Virt clutched a near tree trunk, moving clumsily about the foliage of ferns in this vast expanse of jungle. Behind him lay the Earthen Mountains, their sharp peaks piercing the cloud veil like the Other had done his thigh, bleeding out the grey tapestry in a sea of darkness.
In the distance, the sound of running water could be heard, its fierce ensemble the only reprieve of the deafening silence of the forest.
Virt's mind was similarly empty, harbouring no thoughts, no prayer, no spark. His body moved like a walking corpse–its pale colouration and lank posture almost revealing his ribs. His thigh was wrapped in a crimson cloth, its blood-soaked texture feeling more like mud than the usual viscous liquor. His trembling hands laid rest on a tree, the rough bark scraping under his plump palms like sandpaper.
He was wandering–in search of food or shelter he did not know.
His bag laid upon his shoulders like the weight of a thousand souls, leading them to a salvation of oblivion. Perhaps he too, would join the abandoned souls one day, unable to carry out his goals.
That day would not come.
Not today, at least.
His sunken eyes shone with a faint glimmer, a fleeting smoke in the distance could be seen. Its grey plumes were barely noticeable in the dead of night, the only thing giving it away was Virt's passive light amplification in his Zone, dramatically increasing the contrast of smoke from the backdrop of midnight.
Hope.
That incessant voice rang once again in his head, its mocking remarks stinging deep into Virt's soul.
'The messiah being saved? Looks like the Gods really have gone mad!'
Virt sighed as he slammed his head into a nearby tree, his vision turning into a slight blur.
The voice disappeared.
From the moment he passed out, he had begun hearing these two voices in his head.
One was sharp and ruthless–Fang, he called it–like a rusty nail found lying somewhere in a barn. It had a snarky edge to it, like the King's jester, except without the humour and extra depravity.
The other, a wild card–Clown. Most of the time it was in a catatonic, child-like state, like when he was in that run from the Other just a few hours ago. Now, he had disappeared into the recesses of Virt's mind, after the brutal impalement by the rodent-like Other.
They would both argue often, but one thing Virt noticed was that they often embodied a certain aspect of him. Fang, his cold, calculating behaviour. Clown, his satirical, humorous nature.
What was worse, he could not even hear his own thoughts while either were present, overpowered by the incoherent mumbling of the two lunatics. It was as if the noiseless chatter of prayer coalesced into two separate entities, both of whom seemed driven to submerge him into the ocean of hopelessness.
'Thank the Gods–mad as they be–that at least you disappear at will. That other psycho wouldn't leave until I got stabbed.'
Cradling his forehead with his free hand, he guided his hand through his lustrous obsidian black hair, scrunching it like he was used to grip the rusty crank of the Church's gates.
'I wonder why I'm doing all this…Wouldn't it be easier to just end it all?'
'The Church sure as hell doesn't care…and I don't even know anyone in the Government. Let's not even think about the Sinners.'
'Oh, right. My duty and all that. Mane cares too, I think.'
A moment passed.
The smell of petrichor now lingered in the air, a faint drizzle spawning.
'Please, Sid, what do I do?'
His prayer went unanswered.
Another moment.
Thud!
Virt punched the tree beside him with all the strength he could muster, stopping himself with the Light he manifested before he sustained another festering wound.
Thud!
Another punch.
Water rolled down from Virt's short, now ruffled, hair, down to his eyes, cheek, and mouth before eventually spilling onto the floor.
It tasted a little salty.
Wiping the tears off his face, Virt bit his lip and continued onward towards the smoke, now fainter than his will.
He managed to get in half a step before stopping in his tracks.
A different voice resounded in his head, this time, it was neither Fang nor Clown. Instead, it was part of the all-too-familiar barrage of wails which had assaulted him prior to his isolation.
The voice of a young boy.
'Please…Sid…Virt…anyone…'
'Save me.'
Virt's eyes widened in shock, his shaky hands now froze altogether, the hairs on the ends of his neck stood on all ends, braving the chilling winds of the ice-cold rain.
'No…no, no, no! How? Why?'
He immediately recognised it as the crying call of that excited boy at the training grounds, his spiky yellow hair a sight to behold. And yet, Virt could hear his voice, crisp and clear, alone in the desolate depths of the forest.
Another voice came, this time buried under a mountain of hiccs and sniffles.
'Saint *hic* Sid…Ple-*hic*ase save us.'
It was that aloof girl.
His heart broke.
How could two children be here, stranded in this dark jungle, where their prayers could reach him?
Finally, Virt's head flooded with prayer, tens of children praying not to him, but Sid.
His fists clenched. His lips shook, the teeth behind them grinding together.
Blood dripped from his fingertips.
And then, silence.
His head went silent.
In the depths of his mind, Clown and Fang, too, were placid.
The forest was quiet.
As if the unhinged Gods themselves were wary.