I Know What You Are

The blizzard had yet to abate, but neither had the town’s fervor for their supposed hero—evident in the procession of people marching off into the howl of the snow, up the patchwork of stairs. At least miss Sophia had the good sense not to drag people out of their homes first thing in the morning! Noon seemed… fine, especially after waking up hungover and vaguely sick.

The Wanderer, for its part, stuck out like a sore thumb among that aforementioned procession. It stood at least a foot taller than anyone else there, and in nursing its throbbing head, a steady plume of smoke seeped from behind its blank mask. The others, though, didn’t seem to mind; it was shocked and… pleased, by the way they seemed not to take a second glance at it. Again, it could not help but wonder what strange sights befall this town if these people would barely spare its imposing form a second glance.

Following the thin crowd through those heavy twin doors, the Wanderer ducked down and slipped into the prayer hall where Sophia was to be presiding. And indeed… there she was, strutting back and forth behind the pulpit, talking to one of a few people—all of whom she towered over. In those gaudy heels of hers, each step resounded with a loud ‘clak!’ against the wood that ordered the attention of the room, even when she wasn’t yet orating. Her eyes briefly flitted to the Wanderer’s mask, and her gaze lingered… and darted away, so she could briskly walk over to another assistant and snag them by the sleeve, visibly pointing at it.

It remained at the back of the room, letting the rest of the worshippers pass by it and disseminate among the pews. Each of the many times Sophia glanced at it throughout her frenzied discussion with her assistants, something about her face seemed ever more familiar to the Wanderer. With everyone else in place, it drifted forward and gingerly took a seat at one of the pews, folding its hands in its lap. The elderly woman beside it quietly whispered ‘good afternoon’ to it as it sat down, and it quietly muttered the same in response.

…

Finally, it was to begin. Sophia approached the pulpit, planting her clawed hands and leaning over it. At first, the Wanderer expected some kind of intense opening… but as it observed her, it soon became clear that she was both deathly tired and also, at best, shaking off being stone drunk. Dark circles weighed her eyelids, which often struggled to stay open.

“My devout,” she spoke quietly, though her voice carried well through the small room, “I am honored to be before you once again. I will not waste time today—we have an important topic to discuss.” The Wanderer’s eyebrow quirked beneath its mask, and it leaned forward, listening intently. It had yet to even glean the nature of this religion; what was the subject of worship? Sophia, as a hero? The spirit she supposedly bottled? Both, as an entwined entity…?

“Our work continues to dismantle this wretched beast,” Sophia said, her words summoning a sudden loud thrashing noise from beneath the pulpit that earned a wave of whimpers and gasps from the crowd. Sophia reached down, and with impressive strength, pulled a large cylindrical vat from under the pulpit, presenting it the crowd! Inside the clearly reinforced glass, a swirling miasma of claws raked at the glass, and frenzied eyes locked onto random members of the crowd as they passed through the whirlwind. It visibly shook in Sophia’s hands, desperate to escape its confines. As the claws scraped at the glass, a strange, high-pitched tone sung out, which the Wanderer could discern came from its claws meeting the wards keeping it in place.

“We’re getting closer and closer, my devout! I can feel that it is weakening, if only you would lend me your strength,” she continued. As firm and confident as she clearly wanted to sound, something was clearly weighing on her. She didn’t seem particularly excited to be here. “I’m afraid I have little time to spare for ceremony myself, dear devout, for I am hard at work deconstructing this terrible creature bit by bit. In my place, my dear assistant Peony will step up. Peony, if you would…”

Lugging that jar with her, she quickly stepped off of the stage and into the back. Another reaction resounded through the crowd; this was not a normal occurrence, given the confused murmuring and hushed worries that spilled over the crowd.

Peony stepped up to the pulpit, looking just as confused as the crowd, and awkwardly cleared her throat. She set her hands on it, and spoke: “So! Uh, devout! Miss Sophia has told me of many ways we could continue to—”

Before the Wanderer was able to hear much more, it felt a set of cold metal claws press into its shoulder, though certainly not breaking the skin. Sophia herself, surprisingly stealthily despite her heels, had come to confront it! She commanded lowly, alerting only the other few people closest to the Wanderer: “You. Come with me. Now.” As the Wanderer turned to meet her gaze, so up close as it now was, it… recognized her.

A chill struck it through the heart, and through hers as well, as she stared through its mask… and saw the same eyes that she’d seen behind that helmet, all those years ago. She looked shellshocked almost right away, but the Wanderer, thinking fast, stood up. “Ah… lead the way,” it asked calmly, much to Sophia’s apparent shock. She staggered back a few steps, and bolted out of the church, a wild horror in her eyes as she glanced back at the Wanderer who was close behind.

Stumbling onto the snowy steps, she looked fit to puke, doubling over and wheezing. Mason was left unceremoniously dumped into the snow by the steps, no longer viciously attempting to free itself and instead watching the exchange with almost… passive curiosity. The Wanderer drifted up a few feet behind her, the doors shutting behind it. “Are you… alright, miss?” it asked, opting to play dumb for the time being. Perhaps it could convince her that she was merely seeing things.

“I know what you are,” she hissed, in a shaky voice. Managing to collect herself just enough to put more distance between them, she seemed fit to bolt into the blizzard at any moment, eyes darting between it and potential escape. It sighed, a heavy plume of smoke billowing from beneath its mask and being swept away by the howling winds.

“I… I do not know what you are talking about. I-”

“I would recognize those eyes ANYWHERE, you—…!” She bit her tongue, opting not to insult it no matter how desperately she wanted to. A thousand different words crawled up her throat, a building hellfire that she wanted to just let loose onto him, but through fear she was able to swallow most of her fury. “Have you not tormented me enough!? What, are you following me now? Why aren’t you dead and buried with that godforsaken King of yours!?”

It just… stood there. In matters such as these, it was no question for the Wanderer—no conflict, no fight between the hero and the god that share its heart. It lowered its head, and spoke only a few words: “I… am sorry, Sophia.”

In the moment between either of them saying anything, both of them seem to catch the same detail. The jar sung with that little tone again, but only for a moment, to draw their attention to it… so that two eyes could surface from the depths, and close behind them, a dark grey hand that pressed flat to the glass. Its eyes were clearly, at least so the Wanderer felt, locked on Yhiraam.

Not on the Wanderer. On Yhiraam, or what was left of it within the Wanderer. The ash choking its heart; the fire in its lungs; and the centuries of war behind its mask. The blood, that no one else could see, soaking every inch of what counts for its ‘soul’.

Sophia’s eyes shot wide open, as she stared at the jar in horror. Her gaze danced between it and the Wanderer for a few moments. She had… never seen Mason do that before. She scooped it off the ground hurriedly, and darted off down the steps with… surprising deftness on those heels. “LEAVE SISHAI. GO,” she shouted, as she vanished beyond the veil of snowfall.

The Wanderer lingered there, silent, words frozen in its throat. Hesitating to give up, it turned its gaze back onto the edifice of its old church.

With another resigned sigh, it trudged off into the snow as well.