Markus d'Aurelia

I am a coward, my boy. I did not wish to see you die, and now you are on the precipice of it. Whatever I did, I did it selfishly. I did not think, and I suffer the consequences more than anything you alone can do. I failed you, my son; and for that I am so, so sorry.

How long have you walked The Path? You must have left at 16; I’m not surprised it took you 8 years to find me. These lands are never quite what they seem. Some say this land borders the edge of the known, and sometimes we see the breakdown of reality. I would know, as I was a victim to it as well. But, I’m sure you didn’t come here to hear your failed father ramble about the ends of the earth. Instead, I will tell you everything; you deserve that much.

I remember your mother as clearly as anything. I was a wandering man of 17; my parents recently kicked me out, as your mother did with you. They meant the best, but I was never good with a sword. Perhaps they thought I would pick it up along the way; I never did. Those walks through the strange trails were supposed to temper me; they were to make me a worthy man, a wise man, and an independent man. I wish I could say they worked, but I am not any of those things. Instead, I focussed on the freedom of great trails; I spent my days in lonesome dreams, pondering what might lay next in my trek through time. Would it be another fight? Would it be another week of wandering? I did not know, and that was half the fun.

I wasn’t expecting what I found next. I was in a small village, buying fruits and meats for the long road ahead. I saw her strawberry blonde hair. Yes, your mother was a wandering warrior at one point just as I was. She doesn’t like to talk about it, does she? She tells you it’s necessary, right? The market parted as she walked through, as though they knew that she was a true force to be reckoned with. She wore a large straw hat, and I knew she was a wanderer like myself. She whistled, and I knew it was for me. The market parted, allowing us to face each other. She challenged me to a duel right then and there. I was tired and hungry, so instead of taking her up on the offer for a duel, I humbly declined in a manner quite sly. I offered her one half of a meal for two, promising to fight her after my stomach was full and my concentration regained. I think the world knew even then that we were to be together; her flushed cheeks told me she wasn’t expecting such a response. Perhaps out of curiosity, or maybe confusion, she accepted. We sat outside the village on a small hill under a blossoming tree. We ate together, and talked. I learned her name, she learned mine. We told stories about the paths we walked; her tales were those of triumphant vanquishing of foes with absolute detail that would make historians proud. I told stories that painted the world in a comical brush, and made her laugh in a manner she would tell me was rare for the journeys she partook in. After lunch was finished, I said my farewells. I then quickly left the village, knowing that she would eventually figure out my scheme. She seemed slightly upset at my departure, but I think she knew that was part of the tempering process.

I left to head northward; I don’t know why. Why does a fox dig a hole? Perhaps it was just in our natures to do what we did. Either way; a week passed, and I was walking along a river. As the sun rose, and the mist was thick on the ground, I heard a woman humming a small tune. Knowing this was another wandering warrior, I wanted to keep my distance, hiding amongst the foliage and trees. As you could probably guess, it was her again. She headed south, but ended up intersecting with me again; I believe some would call that fate. I wouldn’t; it’s a product of something more. She was bathing in the creek, humming a tune I know she has taught you. Perhaps you picked it up when she would sing it to you as a boy, or maybe you learned it through time; she tends to sing it when she’s mindlessly performing some task. At least, I hope she still does that. Does she?

I saw her by the river, and I felt a force push me out of the bushes. I fell down the hill to the riverside, right into view of her. She was still as I climbed to my feet. I apologized for my trip, and gave a joking remark. She laughed, and the tension of the situation was broken. I thought she would immediately jump out of the water to fight me, but instead she began talking with me; asking me about the trails I walked along. She complimented me on my white hair and eyes. I guess she saw my blushing; I’m not a very subtle man after all. It was there that I suggested something I’m not sure if I regret or revere; I asked to walk with her. It was to just be until the next town, but we got to it, and she suggested another walk. I gladly accepted.

She was, for lack of a better term, perfect. I remember every part of her: her hair, her eyes, her laugh; especially her laugh. She took me places that filled me with a wonder I could never imagine. She showed me foxholes with the young still there. She would pet them, and they would let her as though she were one of their own. I started to even forget the life I had before I met her; I can not remember who “Ren” was before meeting your mother. I hope she still feels the same way about me, but I don’t want to know.

After walking together for a sufficient amount of time, we found ourselves once again at that river where we met the second time; the road led us back there for a perfect proposal. I knew she was the one for me when I heard the woods echo her soft song. I don’t think she even heard it, but I did. I gave her my vows; they were messy, but they were pure. I told her I would stay with her until she passed, and I wanted her to do the same. I promised that our graves would be together. We could wander the world together, but it would be together. She cried, and I thought I had made the greatest error in my entire life. The tears, thankfully, were joyous, and she too gave her messy vows to me. Were we sufficiently tempered as the Warrior’s Way wanted? Probably not, but we would be imperfect together. And we would be imperfectly perfect for each other.

We built a house near a small village neither of us knew. We built it ourselves, and it was pretty. The night we finished, we made you. I can barely remember who I was before you. All those memories of rambling about petty things disappeared when I first heard you cry. You had my nose, and strains of silver hair tinged with your mother’s pink. We named you “Kaito”, and you were perfect. I loved you as much as your mother; maybe even more. I don’t know if you remember, but when you were four, I took you down to that river. We played, and I splashed you with the cold autumn water. You splashed me back, and kept splashing. I saw your little angry eyes, and couldn’t help but to laugh; you looked so cute. I gave your mother three more children: Akira, Moira, Asuka; I loved you more than anything. I think that was my downfall.

It was just after you turned five; your hives. Do you remember those hives you had? We tried herbal medicines, but they did not work. We tried everything we knew; nothing worked. I remember waking up to your mother wail as your throat began to swell around your airways. I still remember it vividly; it plays to me in the darkest of nights. She held you away from me, and I thought surely you were dead, so I cried too because I knew of nothing more to do. You didn’t die that night, and I don’t know which god to thank for it; maybe it wasn’t the product of divine intervention at all. I swore to myself that the heartbreak of losing a child was one that your mother would never have to bear. I could not begin to understand her heartaches, and if I could prevent it, it would be my duty to do so.

As well as your affliction, we were struggling. I don’t suppose you remember Asuka when you were just a boy, when I was there, do you? Do you remember her ribs? They protruded like the skin was pulled taut against them. The animals hid among the treeline, and always ducked behind cover when I fetched my bow. I would hunt for days in the forest only to bring back so little. I cringe every time I remember bathing Asuka, Moira, Akira, you; it was not skin I washed, but bone. My hands still shake at it; I’m sorry for subjecting you to that.

It was in the forest that I found… something. It was no creature nor object; it was more a feeling of the world as it began to surround me. What I felt was a vortex of emotion and visions; esoteric ideas flashed in my head giving me clarity I lacked. Mist surrounded me, hugging me as your mother once did. It told me two truths, and I was subject to its warnings.

The first vision was that of me staying with you. The first thing I heard was the forest shrieking in such emotional pain, I thought I would go deaf. It was your mother’s scream. Asuka was gone, you were gone. The forest was dry, and we were finished. I saw you buried in a small grave; a small rose would bloom where you were placed in the earth. I cried as your mother would have, and I knew this could not be the future. However, it also showed me playing with children much like yourself. It showed the joys of the family I would have, but it would be incredibly difficult. I would lose many children, and the heartbreak would never cease, only grow larger and more extraneous. I felt my weak heart as an old man. So strained was my heart, it tensed in my chest to a dangerous degree. I knew that she would feel the same; I could not let this happen to her.

The other vision was simple; I leave. I heard animals skitter out of the treeline, and I smelled food your mother would cook. Asuka would be fed; you all would be fed. Your breathing would be safe, and your mother would not have to bear the weight of having her child die. Money would come from the forest on the backs of small animals, depositing the bags of coins on your doorstep. You would go into town and buy fruits, vegetables, and tools. You would become a person not shackled by necessity. Of course, it showed me anger; it’s your anger. It was that anger you felt seeing me in the village. It was anger so potent, I felt like vomiting; I did. I cried because I couldn’t hit anything hard enough to sate my rage. Have you done that? Did I cause that?

It showed me the stakes that would occur if I left. I don’t know if you saw it too, but you have my blood in you, so I hope you saw it too. I saw your deaths; all of your deaths: Asuka, Moira, Akira, your mother, and you. They were foggy and uncertain, but they happened. It would occur the night you found me. You would die at midnight, and I would be there. Would your mother know? I don’t know. I do know, however, that it could be avoided; I just had to stay away. I am a bad omen for the family; I learned that in the woods somewhere. It was shown to me through the form of a solitary crow; it did not caw, it just sat there looking at me. I cried when I realized it, but now I am simply numb.

The woods left me alone that night, and I came home with small game. I held food from two days ago; your mother made it for me, and I guess I forgot to eat it. As I walked through the door, I was in deep thought about my decision. I heard Asuka giggle, and Moira followed. They looked at me with a face I can’t explain with every word in every language. I gave the girls my food, and I knew what had to be done.

I lied to your mother. I told her that I would stand besides her until we both died; I lied. I told her that I would never leave her; I lied. I told her that I struck a deal, and I would be going off on my own to become a wandering bard. That wasn’t a lie I guess, but it was at the time. Do you remember the last time we met? I held back tears so as to not make you worry for me. I knew I would never return, and I knew that you would resent me as a bad father for it. Maybe I am a bad father; what I did was pure, but selfish. I simply didn’t want to fail as a father, and leave the burden of failure on your mother. So, I left that night with nothing but a Biwa on my back.

I became a wandering bard, incorporating the sounds of the woods into my musical pieces. The beauty of nature never ceases to bring in an audience. I had profits, but I sent them home; I sent all of it home. I would rather starve than keep you from seeking out luxuries; it’s the least I could do.

Do you resent me? I know she resents me; I would. I left you all with a lie that I would be back soon. I failed as a father, and all I gave back were lousy bags of coins; as if that would suffice for two decades of absence. I am a failure of a father, and I am sorry; nothing I can do can fix that now.

I am no longer myself, my boy, and I fear that fate will take you tonight. That’s why I brought you out here to the woods; I wanted your final moments to be peaceful. Though the forests showed me these visions, horrifying and life-altering, they were shrouded in a melancholy of determinism. I couldn’t do anything, as fate had already been decided. I hope your fate was shown to you, and that you accepted it too. We share the same blood, so I hope the whispers of the pines gave you this clarity too.

Is this retribution? Was my failure as a father what led you to seek me out? Did you know you would die? Would you have cared? Is th-

I’m sorry, my boy…

I’m sorry for everything…

My boy, it is now midnight. Your throat is closing. I can’t do anything, so I cry. I see you cry in sorrow, maybe you didn’t know this would happen. I tried to tell you all, but my messages never made it there; lost in the vastness of the mist. I see your tears, your skin turns purple. I try to help you, but it’s always futile. I say my sorries through choking tears, I hear you reciprocate. I don’t want you to say you’re sorry; it was my failure as a father. I see your eyes, that pale glow you had as a child, get drained from your body. We sit in the mist; I hold you in my arms to make up for twenty long years; it doesn’t suffice. I hold you, and now you can’t hear my words. Your soul has left, the last thing you do is wipe the tears from my cheek. They reappear as fast as they leave.

My boy dies in my arms; I hold him like a baby, yet I am the one crying. I rock back and forth in absolute horror as my tears wet your white hair. I repeat that nothing could have been done, but it does not help. My white hair sinks into darkness, and my eyes do in turn. My vagrancy caused the death of my boy, the boy I wished to protect from starvation. My eyes are voids, and I can no longer sleep without dreaming of you. The bags under my eyes grow heavy.

They’re so heavy…

I’m so tired…

“To be a great thief, one must be what nobody expects. Everyone expects the rat to be a thief, so the best thief is therefore a rat. This is Lesson 1.”

Excerpt from The Greater Thief by Ratthew of Thiefdom

I am Ratthew of Thiefdom, and though “of Thiefdom” is my title, I still have yet to fulfill the expectations of such a name. I am ashamed, as my last two grand heists were foiled; one by the careful perception of the city’s guard, who expertly understood the intricacies of The Great Rat Thief, of which I am, and intercepted my clandestine infiltration with a flurry of swords and arrows. The other foil was caused by that which is my born and natural enemy; Mittens, the mayor’s cat. BUT, all of that will change tonight, and you are here to bear witness to such a glorious plan.

The object of my thieving desires is simple: The Jewel Regia, found in the top level of the floating castle of Asraphael the Unburdened. His tower, which he uses to conduct wizardly business, floats above the city, eclipsing the sun in its awe and beauty. The jewel itself is said to be supremely magical, as its century-long entrapment in this magical tower has allowed it to absorb residual magic. It is fat and happy with magic, and I wish to be fat and happy with ego; a fair trade if I should say so, AND I DO.

I begin my robbery as any good rat thief does; I plan and prepare. Knowing that I am going to risk my anonymity, and perhaps my life, I know that this needs to be perfect. I must remove all threads that connect me to this crime, so I must be confident in my confidants, and they must prove truly worthwhile to be in on this job. There is only one man whom I trust my life and safety with; his name is Samuel the Emotional. The moody wizard, donning all black robes and spiked chains that “reflect my inner danger to the whole of society” as he would say, is truly my closest companion. His magical artifacts saved me three jobs ago when I was caught floating out at sea; I was surely dead, but Samuel’s “black hot air balloon of despair and melancholy” truly lifted me up more than he could ever know. But, for this job, I must convince him fully, for this job is not for the faint of heart, nor the soundest of minds;

“Hey, Sammie,” I squeak.

“What?” He responds in a sigh.

“I have a job; I promise this one will work.”

“Like the may-”

“We’re not talking about the Mayor Heist!... I’m going to steal the Jewel Regia, and I’m going to prove myself worthy of the title ‘of Thiefdom’. Are you in?”

He waits, but I am sure he knows his answer. “Yeah, I’m broke; I need the money. I already made a few toys for you to use. It should be in that bag over there.” And it was. A beautiful, royal purple bag fit for a rat, such as myself. I rummage through the contents, and determine that the objects in this bag are much larger than the bag itself; the moody wizard has done it again. I bid him farewell, and my black fur rustles as I face the outside world once again; it is day, and my eyes have become accustomed to the black room in which Samuel broods. I squeak in pain, but continue on, for that is the mark of The Great Rat Thief.

Before my clandestine thievery commences, I utilize my moody mage once more. You see, anonymity is a necessity for such a job; I can’t just waltz into this tower looking like myself, they’ll know it’s me. Instead, Samuel casts a spell, and I feel my form change. “Yes, it is working,” I cackle as I feel my body morph. It is done, and I am a changed rat. I am no longer a member of Rattus rattus, but rather Rattus norvegicus; a perfect disguise.

I look up to the floating tower of Asraphael; the blossoming moon shimmers a dim light upon the small rocks that surround the skyborn architecture, reflecting a glistening series of stepping stones that arc through the sky like the tail of a comet, connecting that beautifully regal, omnipresent, yet undoubtedly separated, tower to the civilization below. I know that I could jump, and jump, and jump more, climbing my way inch by inch, meter by meter, towards the heavens, and towards that full, radiantly speckled moon. It is what my mind and soul knows to be true…

Lesson 2: Never conform to conformity; conformity is the confirmation of containment. To do what everyone else is doing is to open yourself up to be understood; your subsequent arrest and execution by a rat-sized electric chair is all but guaranteed.

I begin my infiltration by rummaging through the purple bag which the moody wizard has so kindly provided. I filter my rat fingers through the weirdly wet and squishy insides of this bag, and find the handle; I’ve found my target. From the bag on my waist, I bring forth my first item: The Ratling Hook! This magical artifact can tether myself to an object, and pull me towards it if necessary. I watch the floating stones as they wade through the black sky in a repeating pattern. I see my rock, it floats near, then near my point of entry; I hook on as it passes by, and enter the tower. As I climb, the unmistakable stench of feces; breakfast, lunch, and dinner; washes by me. Even though, as a rat, I do not bear the facilities to vomit, I heave. As I climb, a fetid, brown missile falls, nearly hitting me on its trajectory towards a nice couple going for a midnight hike; I only avoid this fecal fate with my rat-like reflexes. I best the ledge, and watch as the Unburdened has his back to me. He shuts the door, so now I am alone, but that is the life The Great Rat Thief lives.

I climb up the door and open it with the strength of my small body. As the door creaks open, I witness a vibrant amethyst light emanate from the center of the room. To get a better angle, I use my trusty Ratling Hook to observe and investigate this magical doo-dad from a bird’s-eye view; specifically, I perch like a hawk onto the chandelier above the ritual. The circle, outlined in amethyst chalk with green-flamed candles lighting the runes inside, portrays an alchemical ritual that draws on the power of life and death to… do something. I understand the basics of magic, especially those esoteric rituals that deal with life and death, from my friend, as his constant rambles apparently did serve a purpose. In the center of the circle, illuminated by green and purple light in equal numbers, is the corpse of Asraphael, a second one. I see it now, Asraphael the Unburdened’s contingency plan; if he were ever to die, this circle of life and death would… do something, and this corpse would bring back this man; the power over life and death is truly a mystical art.

Though I am The Great Rat Thief, I am not infallible. I wish to get closer, so my Ratling Hook takes me closer. The balance shift of this action causes movements in the chandelier on which I stood; I find myself falling. I wake up, and I see the ultimate goal of my life; I see my hero. It is The Greatest Rat Thief, the founder of Thiefdom. This rat is beautiful, and changes constantly, as the thief needs to do. Its mere presence makes me feel inferior. The Greatest Rat Thief is a miracle, and were I not alive, I would think myself surely dead. The Greatest Rat Thief, The Rat Politician, is such a thief, it does not need to steal, for the citizens will provide what it wishes; truly, it is the greatest embodiment of deception and thievery. It smiles upon me, and I know I am doing good. Though my time with it was good, it was not to last, and I feel my body get grabbed firmly as I am dragged away. As I wake again, the amethyst lights and verdant candles are gone; the body remains. The wizard is a genius, and I understand that this ritual circle was nothing but an illusion, or perhaps… no, nevermind. The Great Rat Thief can not die…

Traversing the rest of the tower was nothing for a specimen, such as myself. I passed by labs, cauldrons, studies, and a bedroom with 37 women; I know because I counted myself. At the top layer, I find the sleek, steel wall which separates me from my goal, The Jewel Regia. I know what must be done, and I reach for the bag once again. At that moment, a familiar feeling is felt as I feel the feeling of a hand feeling me; specifically, grabbing me with absolute force, and yanking me away from that grey vault door. I am now face-to-face with Asraphael the Unburdened.

“Ratthew Mice…” He addresses, ominously.

I squeak innocently, as this will hopefully knock him off my trail. If I play my cards right, this interaction will be nothing but the afterthought of a paranoid wizard.

“Don’t play dumb with me, Ratthew. I know who you are.”

I squeak again with desperate innocence.

“I sensed you entering; I have scrying eyes all over this tower.”

I squeak, but I know that this is a losing battle.

“I’m going to throw you out of this window no-”

As he speaks, I slither my rat fingers into the moody wizard’s bag. Before he finishes his words, I grasp a small stone with a pin in it. I pull the pin and let the stone drop to the ground with a singular clink. The wizard looks down with a mixture of shock and awe, such an expression, I love to see.

“Are you fu-”

At that very moment, a wave of hundreds of rats spew forth from the stone. This outpouring of my kindred souls swarm the Unburdened, and in the chaos, Asraphael drops me and falls to the ground with a hard thud; I scurry with my brothers. As I move through the massive crowd of rats, I realize Samuel’s critical mistake. All of these rats are of the Rattus rattus group, and they look identical to me, but I do not look identical to me. I realize this as Asraphael stands and looks down on the only brown spot in a sea of writhing black fur. He trips over my clones, and in the confusion, I make my move.

Lesson 3: “Confusion” is only confusion if you can not utilize it. If you understand how to spin the waves of misunderstanding in your favor, the sea of possibilities will finally begin to open.

I slither my way to the grand vault door, and reach inside that purple bag with fleshy insides. I remove the final item, but my apprehension is evident. I do not know what this is, but I trust the moody wizard, so I will trust this item like it is him. A small note on this trinket reveals its name, “Thermite”. Why he named a vial of red dust after those grotesque, yet tasty bugs is a mystery to me; a question to ask him for another time. I set the Thermite against the vault door, and allow Samuel’s magic to work its, uh, magic. In brilliant light that blinds those who are near, I come to understand why this mysterious, yet potently magical substance is named “Thermite”, for its ability to eat through materials is not unlike those architecturally gluttonous bugs. A small hole, about the size of me, is now pierced through the ground level of the vault door; I see the avaricious insides. “Truly, the moody wizard is a genius once again,” I think as I enter the vault.

When I waltz inside the final setting of this heist, I realize that this place is much larger than I would have expected. Yes, this vault, containing riches from kingdoms that span the lands and times, is not present in just this dimension, but is rather a pocket dimension where Asraphael can hoard his wealth like the greedy hog he is. I know now that this heist is not just for my own ego, but something more; I am a rat of CHANGE, yes! I feel the revolutionary spirit swell within me as though it were there all along. Yes, to share the wealth with the citizens below would bring prosperity and joy to those who live in this wizened tyrant’s shadow; share the wealth! Share the gold!

This mindset immediately dies as I see my goal; that beautifully magical jewel, The Jewel Regia. It is just as pristine and luscious as I expected, but also three sizes too large. Thankfully, as I recognized, a bag is a bag to put things in, not just take them out. I untie the bag as I near the jewel, and wrap the ridge of the pouch around the diameter of the gem. As I slowly force the jewel into the fleshy insides of the purple pouch, I hear the bag gag. I recoil slightly, and squint at the sack. “That’s… probably nothing,” I say as I grab two ends of the bag and ram the gem into the bag’s gullet. It closes nicely, and I realize two things in the moment:

This gem was the magical conduit by which the entire tower floated above the island.

I did not have an escape plan.

Lesson 4: Fuck it, we ball.

I feel the ground shake, and my rat swarm shakes as they realize the instability of this situation. Asraphael looks at me as I exit his pocket dimension; he is shocked by my skills, my talents, and most of all, my audacity. It is then, when staring down the man whom I have thieved from, that I realize my second dilemma had already been solved, I was just too stubborn to see it.

Lesson 5: When someone has a good idea, steal it. One does not make it far in this business without stealing, and to steal that which is sound and smart is to take what will benefit you in the future.

I leap from the tower window with reckless abandon, and I know that my stealing of Asraphael’s idea to throw me out the window has bore fruit that will make the finest of wines. It is then that I realize that maybe Asraphael was actually trying to kill me with that suggestion, as this tower is really high up. Thankfully, as I pass through the star-ladened night, watching as the ground approaches me like a speeding carriage, I am grabbed once again. Three times in one day is quite emasculating, if I may add. I look up to see the grabber, and their black feathers barely outline their silhouette in the darkness. It is a raven which has grabbed me, and I smile.

“Sammie!” I shout.

“Caw!” It replies, though that is not my name.

When the townsfolk awake in one minute, they will see the wizard’s tower crashed into the city center. Along with him, they will find the splayed riches of Asraphael’s travels, and they will thieve, for what else is there to do when such an opportunity presents itself. They will laugh and sing praise of The Great Rat Thief, of which I now know that I truly am; they will tell stories of Ratthew of Thiefdom, and I will rest easily knowing that they are right. But for now, my moody raven friend and I fly off towards that shining golden wheel in the sky; the great cheese that shows what this world is without day. Truly, a tale that can only be described as:

-A Story by Markus d'Aurelia The world seemed to drown away from Elias’s senses as he was given the news. He didn’t hear the field doctor, nor could he hear the buzzing of fluorescence overhead anymore. His mind was filled with words and things to say; none were said. When he returned to this plane once again, the doctor, Rodrigo, was standing in front of him. In his hand, Rodrigo held an iron mask. It was separated into a lower and upper segment. The upper half, which would cover from his hairline to his nose, was a polished steel that displayed a slightly askew reflection of the fluorescent lights above. It was completely bare, say for two eye holes that burrowed deep into the iron; Elias wondered if his brown eyes would even pierce that overbearing darkness enough to be seen by his comrades. The lower half was attached by metal snap buttons to the top. It was mesh, and swayed gently as the doctor held it out for Elias. The patient took the mask and looked into the dark abyss that would hold his eyes; he turned it over to look at the other side. There were two leather straps that would go around his head, keeping the metal pressed against his face.

“Leprosy” the doctor called it, though that wasn’t particularly correct. Whilst the soldier was grappling with his own mortality, the doctor was explaining the specifics of the disease which held Elias. “Infected flies attracted to burnt trash” were words said, but not heard; it did not matter anyways. From the moment he donned The Ferrous Mask, he was a dead man who yet breathed.

When Elias walked out to meet his comrades, masked in iron that let the lightest sections of his eyes be seen by the outside world, the conversation that was being held stopped immediately. They asked questions, of course they did, but Elias simply redirected their inquiries to the apothecary; “Ask the doctor.”

Lufgt continued with his escapades of sin and vice; he lamented his time here on a barren planet with no major cities. He called the planet a waste. Quincy responded that Lufgt should be praising the planet, as its major export was cigars before the snakes invaded.

The Vipers were a race of sapient serpents. They usually stood at two meters, and slithered their lower bodies along the ground as serpents would, which is where they got their name. Their upper half would be considered more sapien in nature except for serpentine scales where skin should be. Their heads were cobra-like, fanning out to display familial marks that struck a primal fear into any human unfortunate enough to get close to one. Long necks stretched needle-like fangs towards humans, and they told stories of the demonic alien race. Their cruelty was unmatched; their horror, endless. And their eyes. Their eyes were always a deep color, whether that be blue, red, green, or yellow; it was the part that could always be seen in the dead of night, if one was so lucky as to pass over the creature with their flashlight.

Whilst the men spoke of religion and politics; sex and sin; Elias walked over to the bed that he stole from one of the twenty people who were once here; he began shifting his luggage around. Lufgt shouted to Elias, asking him what he was doing. In the middle of his attention grab to Elias, Quincy quieted the loud sinner down, and whispered something to him. The man nodded, and continued his conversation without addressing the leper. Elias moved his pillows, rifle, knife, and a great amount of bed sheets into the bathroom. His only thought was to sequester himself until the evacuation arrived; perhaps then he’d find some form of cure. He threw the dead men’s sheets into the bathtub and gingerly placed the pillows on top. It was where he was to sleep until the evacuation shuttle came; twenty days, only twenty days.

Over the next few days, the men rationed their food well. They sat inside the bunker in which they were sequestered. They shot out at the slithering shadows that sought malice against them. The Vipers were an elusive race, and so stealth wrought havoc against those that came before. But how the future learn lessons taught by the blood of the past; to siege the bunker now would be impossible. Five men stood guard of this small area of a small world in a vast galaxy of terror; they did so with that ever-so-human determination. Of the five men, Elias was not one. Even before the diagnosis, he was given the nickname of “Runaway”, which came with ample stories of Elias turning tail and fleeing back into the safety of the steel walls. Even now, as a contingent of snakes slithered up the morning-soaked hill, the leper was not shooting. The men did not give him a hard time in this case; he had gone through enough already. They instead allowed him to pick up his slack by rearming spent magazines and mopping wherever was needed.

Each night, cloistered in the small bathroom that he renovated into a bedroom to keep his colleagues safe, the leper dreamed. The Ferrous Mask released its grip around the man’s face, and coalesced from shadows into the form of a man. It was unknown, or perhaps unknowable, as it spoke to the leper with apathy.

“Many have died today,” it said, “many more tomorrow.”

It showed the leper families mourning those who have been lost; grief struck the leper in a manner distinctly human. He saw his mother cry, and the casket, adorned in the most patriotic of cloths, was wrapped in snake-like tentacles that coiled around the ornate wood like a grieving widow’s arms. Through the darkness and the visions, the sounds of life continued; birds sang and water rushed by; he heard singing and dancing and laughing. It was always just behind him, and just in front of him. He raged at The Ferrous Mask during these dreams, and yet nothing he could do could quell the creature. He hit the shadows, tearing and clawing at the flitting flames that danced in his peripherals; The Mask remained. Each outing, right before the leper was fated to wake once more, The Ferrous Mask would speak these words to him:

“The bravest of men could not conjure such apathy as that of The Ferrous Mask.”

His condition, mixed with his lacking sleep and overall personality, turned the leper feral. He jumped at the sound of an accidental shattering of a mug. He made multiple trips to his alcove to sit in complete darkness. He never stayed too long in that black room, as the mask would inevitably make its entrance once again if given enough time.

It was this paranoia that did him well on the twelfth day.

While he slept, he dreamed once more of that iron visage. As the leper cried tears of anger towards this situation occurring again, he looked up at the mask; without mouth to grin, the mask smiled down on him. He was awoken to sounds of gunfire; it rang through the steel bunker like thunder. Bullets whizzed by, and struck metal on most occasions. The five brave men stood their ground against the ambush, and held out for longer than was expected. As a final shot rang out, the door to the leper’s dark room was pierced. Through the small bullet hole, a single ray of light illuminated the leper’s ferrous mask. He could sense blood on the mask and door; slithering could be heard from just beyond the darkness. A single Viper slithered its way around, checking for loot or perhaps survivors. It came to the door of the bathroom, eclipsing what little light there was. Its sounds were slow, and the leper’s heart beat faster than a living man’s should.

Five shots roared through the bunker; five shots killed The Viper.

As he walked out, the lone leper found himself as he had always been: alone. His hands shook, and the rifle was heavy. The area was ravaged, and bullet holes littered the table that once sat his five comrades. He found their bodies, as well as the bodies of half a dozen Vipers. As he looked over Lufgt’s body, riddled with holes and blood, he stared him in the eyes. Lufgt was not dead yet, and though the leper did not notice that, the sinner, the soldier, went forth into the night with a memory of The Ferrous Mask as a token of remembrance from that night.

As was protocol, the leper began collecting tags, inserting them into a slot in the wall to notify whoever would care that six members of the military had fallen. Each confirmation of a dead friend made a small da-ding sound; it was quaint and almost satisfying. He hated it. He wished he didn’t check the apothecary, as Rodrigo’s body was ravaged the worst; his body was mangled and cannibalized in a manner that made the leper’s necrotic skin writhe. He was either the first one dead, or the last; either way, the message was heard.

As he stood before the mangled half-eaten carcass of death’s messenger, the adrenaline wore off; the leper fell to his side, and couldn’t find the strength to rise to his feet once more. He breathed heavily, and the mask gently touched his decaying flesh. The Leper tore the leather strips from his head, and threw the chunk of iron against a wall. Whether it be by fate or chance, The Ferrous Mask landed in such a manner as to display a full visage towards the bare leper.

“You wanted this!” The Leper yelled.

“Oh,” The Ferrous Mask responded, “I don’t want anything. I am not a being of want.”

“You smiled! You were happy this happened!”

“I do not wish for the night, for the night’s arrival is assured.”

“But-”

“You have spent your time running along the terminator; what will you do now that your legs have retired?”

The Ferrous Mask was quiet, and so was The Leper.

“I will await the night, and walk under the stars.”

For five days did The Leper hold out alone in the bunker. The Vipers writhed around the derelict building, unaware that humanity yet remained. It was broken, sick, and mad, but it was undeniably human. The Leper’s feet were black, so he did not remove his boots. He heard whispers of another plane, and whispered back in response to questions unheard by any. He continued to burn the trash that littered the bunker, and he looked intently at the flies that landed on his dead flesh. He breathed in the fumes of the burnt rubber and plastic, for it was a new sensation to this flitting life. The seventeenth day rose, and his nose hung onto his face by merely a scrap of carrion flesh; The Leper tore off his own nose to drown out the sensation of dangling meat, noting the perceived, yet non-existent, symbolic significance of this event. He was tired, and after the eighteenth day, he would not move from his bathtub. His body could not muster the strength to live as the man wished, but he continued anyway. On the nineteenth day, his body almost stopped moving altogether, and The Ferrous Mask slipped off of The Leper’s face. It landed on the ground, and alerted a lone operative to the human’s location. The last of the man’s strength was used that day to pull the trigger on a rifle.

As The Leper looked down at the snake’s corpse, The Mask began to speak once again.

“The night is here. Go see the stars, my friend.”

And The Leper stood; he picked up the mask. His legs cracked as he walked, and he knew this strength could not last, but he walked, for that is what separates man from the vipers.

The Leper stepped outside, breathing in the cool air of the world he was so afraid of. He removed The Ferrous Mask, and held it by his side. He looked up into the sea of worlds that lay above him. The twinkling visage of neighboring systems curled into a lover’s smile that beckoned him to places light years away. The sky above flitted with visions of horror, and The Leper saw writhing tentacles and feathered claws move in a primal chaos that could not truly be understood. It was overbearing, but flickering; the sounds of what writhed in the spaces between the stars would not last. As he stared into the sky, it flickered back and forth, eventually landing on the pristine, silent landscape of a forested night.

His mind wandered from the vast expanse above, and looked down to the bottom of the hill. The treeline where The Vipers came from was mysterious and silent, and The Leper felt worried for a moment. He then moved his eyes, and spotted a masked figure standing in front of the verdant wall. It held out its hand, and The Leper watched the creature intensely. It was not The Ferrous Mask, but it was an iron mask. Perhaps it was the same, but that could not be discerned from such a distance. As he looked harder, he heard singing in the far distance. It was an old song his crew, twenty-five strong, used to sing on missions together. He looked towards the direction of the melody; a soft orange glow emanated from the trees, just out of sight. They were laughing, and they whistled tunes as the lyrics were forgotten. He looked back at the masked figure; it had not moved. Out of the corner of his eye, The Leper saw things writhe behind the trees, sheltering themselves from his vision. The Leper inhaled a cool night’s breath, and began to step down the hill.