
Spending too much time in the game, he thought. Beginning to think of myself in terms of the body I've got in there instead of the real thing.
A few minutes later he was stepping out of the shower, much refreshed, his momentary fears all but forgotten. It wouldn't be the first time his dreams had followed him into wakefulness. He did live alone, after all. He talked to himself, had entire imaginary conversations at times as he replayed scenarios from games, from novels he had read. In them he said what should have been said, the way he would have said it.
The smile flickered through his mind though, and he found himself smiling in just that way again. It was a predatory smile, a strong expression. It was better than the weak, confused fear that had followed.
