The Optimist's Inkblot

The result of about an hour and a half of randomly writing during and between classes. I’m the best student, clearly. ------------------------------------------------ You failed to really live until the day you died. You couldn’t have known what the day would bring as she nudged you into unhappy wakefulness, ushered you away from whatever lazy, lackadaisical dream had its limbs so neatly wound about your mind. No man, or woman, or anything which exists between stirs contemplating their own morality (at least, not on a regular basis). And if they happen to, there is always one firm insistence which lingers in the back of their mind, a steady chant: not today. Never today. Always some infinite amount of tomorrows away. Until it is today, at which point it’s too late. No, thoughts of that mortal coil you call a “body” did not cross your mind on that fateful morning. All you could focus on was that high-pitched voice, insistent as ever. “Come on, Cassie. You can’t sleep the whole day away, you know!” You groaned and shielded your ears with a pillow. How was her voice so painfully shrill? Crowing birds and chiming bells could not compete with dear, virtuous Fantine. One could take her lithe, slender form and perch it upon the rooftops of Corview, and her morning salutations would stir the citizens more readily than any crowing cock ever could. How well your little sister could cope with irate citizens at the crack of dawn was an entirely different matter, of course; you’d probably be the one tasked to shoo them away with a harsh growl and a prod of your swords. Five more minutes. That was all you needed. More would have been nice, of course. If you wanted to be honest, five more hours would likely still feel insufficient. In fact, you could have very well slept the entire day away with little regret. However, her words cut through that feather-soft sound barrier, which proved to not act as much of a barrier at all. No luck for you. The rooster wanted you up, and you were fortunate that she hadn’t resorted to pecking at you to get what she wanted. Maybe if you played dead, she would leave you alone. Maybe she’d be fooled. Nope. “Cass. By the Light, if you don’t get up within the next ten seconds…” Ten whole seconds? By gods, she was really feeling generous today. Usually it was five, or three, or by-the-time-I-finish-this-sentence-you’d-better-have-something-aside-from-pajamas-on-or-so-help-me-Cass… Her generosity went unappreciated, however, as you offered the most eloquent of replies. “Nn… Fuck off, Fanny.” The epitome of tactful, polite speech. Silence on dear Fanny’s end. And then, before those ten seconds were even halfway up, you found yourself not in bed anymore. You were, in fact, precisely 5.35 feet above your bed (not that you cared about technicalities), hovering horizontally and clinging to your pillow in a vain attempt to remain grounded. Soft hissing escaped your lips as you vocalized your distress, silk-clothed legs kicking at empty space. “F-fuck’s sake, Fan! Lemme down, now!” Poor choice of words, in retrospect. Thud. Mattress, meet Face. You would have scowled had you not heard the soft little snicker that always tugged a smile to your lips. You absolutely adored her laughter. But she only laughed at you. Truly the greatest tragedy of your time. “… M’gonna get you for that, Fanny.” you growled as you lifted your head, baring your unremarkable human teeth in a snarl more appropriate of some wolfish rogue. For a second, you were that monster that chased a ten-years-younger Fan into her bedroom with glee, howling out threats of decapitation and evisceration and whatever other handy words you’d picked up from your warrior training that day. She was easily frightened then, as all children were; shadows and threats tug most effectively at the minds of those too young to comprehend logical probability, after all. But Fantine possessed the means to dispel those shadows more than effectively now. You envied her magical prowess, if you were honest for a second. The daily routine and ritual? … Not something you envied so much. On second thought, she could keep that. Your snarling broke into a grin as she watched you, unperturbed. Count on dear Fanny to not show the slightest hints of fear. You tugged her close, and squeezed her tight, rumbling into her ear. “… You ever think maybe the Light ain’t too happy when you levitate helpless folk outta their beds at… eight in the morning?” “… It was for a just reason.” came her soft, almost sheepish response. A pause, and then, as an afterthought, “… Also, it’s seven. Not eight.” You groaned. Too early for any mortal woman to be up. What sort of foul creature had possessed your sister? … Too late for you to feign sleep again, of course. “… Fuck.”

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Only a little over three hours since your rude, preemptive awakening. 10 AM. 10:13 AM, if you wanted to be truly precise (spoiler: you didn’t). The smell of bacon, swiped and gobbled up as swiftly as it had been made, lingered in the house, and you sprawled lazily upon the couch, turning a baleful gaze upon the armor that you should have technically strapped on by now. … Two more hours. Noon seemed like as good a time as any to actually make yourself useful to the world. Fantine was huddled over some philosophical book already, of course; she made the most of every second of her day. Not that you saw much use in those books. They made your brain hurt after about 1.5 sentences. 

The scent of bacon seemed to grow stronger, an almost tangible, smoky aroma. Smoke… Huh. Perhaps you’d left the stove on. Wouldn’t that be embarrassing? You get to your feet with the grimace of someone who’d been far too comfortable reclining, shooting a glance Fan’s way as you passed. She didn’t even look up, too focused on whatever religious text she was engaged in. The stove had been extinguished; the scent, however, only seemed stronger here. Closer to the entrance, perhaps. A wave of concern rooted itself in your stomach. Probably nothing. Someone roasting a boar outside, perhaps. Still… You crept to the door and opened it just a crack. An almost stifling smell, then, and black, billowing smoke on the other side of the village, too great and dark to have stemmed from just one home. Distant sounds of yelling and screaming, too. Enough to set the hairs on your neck prickling with concern.

You all but flew back inside, being sure to shut the door as you entered the living room once more. Fan didn’t so much as glance up. “… Fan.” Still absorbed in her book. “… Fan. We need to leave. Now.” That got her attention; her violet-grey eyes sought yours, gaze level but perplexed. The question she voiced was lost on your ears as you shifted to gather your things. Armor? Too time-consuming to don the full set. Shit. The best you could do was don a crude, chainmail underarmor. Gloves. A helm. … Good enough, you hoped. Swords? Easier to grab them both. Good. 

You could both hear the noises now: a raucous din that was growing steadily louder and undoubtedly nearing your home. Lots of screaming, now, and the clatter of steel. “… The back door. Go.” You were barely conscious of your command. You were close to the outskirts. Perhaps Fantine could make her escape. “Take the horse and go. Just… ride until you find somewhere safe.”

“… Cass…” The tone in her voice hurt. 

“I’ll be right behind you. Don’t worry about me.” You’d find some way to catch up to her. You watched until she turned to head out the back door. Safe, you hoped. You went the opposite route: towards the front. And you descended from the safety of your locked door into unmitigated chaos.

The dead had come to take you. Men and women who may have previously cried out beside you in battle. Creatures who had been torn from their lives and raised to fight once more, without fear of injury, save for cranial trauma. Too many for you to count. Far too many for little Corview to handle. One of the least fair fights you’d even seen. But they’d spotted you, and you weren’t about to let them pass without consequence.

The rotting corpse that was upon you almost immediately was revolting to every sense: hideous, reeking, and cacophonic in his garbled snarling. You uttered a sharp battle cry as you made your first strike: a swift slice. Another. A stab that pierced the cadaver’s body and lodged your sword firmly between his rib plates. You stared. He cackled. So fruitless an attempt you’d made. It really was polite of him to return the favor with his own, blood-crusted sword. A flash of pain, and then nothing.

They’d said dying hurts. It was far less tragic than you’d been made to believe. That nonsense about your life flashing before your eyes was bullshit, too. Maybe because his strike had been so precise. Grade-A quality, honestly. You hardly had time to comprehend what happened, let alone every important moment of your too-short life. You thought of one thing, though: Fantine. You hoped that she’d made it to the stable. You hoped she hadn’t lingered to see what had become of you.

The rockstar grimaces to himself and reaches to run a hand through his disheveled hair. At least he’d been able to actually style it this morning, for the first time in… hell, how long had it been? Over a week. He’d been stuck in this damn house, barely able to so much as walk across one fucking room, for over a week. How had he not gone completely crazy? Maybe he had. That’d explain the stupid thoughts he’d been having about the asshole sleeping nearby.

That asshole. The only reason he hadn’t completely lost it from the boredom of being confined in his own house. In a weird way, Xyran Rocketfist had enjoyed the company. Those days and nights spent just… talking, rather than the unmentionable shit they usually preoccupied themselves with. Not that that wasn’t enjoyable as well (in fact, being unable to do it because of pesky inconveniences like broken bones was nothing short of tragic), but… the rockstar didn’t get the chance to talk to people much.

And the hand-holding? That’d been nice, too. The blue-haired goblin’s hand pauses in the midst of his mohawk, and he glances down towards the other goblin. That’s his hand, yep. A careful, casual little slide of his hand over… and his fingers curled briefly around the taller goblin’s, offering one of the squeezes that had become so familiar over the past few days. This was weird. This sensation of content and happiness and BUTTERFLIES and he suddenly felt like he was going to vomit. The good kind of vomit, though, if such a thing existed. Not like those nights when he’d had far too much to drink, or smoke, or both. He’d only felt this kind of sensation… twice, maybe three times before, and he dreaded putting a name to it.

Still, he couldn’t ignore it for forever. Today. Whenever they both weren’t sleeping like assholes, he’d made the first move. He’d be the biggest badass, and just ask him.

For a single moment, everything feels right again. From his perch atop the cliffs of Thunder Bluff, silhouetted against the sky, Ekks Inkblot feels free. The air is cool, calm, and, most importantly, quiet. There are no cries of rage or pain as steel meets flesh, no voices that lift in fear, questioning whether they may ever see another dawn again. This is peace at its very essence. On a night like tonight, one could assume that war was a fictional concept, so pure is the environment the small goblin’s settled himself into.

Of course, it is not to be. It does not take him long to notice the addition of a thing that makes this peaceful land anything but real. His hands. Not one hand – the right one, of course – and the left’s corresponding stump. No, two beautiful, fully-functional hands that cement this reality as nothing more than a dream. And, just like that, some magic is lost, as Ekks Inkblot flexes the formerly-lost appendage, fingers curling just so. Even in his dreams, he can barely feel it. Can barely register that it’s even supposed to be there, honestly.

The darkness suddenly seems more menacing; where have the stars gone? The moon? Surely they had been there only seconds before. He’d contemplated poetics about the sky, considered twenty different starting lines to poems that would never even come close to fruition. But now the sky is a void that somehow seemed to only grow darker and darker. Come to think of it, the shadows seem almost alive, twisting and writhing into shapes undoubtedly impossible. These living shadows weave from the sky towards the tiny goblin, ever-contorting. Shrinking and condensing until they formed a being as dense as the void itself. Ekks shivers at the feeling that settles itself in his chest. Cold? No, dread. Foreboding.

The shadows flicker and take a shape Ekks Inkblot is far too familiar with. Those hooked ears. That tall (for a goblin, at least), damn-near emaciated figure. Blaire Blitzkick. Or, at the very least, a featureless shade of Blaire Blitzkick. The shadows constantly waver and flicker as the other man turns to regard Ekks. He has no features. No face. And yet Ekks can almost see the expression that the goblin would give him. Contemptuous and condescending, as always. The figure ‘speaks’, and that familiar, droll voice makes itself known in Ekks’ head, as he knew it eventually would.

‘A lovely evening tonight, Mister Inkblot. Wouldn’t you agree?’ Blaire inclines his head towards the blackened sky, his form almost indistinguishable from it. Ekks turns his gaze to the blackness, and opens his mouth. He wishes he could agree. Really, he does. But the vast emptiness displayed before him fills him with nothing but fear. He considers, before…

“… T-that’s a word for it, I guess.” He was always terrible at ‘mindspeak’. Since he’s in a dream, it probably doesn’t even matter. And then he forces himself to take in a little breath, standing at his full height and blinking up at the shadowed goblin. “… What do you want, Blaire?” He sounds… tired. Exhausted, even. Not that Blaire gives a fuck.

‘You’re quite aware of why I’m here, Mister Inkblot. I’ve come to ask you to fulfill the promise you made me about nine days ago.’

The shorter’s over-sized ears pin back at that, and he can’t help but look uncomfortable. He knew that was coming, certainly, but… No. He’s gone over this in his head again and again. He knows very well what he has to do, even if it’s hard. “… I can’t help you anymore, Blaire. N-not knowing what you got Ax to do.”

There’s the softest little hiss as the specter responds, ‘I should have assumed Mister Coilshiv would, how you say, “spill the beans” at the most inopportune of moments. But that is besides the point. You promised, and it is a very wrong thing to go back on a promise, is it not?’

“W-well, yeah, but—“

‘So you would leave a friend to die, then. Strange how you presume the one with little choice in matters of life and death is the monster, when you condemn others through that same choice.’

That sends a little pang through the shorter goblin, surely enough, and he frowns, voice raising in protest, “I-it isn’t like that at all! I just— I… You…”

‘You are a hypocrite, Mister Inkblot. Could you live with yourself, knowing that your inaction caused the death of another? Are you living with that now, with your little “monster” running free without your attentions? I cannot help but wonder what he is doing to pass the time when you are gone. If you seek out your distraction in paper and ink, is it such a stretch of the imagination to assume he might seek his in flesh and blood? And to think, you aren’t there to dissuade him…’

Ekks wilts a little more at that, large ears pinning back. “H-he’s fine, I’m sure… He’d… He’d never…” But he had before, and he would again. What /was/ the knight doing now, without his watchful eye? How was he dealing with the emptiness the priest himself had been feeling for the past couple of days?

‘He would, and both you and I know it. I believe he told you as much, even. But, I suspect he could do much more if he happened to be so… inclined.’

Suggestion is almost tangible in Blaire’s tone, and Ekks reacts as expected; he looks worried, and questions, “… W-what are you implying?”

‘Are you aware of how simple it is to alter the memories of another, Mister Inkblot?’

“I… What?”

‘It is a simple matter of editing things, and then… filling in the blanks, as you will. I cannot help but wonder how much of a monster Axom Coilshiv might truly become were all memory of his treasured healer removed and replaced.’

Ekks shrinks back at that, eyes widening. “… Y-you couldn’t… You /wouldn’t/ do that.” He protests, the tremble evident in his voice. “H-how would that benefit you?”

‘Myself it would not benefit in the slightest. But it would greatest inconvenience you, I assume. Imagine the gaze of one you love so dearly turned upon you, and there is no recognition. You are another body to be added to the slaughter. And what is there to do but eradicate monsters that would slaughter the innocents, such as yourself? I doubt Axom Coilshiv would last a /week/.’

Ekks whines softly, and stares at the impassive shadow. Through all of this, Blaire’s tone has not changed. So simple, so clear. Certainty at its purest form. What is there to do? Ekks has not known Blaire Blitzkick to bluff. “I-I… I’ll do it. I’ll help you. Just… promise me that you’ll stop so much as talking to him, please…”

Before he even finishes speaking, the shadows begin to seeming dissipate, becoming immaterial once more and beginning to wreathe and weave around Ekks. The little goblin barely suppresses a whimper as the cold leeches into him, as his mind, even in the dream, begins to feel… Sluggish. Tired. Really, he just wants to sleep. All of him just wants to sleep for a while. Without dreaming, without dealing with… this. The writer closes his eyes and allows the other in. It’s easy once you’re resigned to your fate. There’s a final, distant murmuring as Ekks’ consciousness begins to fade, replaced for the time by a certain, shadowy goblin’s.