“You think you can handle that room?” I furrowed my brow accusingly and questioned his confidence with as much sarcasm as I could muster.
“Prrt-shick.” His surface rippled with excitement.
“Definitely? Aren’t we a confident one.” I’m quite proud of him. He’s willing to try the room, showing me how it could be done in order to help us both.
“Where’d you get this kind streak from?” Blackness shrugged back like a disgruntled teenager, a little embarrassed at being caught in an act of selflessness.
“Okay. Tomorrow then. I need some sleep.” I get up from the table, not expecting a response, but I get one.
“Prrt.”
“I am well aware of how I look.” We both chuckle. Mine genuine and honest. His alien, but just as sincere.
* * *
When I wake the next day it’s to sizzling, rattling and banging noises. Whipping the Bjørneskinn away from me I run to the door. As I get to the frame, leaning in to see where Tchook was I laugh as he walks towards me. Hunched back, shoulders slumped, he sulkily made his way over. Bits of him were scorched, some red embers showing off where they’d stopped him in his path. He slinked past me, his surface as still and quiet as I’d ever seen it and sat at the table to eat his breakfast. Must be embarrassed. I can’t remember when we started getting two plates of food for each meal, but I’m glad of it. He’s much bigger now and had as ferocious an appetite as I do. I take a look into the room and see bits of black goo on the floor start moving towards Tchook. He’d clearly left parts of him behind and as they join him, so do I, in silence. I let him stew for a bit and then begin eating my food loudly, trying to get his attention. He does incredibly well to ignore me, but eventually he gives in.
“Prrt-shtack.” He threw up some non-hands in frustration and his non-eyes met mine.
I nod with respect and try to console him. “Don’t give yourself such a hard time. We’ve never been up against anything like this. In any of our lives.” I feel comfortable including him as a we, rather than you and I. A piece of my soul is in him, the gold sliver shimmering forward as I speak. I thought about my Dyad training and how that had taken years. It had taken years and was nowhere near as intense as this. Eve and I knew that more training would come after we’d realised our dream, but we never had the chance to experience it. Maybe The Protectorate’s version of training had it right. Get it done fast by drowning in the deep end.
Both of us go through our normal morning routine, Tchook mimicking all the training, warm ups and meditative moments with incredible accuracy. He helps me push myself with bodyweight training, changing his mass to increase and decrease the resistance of each individual exercise. Non-hands wrapped around injured and aching body parts to warm and heal. Encouraging chirps always there to keep me focused or distract me when I needed it. We’d become very close, anticipating each other's thoughts, movements and needs. If he wasn’t there I may have died during this process, my casual attitude getting the better of me and putting me in danger. My sometimes-lazy tendencies bleeding through to hold me back. It could easily have been sixteen or twenty-four months if it weren't for him and the Bjørneskinn.
“Thanks.” I say as he pulls himself away from the latest little twinge in my shoulder. He always responded with a very unique noise to me saying thanks. It felt like he was saying, you’re welcome as well as thanks back. It feels good whatever it is, and I make my way to the room. It’s about time I take a run at it. Limbering up, warming my muscles I spent a long time visualising as well. Drawing in emotions, feelings, environmental changes and blind luck or misfortune into each scenario, I pick my way through the tasks. Tingling. Bliss. There. Whip. Catch and repeat. Strike. Shatter. Flow and repeat. Drift. Tap and repeat. I place each of the golden globe appearances front and centre of my thinking, confronting them as the largest danger in the room. They would constantly hamper my progress and my stamina would fade as I got to the final sequence of the room. Loss of stamina results in tiredness. Tiredness results in mistakes and I can’t afford those, especially as there may be more surprises in store.
I find out the cost of tiredness very quickly. Failed attempts in any part of the room, beams, discs or tiles and I receive that terrible jolting magik through my body. Extremely dangerous with the increasingly erratic behaviour of the limb stealers as I got farther and farther into the run. I’d lucked out with my first few attempts, getting quite far through the discs before making a mistake or getting displaced by the dangerous round objects. Calling it a day after only a handful of attempts I realise how much this would take it out of me. How much it would take out, and how much it would take from me. Time passes quickly and easily as we run through the days. I lose count of the number of limbs that are taken, the number of times Tchook had to intervene to save my life. I’m impossibly fast. I’m incredibly strong. I’m unbelievably agile. But, I am not lucky. I’m lucky in how fast I’m healing now though, limbs growing back in a matter of hours compared to before. I’m also lucky in knowing where I have to improve. My acute vision coupled with highlighting danger can’t get much better. The way I drift in and out of the state of mind I need to anticipate risks and pre-emptively move comes easier and easier, but my it’s inner fire that needs tempering. It’s too volatile. Intensity is important, but controlled release was just as key. The revelation came to me when I was meditating one morning. My soft eyes were centring on Tchook in the middle distance of my vision when he whirled into a loose spiral with a cross through the middle of it and then disappeared to show Eve tending to a wound on my back.
“Master Mo thinks I’m too angry.” I was wincing as Eve inspected the deep cut across my back.
“He’s kind of right.” Eve offered unapologetically. “And you’re a wimp.” She chastised at my most recent wince.
“Can’t you just wave your hands to make it better?” I pleaded over my shoulder.
“Patience, dearest.” She said coolly, walking over to a table covered in glass bottles filled with strangely colourful and shimmering liquids. “He’s used a nasty little trick to keep the wound from healing easily.”
“Sneaky Fuegen.” My wound burned all of a sudden, sharp fire whistling through my chest.
“The wound knows you are bad mouthing the man who made it.” Eve laughed. “Full of surprises that one.” She carried on airily, selecting bottles and inspecting them, seemingly at random. Deciding which ones, she needed looked like chance, but judging eyes passed over each vessel with focused determination, her training and natural flair helping her select the right ingredients for the salve she was concocting. “He’s woven anger into the cut. I’ll need you to talk me through an angry memory whilst I apply this.” She stood behind me and dangled a dull brown liquid in front of my eyes before carrying on. “So I can work the rest of my magik.” She giggled a little. Sometimes she used that phrase when describing other talents. Ones that had attracted me to her in the first place and continued to make me fall deeper and deeper in love with her. I picked a silly moment of annoyance between me and my father to talk to her about. An honest and real memory, easy to describe to the woman you love. Eve placed her hands at the outer edges of the wound and leaned in close, closing her eyes and resting her cheek near the worst damage. I kept talking and felt her move her head away from me. The me in the room was imagining the face she was pulling. The me watching, saw concentration and love accompanied by hands that glowed white. She didn’t break her concentration whilst I kept talking, sewing her magik into the wounded tissue, her hands acting as a conduit of healing energy. As I progressed through the story, Eve moved her hands towards each other, whispering words I couldn't quite hear. As I confessed my feelings about the confrontation with my father Eve’s glowing hands slowly pushed towards the centre of the scar, the salve left behind as she whispered anew. I let my final words hang in the air for her to see. I let them hang there for me to see. For me to accept. Eve’s hands finally closed, and she removed them from my back in praye
r to bow towards what was left of the wound. Wrapping some bandages around me and covering up the salve, she came around to face me.
“You need to balance the anger with peace, Äsheenie.” She was right more often than I let her know, although my eyes always gave me away. “You need to hold them both in the palm of your hand.” She pulled my hand towards her, turning it over so we could both look at the lines that marked it. “Just like you need to find harmony between you…” She smiled so wide I fell a little deeper in love with her. “... and your furry friend.” She kissed the palm of my hand and then kissed me gently on the lips.
The memory faded with more rushing forward to show themselves and I almost feel complete. Tchook looked confused when I thanked him, non-head cocked, surface bubbling and something that sounded like, huh? coming from him. Luck has shown me things when I looked at him in the past and right now, I feel lucky enough to roll the dice and beat this cursed room. I transform in and out of my bear form, testing the line between the two, exploring the recesses of each state. The tingling, blissful process is as simple as moving an arm now. Shifting in and out of the forms is a peaceful and natural process. Comfortable. I maneuvered my conscious into the place between no fur and fur. Between peace and fury. Between patient and feral. After a time, a feeling of belonging falls upon me and I understand the lesson Mo was trying to teach me. I understand what the harmony meant when Eve plainly set it out in front of me. I settle into the huge black shape I had full control over now and look at my paws. My fur was shimmering.
Consciously and subconsciously I ebb and flow through the room. The deadly lights and objects seem inconsequential somehow. I’d explored and understood my past and present self, revealing all shades of being in the process. An entire spectrum of a person looked at through a microscope. Golden-red entities try to stop me over and over again, manifesting in ways I’d not seen before. Crackling and fizzing enemies seek me out to end my journey, but they’re no match for me. Beams fall, discs shatter and I drift in the in between. Man and bear at the same time, I embody the strengths of each simultaneously and am made anew. In the blink of an eye and in the stretch of an eternity, I’m done. Barely having broken a sweat, I stand proudly in front of Djoonga, bathed in his stunning light. I was untouched by the ordeal, no smoking fur or singed flesh to show that I’d been challenged or tested. The room, in the end, was no match for me, yet I bow to it. I respect what it has taught me, and it deserves that respect.
“Well done, Weyaal.” I bow again. “No one has completed the room so quickly, or with such grace. In the end.”
“I had help.” I look at Tchook and nod the same respect I’d just given to the room and the ancient door.
“Paths trodden alone are the hardest.” I wait, sensing the voice isn’t done. “He is quite… peculiar, isn’t he?” It isn’t a question, more of a compliment-fact. Tchook purred with satisfaction and I smile broadly.
“Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Djoonga’s turn to wait, sensing I’m not done. “Why are you working for The Protectorate?” I ask with concern rather than accusation.
“A long time ago, I saw that I would be the one to guide you, so I took steps to be here.”
“You saw all this?” I sense a nod, even though doors cannot nod. “What happens next?”
“Unfortunately, I do not have the answer. Too many possible futures are now possible, the fates of all races no longer easy to predict. Larger machinations are at work here, striving to confuse my sight.” My shoulders drop with disappointment.
“You, have a choice though young one.” I brighten at the idea of a simple decision. I look down to see a dot appear in the middle of the triangle on my left hand, whilst a circle surrounded the whole shape on my hand. “Freedom, or transcendence.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN - REGROUP
Eris looked over at her sister as they were driving along the street, reminded of the road trips they used to go on as Naïve children with their parents. Just like back then, they talked to kill time and fill the silence so whilst she was waiting to hear back about the sanctioned, most likely unsanctioned, portal, they’d been discussing how strange the scene was and what it felt like to be possessed by the unfamiliar, icy magik that nearly killed them. None of the four higher magiks behaved in the way this one did, alive and pervasive. Neither of them wanted to experience it again, despite their curious natures. Neither of them wanted their liberties violated in such a way again. Neither of them wanted to feel touched or invaded like that as long as they lived. After working the subject over for a while to try and make sense of it, Eris looked past her sisters face to take in the city lights as they floated down the street in their standard issue car. The warm oranges welcomed them, and she found some peace in the soothing tones, until the starkly contrasting neon of hotels and entertainment venues interrupted the warmth. Odd mixtures of colours and changes in intensity massaged her senses, helping her move past what they’d been through earlier. The lights kept flitting by, relentless as they moved on, when Enyo delicately passed across her phone, the name Gerard glowing against the dimness of the car’s interior.
“Have you reached nine and twenty-three yet?” Referring to the grey-green companions who reported the unsanctioned magik.
“Not yet, a few more minutes and we’ll be there.”
“Hurry. I think Lars is on his way to make sure they never speak about what they saw.”
“A little faster please, sis.” She said to Enyo, partially covering the phone receiver with her hand before addressing Gerard again. “Understood Hältia.”
“Be careful.” Gerard was worried and that put Eris on edge. She didn’t like that her master felt this way, so she did her best to calm him.
“We’ll be fine. Lars won’t have known who reported the breach and even if he does, we’ll get to the Orcs before him. It’s only been a couple of hours. If that.” She did her best to sound casual, but the thought of crossing the high Våpen worried her. Potentially more than it worried Gerard.
“Things are becoming more complicated here too, Eris. We may have to make a swift exit and those gloves could be useful to us. Make sure you are the ones who use them to get back here and make sure you bring them with you.”
“How swift an exit will we need to make?”
“Focus on what you need to do first.” The old teacher’s voice surfacing to keep her on point. “Let me worry about the rest.”
“Understood.” She hung up the phone and briefly updated her sister.
* * *
Gerard placed the phone back in his pocket, worried that the sisters were in as much danger as nine and twenty-three. Thinking through outcomes, possible futures and inevitable events, his worry grew. A patient man does not worry. A patient man waits, knowing others will worry first. A patient man pauses, knowing others will act rashly. This was the sisters though. Years and years, they’d worked together after he carefully selected them. He’d never counted them as blunt slaves to be pushed around a game board and sacrificed without mercy, like other Våpen did. They, including Fortune, were his foundations and gave him strength. He was who he was, because of them.
“Can we get eyes on nine and twenty-three?” He said to Parod who’d kept his golden eye free in case they needed visions to get lost in the network.
“Here.” Sharn replied.
Gerard walking up to stand beside her. “What about access to the room?”
“Here.” The third Orc replied. “Empty.”
Gerard frowned, a bad feeling worming its way into his stomach. “Parod, is there any way to tell if the feeds are being manipulated?”
“No.” He said passively. “Unless you catch the exact moment the feed is hijacked, it is impossible to trace.”
Gerard felt helpless. Even patient men have their limits and right now, he was just waiting, his limits being tested. Fortune was digging up what he could. The Sisters were trying to save some innocent Orcs. The Eyes were tracking what they could and all he could
do was watch. Everyone was doing something and that nagging, tugging nausea returned to his stomach. A reminder that something was, or was about, to happen. A hardworking gut is something to be trusted, his old mentor’s voice bounced around his head, and he knew his role.
“I’ve got them.” Sharn said suddenly.
“Who?” Gerard asked, expertly keeping the panic out of his voice.
“Lars and his Sløv. They’re going into the room with nine and twenty-three.” The initial screen she pulled up to watch the room continued to show the same image, grey and grainy, a door slowly swinging open.
“Do not take back control of the feed Sharn.” Parod interjected. “They cannot know we are involved.”
“It’s a rush job. They should’ve controlled things earlier. They’re desperate.” Sharn offered back.
“Probably one of those degenerates from sector forty-seven.” The third Orc cut in, distaste clear in his voice. Gerard had heard whispers of what happened in that place, his contact having recently confirmed some of what was only rumour.
“Have you got Enyo and Eris?” Gerard asked of the third grey-green, his gut informing him that he should be concerned.
“No. If they’re within range of the hijacked feed then we’ll only be able to see what they want us to see.” Sharn replied.
Gerard was furious at this. How long had the network and the feeds been manipulated to hide the truth? How long had any and all dark intent been covered up? His thoughts were interrupted though as he saw nine and twenty-three turn to greet the Venatoré in their midst. Standing up, mid-flow through traditional greetings, nine suddenly crumpled down through his centre into a crushed mass of meat, broken bones and exploding fluids on the floor. Gerard barely had time to register the surprise on twenty-three’s face who, covered in blood, looked towards the door to see what had just done this to his friend. There was a great hammer, made of dancing light and vicious energy sat atop the pile of Orc remains. The long handle was cradled gently in the hands of Lars Engen, a filthy smile across his face. Medium length blonde hair was dappled with his victim’s insides, partly drawn down over his face to hide his eyes. Twenty-three held out both his hands to ward off an attack, but it was useless, as pointless as trying to hold back the tide. In an instant, Lars turned with a flourish and brought the hammer head down harder than a meteor, faster than a comet. He let the hammer head rest on his second victim, seemingly wanting to take in every detail of his work. The weapon was almost real, details, runes and decorations striking and untouched by the massacre it had just visited upon the Orc. It stood out, beautiful and honest in its brutality, uncaring. Then it was gone, leaving Lars in his wide footed stance, crouched and ready to pounce.
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